Me

“You’re me,” I said.

“I am,” I said.

I looked at me, and I looked back at me. We stared, for a real long time.

“I never knew my head was such a weird shape,” I said.

“Which one am I?” I said, “I’m sort of losing perspective.”

We walked towards each other.

“Well do you want to?” we said.

“We won’t tell anyone?”

“Just our little secret.”

We kissed. We got naked. We ran our hands over each other’s bodies. Touched…

“It’s not the same,” I said, “and yet it kind of is.”

“You’re hot,” I said.

“You are,” I said.

We, of course, went all the way. And then we lay holding one another, our clothes a nest. My body felt good. My kisses were prickly.

“I think I prefer women,” I said. “At least, it’s what I’m used to. Why prefer anything? It’s all just familiarity, right? Like in music: I don’t know whether things are good – but I know when they’re familiar, and that’s what feels good. That’s why I still listen to what I listened to when I was a boy. Imprints on the brain. Like mother’s face and hands and tits.”

“You know all this of course,” I said, holding my balls.

“But it’s fun to talk it out loud.”

“Just what I was going to say,” I said.

“So carry on,” I said.

But I wasn’t sure I could.

“Everything I think, you think. We’re the same. What’s to say?”

“Correction: we were the same, up to a point. But things’ll be different from this moment on. Like, for instance, your eyes are looking at different things to my eyes, which’ll spark different reactions in the brain, different thoughts. Already we’re growing different.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can feel it. Once we were together, as one, and already we’re moving apart.” I pulled him closer to me, our bellies pressed tight. But I knew something had changed.

“Together, apart; together, apart. The motion of the universe, and all human interaction as well.”

“And the universe is infinite, full of infinite possibilities. I’ve always felt that. Always, when I was needing to decide something to do and maybe it was a mad thing and there was a sensible option I’ve remembered that and remembered that there were all these other mes who would be doing the sensible thing if I didn’t and that sort of drove me on. No reason to choose the sensible option if someone else was going to do it. It’s all about deciding what you want to live, right? What part of the infinite puzzle you want to look at? Every choice is a yes to one thing and a no to another – but such a relief to know that it’s never a no in the ultimate sense, that there’s always a bit of you that’s doing that rejected thing anyway.”

“And those bits can communicate, through feelings. That’s what intuition is. That’s the thing that tells us, when we’re looking at a possible life choice and we get a shudder of foreboding, no, don’t do it man, we’ve already been down that path and checked it out for you, it ain’t worth it. Bad juju that way, my friend. That sort of thing.”

“Brilliant, isn’t it, how the whole thing works. Already in this moment another us scoping out the future – an infinite number of uses already there living and having lived every single possible and available moment. Uses lying dying in beds and by rivers or on buses. Uses cradling children – multiple different children, with multiple different women. And you and I, the same us till now, I suppose at some point to go our separate ways.”

“But how did we meet? That’s the question. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“This room,” I said, “things aren’t normal in this room.” I suddenly leapt up and grabbed my trousers and walked over to the computer screen.

“What’s it say?” I said.

“It says t minus forty.”

“Minus forty what?”

“That’s all it says,” I said.

I pulled on my trousers and picked up my shirt.

“Are you embarrassed?” I said, looking up and smiling. I hadn’t moved. I saw no reason to.

“I am,” I said. “Isn’t that weird? What about you?”

“No,” I said, “not at all.” I turned onto my back and stretched out my arms and looked at the ceiling. “But I suppose I could get dressed.”

I stood up and walked over to the computer screen. I left my clothes behind in any case and caught me looking at me. I laughed.

“Still t minus forty,” I said.

“So not forty seconds then. Maybe minutes. Or hours. Or years.”

“No. There it goes. T minus thirty-nine.”

“Minutes,” I said. I tucked in my shirt and wandered over to the door. I looked back at me still standing there naked, hunched over the computer. I sat down in the chair.

The door was still locked.

“Which one am I?” I said. “I was here in the room before you, right?”

“I was here too,” I said, “with Chamone. With the pictures of Sophie.”

“That was weird, huh? I guess that means there’s one of us living that life right now. But how’d they get the pictures?”

“I’m glad it’s not me,” I giggled.

“Me too.”

And then I remembered: the white envelope. I walked back on over to the table and found it there. The other me was holding his finger down on the backspace key deleting whatever he’d just written.

