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Stanford wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. He closes the textbook on his desk and glances out his bedroom window. The soft glow from the setting November sun illuminates the room; soon to sink behind the buildings across the street, meaning he’ll have to continue his work by lamplight.
It’s a chilly Friday night on the Jersey Shore and he finds himself cooped up in the shared bedroom yet again, and still, the opposite occupant is nowhere to be found. He opens his textbook again and turns away from the window. He shuffles through the pile of notecards in front of him.
The door opens and shuts in a flash; Stanley is home, but apparently not for long.
“Hey Sixer, have you seen my jacket?”
“No. Have you tried the pile of dirty laundry at the foot of your bed?”
“I did this morning and no luck.” Stan opens the closet door and rummages through a secondary pile of dirty laundry built-up inside.
“If you actually managed to take care of something once in a while—”
“Found it,” Stan says, pulling out a black leather jacket off the hanger in the back of their closet. Stan puts the jacket on. He digs out a comb from the left breast pocket, “What do you say, huh? Do I look sharp or what?”
He looked incredible; that jacket was one of Ford’s weaknesses. The taut leather hugs his body perfectly, flattening the little bulge of his stomach and accentuating his broad shoulders…but he would never tell Stan, thereby giving him any satisfaction, so instead he quips, “Or what, indeed. And where do you think you’re going?”
“I got a date, poindexter.” Stan stands in front of the mirror hanging off the bedroom door. He combs through his thick dark-brown mane.
“You’re supposed to have a date with me, here, studying chemistry. You barely scraped by on the midterm and that was with copying off my paper.”
“Chill out, bro, we have the whole weekend to work on your nerdy science stuff. You’re not gonna kill my buzz tonight.”
“Carla, again?”
“Who else?” Stan puts the comb in his pocket. “We're dancing at The Juke Joint.”
“Seems that’s all you ever do.”
“If it ain’t broke…” He goes to their dresser and forages through the drawers. He uncovers a bottle of cologne and sprays an ungodly amount on every square-inch of his body.
“Tone it down with that stuff, will you? At least open a window before you do that.”
“I hope you’ve been keeping track.”
“What is this, date number three?”
“Bingo. I think this is the night I pop the question.”
“Proposing on the third date? We’re still in high school…” Ford turns toward his younger brother with an incredulous expression, nearly falling out of his chair, “did you get her—?!”
“What? No, of course not. I’m not an idiot, Sixer; we’ve never even done anything like that. Tonight I’m asking her to be my girlfriend, you know, seeing if she’s ready for more of a commitment.”
“Stan, I don’t think someone who’s colloquially referred to as ‘Hot Pants’ is interested in any commitment.”
“You and your two-dollar words. What would you know about dating, anyway?”
“I know enough to suggest that you shouldn’t rush into anything. Especially with what I’ve—”
“You’ve what? Get real, poindexter, when was the last time you talked to a girl that wasn’t ma or our Spanish teacher?”
“All I’m saying is don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’ll keep up whatever I want.” Stan makes a line for the door, “I’m out. Don’t wait up for me.”
Ford feels the door shut behind him. He gets up and walks to the window. He watches the younger twin leave the house.
Stan looks around the property, and it looks like he’s clutching something inside his jacket. He climbs into his car and slams the door shut. The engine roars and he peels off down the street, turning the corner onto the main drag.
Ford closes the curtains in a huff and sinks back into the chair at his desk.
“God, sometimes I just want to punch him right in his smug little— oh, what’s the point. I can only do what I can.”
He flips ahead through the chemistry textbook to the final chapter, “Chapter 26: Nuclear Chemistry,” even though they’re only as far as “Chapter 17: The Nature of Metals and Alloys” in class. He grabs a fresh pen from the top drawer of his desk, having chewed through another one last night, staining his old brown button-up. He opens his notebook to a clean page and begins the outlining process as he does for each chapter. He reads the outline of the chapter and writes down all the information he finds necessary.
‘Why can’t I just tell him how I feel?’ he thinks. ‘Would he even want to know? Does he deserve to know? He promised to be with me tonight and once again I’m blown off. If I’m not good enough for him now, why do I keep thinking he would ever reciprocate my desires.
