By Glen Pourciau
For no preconceived reason I’d met the twin brothers, Don and Ron, and from the beginning I did not feel at ease with them. I’d seen them at the same local lunch spot numerous times and one day decided to sit at their table.
“You guys are obviously tired of each other,” I said, trying to get them to smile. “Is there anything I can do to bring you together?”
“The best thing you can do is leave,” Don said.
“No, let him stay,” Ron said. “He’s right. I’m tired of listening to you.”
After they told me their names I said my name was Lon. They didn’t believe me, so I showed them ID. I added that my father’s name was also Lon. Their father did not have a first name that rhymed with ours.
They looked nothing alike. Ron was completely bald, and Don had white hair, which he claimed had changed color all at once while he was on lookout duty in the service. They’d both been married, they said, were divorced, and now lived together. Don reminded me of my father. He sometimes said things my father used to say. “You can’t blame them,” he’d say. Or “Whose fault was that?” In Ron’s opinion he’d heard these words too many times, and to make Don aware of it he’d bang a spoon on his glass, their signal to identify repetitions. Then he’d say, “You can’t blame me,” or “Whose fault was that?”
We soon quit sharing information about ourselves. They didn’t like asking or answering personal questions and neither did I. They constantly bickered and exchanged snide remarks. I avoided making wisecracks, despite often being tempted, anticipating they’d retaliate. After a few meetings it became clear we didn’t enjoy one another’s company. I didn’t show up for a while, and when I appeared they seemed disappointed to see me. I was disappointed to see them too. Don told me to get lost, which triggered me. I told him to get lost. Ron told both of us to get lost, then stood and walked out to his car. Don joined him.
Three days later I was pushing a shopping cart into the produce section at a grocery store when I saw Don and Ron ahead. They watched me, standing side by side, Don holding their cart’s handle, his mouth moving. I went about my business, not waving or moving toward them. Looking annoyed, they rushed away with their cart as if I were in pursuit. I stood still, watching them. I abandoned my cart and left the store.
They stayed in my head, their cart, as it rolled away, rolling deeper inside me. To avoid them in the future, I considered going there first thing in the morning or half an hour before closing. If I changed to a different store would I find they’d changed to the same store to avoid me?
Within a week of the grocery store encounter I went to a café a mile or more from the other place. As I headed with the host to a table they came into view, Don spotting me and alerting Ron, his eyes fixing on me in a way that resembled my father. They stood at the same time and began shouting: “Stalker! Get out of here, you stalker! Get out, get out!” I muttered angrily, imagining them coming toward me as I retreated.
I now fear seeing them wherever I go. They pursue my thoughts. Whose fault is that? I wonder. Before I enter through any public doorway I scan the parking lot for a car that might belong to them, overwhelmed by all the places it could be. I’ve rejected the idea of donning a disguise, suspecting that if they happened to see through it they’d assume my intent was to stalk them. I’ve considered packing up and moving to a nearby town, but it would rankle me to let their delusion take over. Yet whenever I leave my house I think that if I knew where they’d be I would not go anywhere near them.
Glen Pourciau’s third story collection, Getaway, was published in 2021 by Four Way Books. His stories have been published by AGNI Online, Green Mountains Review, New England Review, New World Writing, The Paris Review, Post Road, and others.
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