Twins

By the time they began second grade, people quit trying to tell the Dabney Twins apart. They were precisely the same height, weight and, as far as anyone could tell, boasted the identical IQ. That number was well south of room temperature.

Although they were eleven years old, their academic and communicative skills rivaled those of a marginally competent Kindergartener. Attempts to draw them into the world of math and letters, were met with the same slack-jaw, drool-enhanced, non-seeing stare, which had been the signature of their clan's branchless family tree for as long as anyone could recall.

The school tested them, and although they seemed healthy, reasonably pleasant, quasi-alert, and responsive, any attempt to teach them something new was pretty much useless.

Legend holds that, when she was presented with her newborns, their mother proclaimed, “Why, they look just like Twins.” In some cases, not only does the apple fall close to the tree, but is brutally assaulted by every branch and twig on the way to the ground, where, apparently, it sometimes lands on its head. Hard.

They came from simple, sturdy stock, from which no one had ever considered the possibility of Twins. For generations, the first born make of every family was named Ben Dabney, in honor of some long-ago ancestor, who, family lore held, actually graduated from the sixth grade. At a bit of a loss for alternative names for the younger (by 17 seconds) Twin, his mother dubbed him Ben E. Dabney. It was the first, and last time anyone was ever able to tell the difference between the boys.

This inability to distinguish between the two allowed their given names dropped off the radar. Long before they cut their first teeth, they were both individually and collectively referred to as “Twin.” This was seen as a particularly clever approach, in that one was never more than a foot from the other.

Teachers found their dedication to each other charming, their gentle acceptance and protection of smaller children endearing and their brains completely impenetrable. They sat quietly in class, drawing elaborate sketches of flowers, kittens and logging accidents, all while patiently awaiting the end of the day. They were a polite and helpful presence, but never contributed to the discussions.

As the years progressed, they were slowly moved farther and farther towards the back of the classroom, and further and further away from any useful education. As they were swept from one grade to the next, their intellectual pond remained as undisturbed as lunar dust. Nothing got in—nothing got out.

They had two great loves. The first was Pizza and Pudding Day in the school cafeteria. They would leave home earlier than usual for the five mile walk to school, and stand outside the cafeteria windows in the predawn light, delicately sniffing for the first wafting aromas of their impending mid-day feast. Unaware of their Pavlovian response, the Twins risked drool-based dehydration whenever Pizza and Pudding starred in the lunch line.

The second of their loves centered around the thrill of firing meteor-like, laser-accurate strikes, when playing dodge ball with their classmates. In time—very short time—teachers realized the potential harm to the less agile students, and devised a new game, called “TwinBall.” The rules were simple; separate the Twins by ten feet and let them launch Sidewinder missile like strikes at each other. Occasionally, a window would be shattered, or a section of wall bricks dislodged by an errant shot, but the amount of collateral damage was acceptable.

It was during a particularly aggressive game of TwinBall, during their eighth grade year, that Mrs. Norma Vernell-Kirby, the music teacher/wrestling coach, noticed a unique and unknown ability of the Twins.

Heavy with child that warm May afternoon, and, having accidently wandered into the kill zone of the ongoing game, she hurriedly sought refuge beneath a pile of fetid wrestling mats. Through the musk of unwashed mats and reverberating thumps, she detected that the Twins were not only saying the same words simultaneously, but that they were doing so in a flawless harmony. As she listened, she heard the Twins alternate leads, exchange complex harmonies and execute flawless tempo breaks, all while hurling the 25 pound medicine ball at Mach 2 speeds, directly at one another.

After the bell had sounded, and the Twins wiped the away any errant drool, and ambled off to class, Mrs. Vernell-Kirby unsteadily regained her feet. For the next hour, she followed as closely behind the Twins as seemed prudent, and verified her earlier observation.

Excited by her unparalleled discovery, she hurriedly waddled towards the principal’s office. Three steps into the journey, her water broke. Although she was out for the rest of the year, the legend of TwinTalk was born.

On the first day of their six-year high school career, a student-teacher was offered the ‘you-can’t-say-no’ opportunity to oversee the Twin’s inaugural secondary school game of TwinBall.

Unfamiliar with the history of the lads, the novice educator handed Twin a football, and took three steps back. The ensuing throw, and the exquisitely harmonized, screech-inducing, bare-hand catch it induced, heralded the beginning of four years unsullied football success, the likes of which are not apt to ever be duplicated.

Standing flat-footed, fifty yards apart, the Twins would direct helmet crushing, hand-blistering salvos at each other, all while communicating in their complex, yet calmingly disturbing, TwinTalk.

They talked in harmony. They laughed in harmony. They yelled and giggled in a complex and haunting harmony. None who heard it, were likely to forget it.

Initial efforts to have experienced receivers catch the passes ended in smashed fingers, shattered fingernails, broken arms and unashamed weeping. Once the ‘who throws and who catches’ math had been worked out, it became simpler. When the center snapped the ball to a Twin (it never mattered which) the entire offense would flatten out on the ground. Twin1 would them proceed to launch a flaming missile down-field, into the waiting arms of Twin2.

Defenses learned to let the Twins play. The four broken arms of defenders foolish enough to try to intercept the bullets, all in the first quarter of the Twin’s first game, sent word through the league that there was a new sheriff in town.

Their coach placed them both in the defensive secondary, and told them if they tackled the other team’s runner, and got the ball, they’d get to play TwinBall again. Excited at the thought, the Twins laid waste to entire offensive lines in an effort to secure the ball. Before long, nervous centers would begin snapping the ball at odd times, then cower in fear. Quarterbacks developed incredibly rapid releases, although their passing percentages plummeted. Running backs openly wept when a play was called for them.

Throughout the league, last year’s stars began opting for paper routes, tutoring or a spot on the cheerleader squad rather than face the Twins.

It was during these exciting times when the Twins developed their now legendary chronic and unremitting scratching.

Their coaches, ashamed at the ease with which the Twins could score, lobbied the league for a rule which ended the game at the end of the first quarter, whenever there was a 60+ point difference.

The Twins played in exactly three second quarters in their high school career. In two instances, the visiting team loaded onto their buses at halftime and fled. The third team, unable to locate its bus, simply began the 31 mile, rain-soaked walk back home, in full uniform, directly into the teeth of the prevailing 40-45 mile per hour wind.

Each year, the Twins were unanimous first team All State selections, on both offensive and defensive. The same photograph of them was published for four years, showing them squinting into the lens, holding their trophy with one hand and violently scratching with the other.

They never went to Prom, never dated and never cursed. They would often discard their usual scowling squint for dazzling smiles, and unknowingly stopped several hallway fights by simply being there.

Graduation brought the inevitable decision of whether to work at the mill or work at the mill. In true Twin fashion, they misunderstood their options and chose to work at the mill.

For the next 4 years, they toiled, never missing a day of work, all while observing and commenting on their world, in their unique TwinTalk.

They work hard, are honest and as dependable as the sun. Sharp as a beach ball, but damn hard working.

This evening, after dinner, my nineteen year old daughter dropped the bomb.

“Daddy, Twin and I are getting married.”

Following a prolonged and violent sneeze/cough/hiccup/twitch attack, I asked, “Which one?”

“Don’t really matter, do it, Daddy?”

That’s when I first noticed she was scratching pretty hard.