‘I hate that jacket, but God, he looks so damn good in it; there must be some magic in that black leather jacket. What I would give to strip him out of that jacket and run my hands across his hairy chest…follow the trail of hair down his stomach leading to…’
He shakes his head and looks up at the curtains. He gazes along the wall, outlining the street path just beyond those walls, watching Stan’s car disregard the stop sign and bang a lefty at the intersection. He turns back to his textbook, feeling a bead of sweat drip down by his left ear.
‘Did I leave the heat on? No, I’m sure I turned it off when I arrived this afternoon, otherwise pops would kill me. Did Stan turn it on when he stopped in, did he do it to spite me, knowing he’d be safe from the blame? Ma knows better than to leave the heat running, especially when pops isn’t home to enjoy it.’
He grabs the collar of his shirt and wipes the sweat from his cheek. He cups his hand around his cheek, his thumb resting under his chin, he’s burning up. He releases the top two buttons and fans himself with the loose fabric in hand. He runs the collar over his forehead, drying off another round of sweat before it begins to pool.
He dives back into his work, staring intently at the chapter outline.
‘Where was I? Didn’t I read this section? What was it about, again? I should probably write it down so I won’t forget this time. I have to make sure I have this 100% correct to make sure Stan has this 60% correct.
‘Maybe if I told him how I felt he’d respect me more, and would make more of an effort to…I don’t know, at least try. I try to entertain his hobbies, at least a little…like the Stan O’ War, as if we’re ever really going out to sea to hunt for treasure; that’s the one thing I wish he could wrap his head around. If he at least tried to understand where I’m coming from, maybe he could come to school with me, or at least respect my wanting to pursue a higher education. It’s not like I would leave him forever to fend for himself, although with how he’s been acting lately he’s more than capable of screwing himself over.
‘Wait, where was I? Didn’t I read this section? What was it about, again? I should probably write it down so I won’t forget this time.’
His hand reaches the end of the page and he reads over the notes he’s taken so far. It’s the same three sentences scribbled over and over, becoming less legible each time. He looks over his shoulder at the clock hanging by the closet door and sees that over an hour has passed him by. He rips the page out of his notebook, crumples it into a ball, and tosses the wad of paper across the room toward the trash can, short-arming the throw by about five feet.
He retrieves the paper and places it in the bin. He looks around the empty room, focusing on the empty bottom-bunk. He turns back to the closet and pulls out a box of Stan’s records. He closes the door and drops the box on the bed. He digs through the collection and pulls out a new record, Neil Young’s Harvest, still wrapped in plastic from their birthday. ‘I always work better when there’s music playing,’ he thinks. ‘I wonder why Stan hasn’t played this one yet, but if he hasn’t opened it by now, I’m sure he won’t even notice.’
He unwraps the record as he walks to the turntable. He pulls out the record, puts the record on the table, and drops the needle. The scratch of the vinyl hisses through the speakers before the bass and drums punctuate through the silence, startling Ford. He lowers the volume hoping it didn’t startle his parents down below.
He sits at his desk again and grabs the notebook and pen, he begins the note-taking process once more. He is pulled out from his work when the harmonica comes in, focusing on the despondent melody filling the room. Neil Young sings:
Think I’ll pack it in and buy a pick-up
Take it down to L.A.
Ford tries to shake the feeling off and begins reading from the textbook as he writes fervently between the margins of his notebook. There’s a break in the music, a silence that echoes, before the chorus comes in:
See the lonely boy
Out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay
Can’t relate to joy
He tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say
And there’s that harmonica again. Ford stops the record in its tracks. He throws on any old pair of shoes he can find. He doesn’t bother looking for a coat, or even one of his many sweaters, before he makes his way through the house.
“Stanford sweetie, where are you going at this hour?” his mother calls from the kitchen.
“I’ve got to go find Stanley,” he responds.
Caryn comes out from the kitchen and stands under the entryway into the living room. “What do you mean, sweetie? His car’s in the driveway, isn’t it? Was he not upstairs with you? I thought he was playing music in your room.”
“No, he’s been out with Carla all night, even though he promised he’d stay home and study with me. Where’s dad?”
“He’s still at his poker night. Listen, honey, when you see Stanley, make sure you tell him he needs to come home before it’s too late.”
Stanford descends the stairs to the back of the pawn shop. He opens the door and a cold wind blows into the hall. He steps outside and closes the door behind him. He unlocks his bike, hops on, and pedals around the building, riding along the sidewalk past the pawn shop, and turns the corner onto the main drag.