“Now I’ve a memory of something you don’t know,” I said.

“That’s not very nice,” I said, “tell me what it was.”

“I can’t remember,” I said, and laughed. I laughed too.

“Well I suppose I’ve been thinking of things that you weren’t thinking of just recently. Like the white envelope.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “I’d forgotten about that.”

I picked it up and opened it. I pulled out a piece of paper.

I looked at me and waited for me to read it.

“It says, ‘one of you will die when the counter reaches zero. Which one it is you have to decide.’”

“Wow,” I said, “that’s pretty freaky.”

The other me just smiled.

“I want to die,” I said. “I’m ready. If it has to be one of us.”

“But I’m ready too!” I said. “I’m fuckin’ bored. I’m so ready for the next adventure, man, I don’t know what else I can do in this world. Although, I have to admit that things have gotten a little more interesting of late, ever since…wow, I can’t even remember how I got in here. But…”

“…I still got the feeling that it’s just a temporary state of affairs; maybe even a dream. Or some drug. Or…”

“…some after-life state already, which would mean that we’re already dead, so it probably doesn’t matter.”

“So why don’t we both just die? Save arguments.”

“How?”

“We could kill each other. Or use the electric from the – oh.”

“What?”

“I was gonna say we could use the electric from the computer to electrocute ourselves – but then I just noticed it’s not plugged in. That doesn’t make any sense. I got no battery in that laptop.” I wandered over to it. Flipped it over. Popped open the battery compartment and the compartment was empty.

When I laid it flat on its back the screen was blank. The power button didn’t respond. Absolutely lifeless.

“Another thing that doesn’t make any sense. I guess I should just stop worrying about that. Ha! Who gives a fuck anyway? Okay, this is great fun, I’ve decided: you can die and I’ll stay here. This world is mad! Not boring at all. I mean, it was boring but now it looks like anything’s possible: fictional characters changing their age and face and then disappearing and reappearing as me and time-travel to the past – and who knows? Maybe the future. Give us a kiss!”

I lurched forward and grabbed me around the neck.

“Get off!” I said. “Not in the mood for that.”

“Funny. You were ten minutes ago.”

“Do it gently, at least.”

I reached forward and held my face tenderly in my hands. I looked me in the eyes and smiled. Blew a little air out of my nostrils as if to say, this is crazy, what the hell. And then I leaned in and locked my lips on mine.

“It’s fuckin’ weird,” I said after a few seconds, “you’d think it would be perfect given that we’re the same person and know exactly what each other likes.”

“But it’s actually better with someone who’s not me,” I said, “like…how opposites attract. Magnetic poles. Jigsaw pieces. Male and female. Pegs and holes.”

“It was fun,” I said, “something I’ve always wondered about. But even now I can tell that it was mostly novelty value – like most things, I suppose. Like, even, when you travel, and it’s just cities and markets and countryside but you go all googoo ‘cos it’s cities and markets and countryside that are novel and different, even if they’re intrinsically the same.”

“And even the novelty of that can wear off,” I said, “once it becomes the norm.”

“Sex is overrated,” I said. “Twenty years I’ve been at it and I think the novelty’s starting to wear off on that. I think I’m just realising that it’s not what I’d been led to believe. Hollywood and all that, as though it was the goal of mankind. Everyone wants to make out that it’s like the best thing ever – but it’s not. It’s just two people rutting one another, for reasons they probably don’t understand. It’s not as good as playing squash or football – I pay to do those, I’d never pay for sex, and that speaks volumes – and I’m also at those like four or five times a week – whereas four or five times a month is plenty enough for sex.”

“More than enough,” I said, “I guess it’s like I’ve always been expecting and working towards this thing where it would finally click into place and be awesome and satisfying and mystical – and now suddenly I’ve realised that’s just a pie in the sky dream. Or maybe it’s not, going by what other people say – but then, they’re never the kind of people I aspire to be anyway.”

“Thing is, we’ve seen the soul, and from what others say once you’ve seen that there’s really nothing that comes close. What Earthly pleasure can compare to the delights of heaven?”

“None, I guess, ‘cept maybe farting. That never gets old. Always raises a giggle. Now there’s something that’s severely underrated. Looked down on, even. But people are missing out! That just gets better and better.”

