David Gerrold: The Man Who Folded Himself

She smiled at me. I nodded, feeling like a fool. I knew Mrs. Peterson — but Don’s grip on my arm reminded me that she didn’t know. She looked back and forth, blinking. “I didn’t know you were twins—”

“We’ve been — living separately,” said Don quicky, “so we could each have a chance to be our own person. Don’s been up in San Francisco for the past two years.”

“Oh,” she said. She turned on her smile again and beamed politely at me. “Well, I hope you’ll like it in Los Angeles, Don. There’s so much to do.”

“Uh — yes,” I said. “It’s very — exciting.”

We made our goodbyes and went on to the car.

Abruptly, Don started giggling. “I wish you could have seen your face,” he said. “Well, you will — tomorrow.” Still laughing, he repeated my last words, “Uh — yes. It’s very — exciting. You looked as if you’d swallowed a frog.”

I stopped in the act of unlocking the passenger-side door. (It seemed natural for him to take the drivers side; besides, I was unsure of the way to the track.) “Why didn’t you let me explain?” I asked. “She’s my neighbor.”

“She’s my neighbor too,” he replied, giggling again. “Besides, what would you have said? At least I’ve been through this once before.” He opened his door and dropped into the drivers seat.

I got in slowly and looked at him. He was unlatching the convertible top. He didn’t notice my gaze. I realized that I was feeling resentful of him — he was so damned sure of himself, even to the way he was making himself at home in my car. Was that the way I was? I found myself studying his mannerisms.

Suddenly he turned to me. “Relax,” he said. He turned to look me straight in the eye. “I know what you’re going through. I went through it too. The way to do this is — at least, I think so — is the first time you go through something, just watch. The second time, you know what’s going to happen; that’s where the arrogance comes from. Only it isn’t arrogance. It’s confidence.”

“I guess this is happening a little too fast for me.”

“Me too,” he said. “I know this is a weird thing to say, but I missed you. Or maybe I missed me. Anyway, it’ll work better this way. You’ll see.” He pushed the button on the dashboard and the convertible top lifted off and began folding back. “Put on a tape,” he said, indicating the box of cassettes on the floor. He started to name one, then stopped himself. “Want me to tell you which one you’re going to choose?”

“Uh — no, thanks.” I studied the different titles with such an intensity I couldn’t see any of them. It would be impossible for me to surprise him — no matter what tape I chose, no matter what I did, he would already know, he would have done it himself.

Of course, he had been through all this before. He had every reason to be sure of himself. When I became him, I’d probably be cocky too. Perhaps a little giddy — you couldn’t help but feel powerful if you knew everything that was going to happen before it happened.

Of course he should be the one to do the talking.

Later I’d get my turn; but right now I was feeling a little unsure, both of myself and of the situation. I could learn by following his lead. I put on a tape of Petrouchka and concentrated on the road.

I’d never been to the race track before. It was bigger than I’d expected. Don steered his way into the parking lot with surprising familiarity and arrowed immediately toward a space that shouldn’t have been there, but was.

Instead of seats in the bleachers, as I had expected, he bought a private box. Grinning at me, he explained, “Why not? We deserve the best.”

I wanted to point out that it wasn’t necessary; besides, it cost too much. Then I realized he was right; the money made no difference at all. We were going to make a lot more than we spent, so why not enjoy? I shut up and let myself be awed by the great expanses of green lawn. Under the bright sun, the wide sweeping track seemed poised in midair, a curve of stark and simple elegance. The stands loomed high above us and I was properly impressed.

We ordered mint juleps from the bar — nouveau riche I thought, but didn’t protest — and made our way to our seats. Don made a great show of studying the paper, which I thought was funny — it was today’s race results he was poring over. “Yes, yes… “he muttered in loud tones of feigned thoughtfulness.

“I think Absolam’s Ass looks pretty good in the first.” He looked up. “Danny, go put a hundred dollars on Absolam’s Ass. To win.”

“Uh—” I started fumbling in my pockets. “I only have sixty—” And then I broke off and looked at him. “A hundred dollars—?” On a horse? A hundred dollars?

He was eying me with cool amusement. There was a crisp new bill in his hand. “You want to get rich?” he asked. “You have to spend money to make money.”

I blinked and took the bill. Somehow I found my way to the betting windows and traded the money for ten bright printed tickets. The clerk didn’t even glance up.

Absolam’s Ass paid off at three to one. We now had three hundred dollars. Don ordered two more mint juleps while I went to collect our winnings and put them on Fig Leaf. This time the clerk hesitated, repeated the bet aloud, then punched the buttons on his machine.

Fig Leaf paid off at two to one. We now had six hundred dollars. And another mint julep.

Calamity Jane also paid off at two to one. We were up to twelve hundred dollars, and the clerk at the window was beginning to recognize me.

Finders Keepers came in second, and I looked at Don in consternation. He merely grinned and said, “Wait—” I waited, and Harass was disqualified for bumping Tumbleweed. Finders Keepers paid eight to one. Ninety-six hundred dollars. The betting official went a little goggle-eyed when I tried to put it all on Big John. He had to call over a manager to okay it.

Big John came in at three to one. Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred dollars. I was getting a little goggle-eyed. The track manager personally took my next bet; with that much money at stake, I couldn’t blame him. I made a little show of hesitating thoughtfully as if I couldn’t make up my mind, partly to keep him from getting curious about my “system” and partly because I was getting nervous about all the people who were watching me to see which way I would bet. Apparently they were betting the same way. Word of my “luck” seemed to have spread. (I didn’t like that — I’d heard somewhere that too much money on one horse could change the odds. Well, no matter. As long as I still won… )

As I climbed back to our seats, I thought I saw Don leaving, but I must have been mistaken because he was still sitting there in our box. When he saw me, he folded the newspaper he’d been looking at and shoved it under his seat. I started to ask him about the odds, but he said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re leaving right after this race. We’re through for the day.”

“Huh—? Why?”

He waited until the horses broke from the gate; the crowd roared around us. “Because in a few minutes we’re going to be worth fifty-seven thousand, six hundred dollars. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“But if we keep going,” I protested, “we can win almost a milllion dollars on an eight-horse parlay.”

He flinched at that. “There are better ways to make a million dollars,” he said. “Quieter ways. More discreet. ”

I didn’t answer. Evidently he knew something I didn’t. I watched as Michelangelo crossed the finish line and paid off at two to one. Don scooped up his two newspapers and stood. “Come on,” he said. “You go get the money. I’ll wait for you at the ear.