He rides through downtown before he approaches a familiar alleyway. He steps off the bike and stands it against the wall. He heads back to the sidewalk and stares at the name of the building in front of him, The Juke Joint. He opens the door and is greeted by a waitress he recognizes from school. “Would you look at what the cat dragged in? I haven’t seen you around here,” she says, “figured you weren’t cool enough to show yourself. All alone tonight?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Hate to break it to you, Pines, but your dumb brother ain’t here.”
“If that’s the case, I won’t be long.”
He pushes past the hostess stand and searches around the dance floor for any sight of his twin, but no such luck. A sign above the make-shift stage reads “Thistle Downe” in the traditional flower-power font. He sees Carla dancing with a man who he presumes to be this “Thistle Downe” on account of his long, unwashed, matted, blond hair, bright purple dress shirt, red jeans, and ratty brown sandals.
“Carla!” Ford calls to her, “Carla, where’s Stanley?”
She doesn’t budge. She stares intently into Thistle Downe’s ocean eyes, swaying slowly to the song playing from the jukebox. “Who’s Stanley?”
“You’re hopeless, McCorkle.”
Ford turns back and makes a beeline for the exit when he sees a black leather jacket hanging from the back of a chair next to the jukebox. He takes the jacket outside with him back to his bike.
He looks around the dimly lit alleyway to make sure no one’s watching. He holds the jacket up to his nose, takes a deep breath, and is intoxicated by the smell of sweat, musk, cologne, and smoke, but Stanley doesn’t smoke…does he? Still unsure of the jacket’s owner, he reaches into the inner pocket that lines the breast and finds: a comb with locks of hair caught in the teeth, a pack of Lucky Brand smokes, and a mostly empty steel flask.
He sees drops of white dust the black jacket in his hands; he has to go. He crams Stan’s sundries back into the breast pocket, tosses the jacket over the handlebars, and rides eastbound. There’s only one place Stanley could be, and he hopes he’s right.
He rides alone down the empty streets leading to the coast, with the snow showers that are blanketing downtown starting to taper off to a mere dusting. The bike hits a patch of wet sand and he skids to a halt just before the road ends. He snags the jacket and ditches the bike by a wooden post. He sees the silhouette of the Stan O’ War nearing, watching the sail flap about in the salty gales.
“Stanley!” he cries out sprinting toward the ship, “Stanley, please, where are you?” He stops at the base just below the main deck and discerns a stifled sobbing cut through the blustering winds. He tosses the jacket over his shoulder and climbs aboard. Stan has his back against the mast, facing the shore. His head is buried into his knees, curled up for an attempt at warmth, surely. Ford inches toward him, trying not to startle him. He kneels before Stan, “Stanley,” he says in a hushed tone, “it’s Ford.” He puts his hand on Stan’s bare arm, the heat from his hand dissipates quickly. “It’s okay, Stanley, whatever it is. Can you look at me?”
Stan lifts his head slightly above his arms, “Leave me alone, Sixer. I don’t deserve anyone.”
“Will you at least put your jacket on? You’re going to catch a cold out here.”
Stan takes the jacket from Ford and puts his arms through the sleeves. He grabs the pack of smokes from the breast pocket. He flips the pack open, removing the last cigarette, and caresses it between his lips. He crumples the box and tosses it aside. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a zippo. He whips the cap off, strikes the wheel against his leg, lights the stick clenched in his teeth, and snaps the zippo shut. He inhales sharply, the smoke sends a desperate warmth through him, and exhales lightly, freeing the white smoke to float through the brisk night sky.
“Stan, you shouldn’t be smoking.”
“What, you mean on the boat? Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t think about how this piece of shit is all wood.”
Stan attempts to stand but his legs tremble; he can only manage to get to his knees. Ford reaches a hand across to Stan, who accepts, and they stand together. Before Ford can let go Stan’s grip melds their fingers together, locking his five into Ford’s six. Stan draws the older twin with him to the bow of the ship. They watch the high-tide crash against the shore. Stan ashes his cigarette over the edge; the ash wisps down the coast until it’s lost amongst the dunes. Stan eases his grasp on the hand and feels a gentle tug as the elder moves away.
“What if dad caught you smoking?”
“So what if he does? He hasn’t yet, and he won’t if you don’t narc.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
“What are you doing here, Sixer? I thought I told you I want to be alone.”