“We’re turning into Bob,” I said, “life imitating art. Bit scary, that – but sort of fun. Shit: how long left on the timer?”

I looked over at the computer screen. It was still blank.

“If only I hadn’t thought about electricity,” I said.

“What’s electricity?” I said.

The computer screen flickered back into life.

“T minus fifty,” I said, “that doesn’t sound right.” I sat down in the chair and pondered. “No, t minus five it says now. Blimey. T minus four. What’s going on?”

“One of us must die, that note said. Was it really true? What if nothing happens when the counter reaches zero? Or what if one of us kills the other before it completes? What then?”

“Isn’t that like taking fate into our own hands? Could be cool.”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kill someone.”

“Me too,” I said, and we laughed. “Well, duh.”

“But I’m not sure about the guilt. Remember those dreams, where you’re sure it’s happened and there’s some long ago rotting body hiding out under rubble behind dad’s shop and then it pops in your head and you realise that, yes, shit, I did push that guy out the third floor window and there he lies and though I haven’t been found out, wow, the stress of it and the worry of what might happen if one day someone comes across his bones and, in any case, I shouldn’t have done that, it’s like a blot on a life. What if we feel guilty?”

“But it’s us. It’s not like we’re even real. Is anything? Is this room? One of us must die and there are an infinite number of us anyway. Why not just have the experience of murder and see what it feels like? We’ve wondered about it often enough. Maybe we will feel guilty – but at least we’ll wonder no more, and at least we’ll know the truth of the guilt as well.”

“No,” I said, “I’ve got it. Even now there are many more versions of us having this self-same conversation and debating whether or not to do it. Infinite numbers, readying themselves to play out infinite possibilities. And among those possibilities…”

“…one of them will commit the murder…”

“…and if we do it, that’ll be us.”

“But if we don’t, then someone else – another one of us – will.”

“Genius,” I said, “let’s just wash our hands of it and have someone else deal with the guilt. I’d rather live on without it. Or die without it too. In fact, what I’m just thinking is that – ”

“The fact we thought twice about it, and kind of shuddered at the possibility of it, was a sign that an us from the future – the one who had done the deed – was getting in touch and trying to communicate that it probably wasn’t the best idea after all.”

“Thoughts and feelings are vibrations that can transcend time and space.”

“Nice one, future alternative me,” I said, “s’good that you bit the bullet on that one.”

And then we both rubbed our heads, right where Harry’s bullet had hit.

“Weird that that still hurts,” we said, “given that it doesn’t appear to have happened.”

“So what’s it say now?” I said.

“T minus seven.”

“Stupid. Who knows when the damn thing’ll reach zero? And we haven’t even decided who’s going to die. Probably doesn’t make any difference,” I said, “we’re basically the same person. I could die, I don’t mind, but I suppose if I have to go on living that’d be okay too.”

“You know who I envy?” I said.

“People with terminal illnesses,” I said.

“Yeah, at least they get some kind of timeframe on their lives. Like, it must be awesome knowing you’ve only got six months or a year to live – given that you’re not totally debilitated or something. No more worrying about old age, no more thinking about pensions and mortgages and how you’re gonna support the kids or fill your time or choose a career. I wish life was like that: like you got told when you were young, okay, you’ll be done here when you’re fifty-seven, you don’t need to think too much about the state of your hips when you’re seventy or Alzheimer’s or how you’re gonna pay for your roof when your working days are over. How freeing!”

“Well I guess one of us is maybe in that situation now. Any last requests?”

“Nah, I feel pretty fulfilled. Guess we did pretty much everything we wanted to do. Would have been nice to have gotten an answer to the Mystery Girl situation, and maybe have tried the celebrity girlfriend experience – probably next lifetime for that one; hope it’s not a waste – but other than that I’m ready. You?”

“Ditto,” I said, “I even got to sleep with myself.”

I laughed. He laughed. We laughed.

“T minus one, it says. How about a fight?”

“I was thinking about that. S’been ages. But I’m not sure I can be bothered with the bruises and the pain. Plus, I’d probably only end up crying, even if I won.”

“Pf,” I said, “as if you’d win.” I punched me on the arm and laughed again. “Tell you what: let’s have an arm wrestle,” I said, “winner gets to live.”

“Winner gets to die,” I said.

“Winner gets to choose.”