The Man Who Folded Himself by David Gerrold Read Free Book Online Page A

as before. His eyes fixed me with a penetrating look. “We’re going to be more than just identical twins. We can’t help it. We’re closer than brothers.”
    I met his gaze, but the thought still frightened me.
    I’m not sure I know how to be that close to anybody. Even myself.

    We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. No, it was a peaceful one, relaxed.
    I had to get used to the situation, and Don was letting me. He sat there and smiled a lot, and I got the feeling that he was simply enjoying my presence.
    I had to learn how to relax, that was the problem. Other people had always unnerved me because I thought they were continually judging me. How do I look? What kind of a person do I seem? Is my voice firm enough? Am I really intelligent or just pedantic? Was that joke really funny, or am I making a fool of myself? I worried about the impression I was making. If I was shy, did they think I was being aloof and call me a snob? If I tried to be friendly, did they find me overbearing? I was always afraid that I was basically unlikable, so I wouldn’t give anyone the chance to find out; or I tried too hard to be likable, and thereby proved that I wasn’t.
    And yet—
    Here was this person, Don, sitting across from me . . . he wasn’t unlikable at all. In fact, he was quite attractive. Handsome, even. His face was ruddy and tanned (well, that was the sun lamp in the bathroom, but it looked good); his eyes were clear, almost glowing (that must be from the tinted contact lenses); his hair was carefully styled (that was the hair stylist, of course)—he was everything I was always trying to be. His voice was firm, his manner was gentle, and he was in good physical condition. Perhaps I had been too hard in judging myself.
    Yes, I liked the look of this person. He was capable, assured, and confident. He projected—likability. Friendliness.

    And something else. There was that same kind of longing—no, maybe desperation was the word—in Don; that feeling of reach out, touch me, here I am, please that I so often felt in myself. Under his assurance was a hint of—helplessness?—need? And I could respond to that. I enjoyed his presence, but more than that, I sensed a feeling that he needed me. Yes, he needed to know that I liked him.
    I realized I was smiling. It was nice to be needed, I decided. I was glowing, but not with the liquor. Not entirely. I was learning to love—no, I was learning to like myself. I was learning to relax with another person. No. I was learning to relax with myself. Maybe it was the same thing, actually.
    We spent a lot of time drinking and thinking and just looking at each other. And giggling conspiratorially. Our communication was more than empathic. We didn’t need words—he already knew what I was thinking. And I would know the rest, if I just waited. We simply enjoyed each other’s existence.
    After dinner we went to a nearby bar and played a few games of pool. It was one of the few things we could do that wouldn’t be boring the second time around. Most kinds of spectator entertainment, like a movie or a show or a baseball game, wouldn’t work two nights in a row, but participation activities would work just fine. Swimming, sailing, riding; I could learn from watching my own technique. (I wondered if I could get a poker game going—let’s see, I’d need at least five of me. I doubted it would work, but it might be worth a try.)
    We got home about eleven-thirty; we were holding each other up, we were that drunk. Don looked at me blearily. “Well, good night, Dan. I’ll see you tomorrow—no, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to see Don and you have to see Dan—” He frowned at that, went over it again in his head, looked back to me. “Yeah, that’s right.” He flipped open his belt buckle, set it, double-checked