“What am I supposed to do, let you freeze to death?”
“I wasn’t gonna freeze to death.”
“It’s snowing, Stanley.”
“Thanks for the insight, captain obvious, now leave me alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you reason with me.”
“…Then I guess it’s gonna be a long night.”
“What happened?”
Stan takes another slow drag from his cigarette. “Did you go?”
“Go where?”
“Did you follow me? Were you stalking me?”
“I’m just looking out for you!”
“I don’t need to be looked after, okay? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Ford leans against the mast. “Well, I didn’t ‘stalk’ you. You hadn’t come home, and mom was worried. She asked me to bring you home before dad finds out you’re gone, so I came looking for you.”
“I was gonna come home soon, I swear. I just needed to clear my head…think about a couple things…”
“Sober up?”
“You read me like a damn book, poindexter.”
Ford stares out to sea. “I found your jacket. You left it by the jukebox.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I didn’t think about it. What else did you find?”
“I saw her, Stanley.”
“She looked happy, huh?”
“She was head-over-heels infatuated.”
The cigarette fades into a nub between Stan’s knuckles. He pinches the lit end, feeling a singe between his fingertips, and flicks the bud overboard, landing in the wet sand below. “I never got to ask her, you know? I didn’t get the chance. We were on the dance floor, cuttin’ a rug, and when I looked over beside me…there she was…in his arms.”
Stan collapses against the railing and hits the floor of the deck, his emotions pour out again. Ford crawls over and meets him, holding him in his arms. Stan weeps into Ford’s shoulder, “I’m gonna be alone forever.” He clutches the back of Ford’s shirt. His breaths draw longer, his sobs soften, but he shivers violently from a sudden gust of wind.
Ford strokes the soft head of hair before him, “You’re going to be alright, Stanley. You’re still young…you’ll find someone, someday.”
“You don’t understand, Sixer,” he pulls back and sits against the railing. “You have your whole life ahead of you. You’re gonna go to some stuffy college…God only knows where, and I’ll be left behind trailing in dad’s footsteps.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“I wish I was like you. You never have to worry about nothing— not about girls, about grades, about pops…”
“My life’s not a cakewalk, though sometimes it might seem like it.”
“Look at you, of course it is; you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“It’s nothing you can see. It’s something deeply personal. You should know there’s something that I’ve been dealing with, you know, for a while. For years now, even, but it’s something that I can’t speak about.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one would understand, you see?”
“You can tell me.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Possibly…”
The wind dies down, but the snowfall thickens. Stan reaches into his jacket and retrieves the flask from the inner pocket. He opens the cap and takes a drink.
Ford extends his hand, “May I?”
Stan’s eyes dart to the flask, then back at Ford. “You sure?”
Ford nods.
Stan hands the flask to the younger twin. “It’s the cheap stuff, you know, something dad won’t mind missing.”
Ford drinks and is immediately repulsed by the taste. “God, that’s awful.”
“People don’t drink this shit because it tastes good.”
Ford screws the cap tightly and give it back to Stan. He watches Stan open the flask and down the few drops that remain. “Okay…if I tell you what’s been bothering me, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
Stan stores the flask back in his jacket, “You have my word.”
Ford clutches Stan’s hand; their fingers interlock again. Ford takes command. “Please forgive me.”
“Whatever it is—”
Ford uses his free hand and grabs a fistful of hair bringing their lips together. He holds him there for a brief moment, their mouths still closed, before he pulls off and looks into his brother’s bloodshot eyes.
“Stanley…I—”
Stan dives back into him, backing him up against the rail, and laps at the soft lips before him, begging them to part. His tongue trails around the delicate lip line hoping to access the once forbidden territory. Ford inhales sharply, and as his lips part, Stan’s tongue invades the new, unfamiliar terrain. Ford tastes the smoke that filters between the open mouths and he tentatively succumbs to the unexpected response.
‘Is this the alcohol?’ Ford thinks, ‘or is this something more…something real? Is he in the right frame of mind? Oh my God, what have I done to him?’
Ford withdraws suddenly and pushes the younger twin off. “Stanley, I’m so sorry! What have I done to you?” The tears well up and his breathing staggers. “You must hate me! Look at me, I’m just a freak who attacked his own brother!”
“Don’t you start crying, you hear me?” Stan’s emotional retort pierces through Ford. “If you start crying, then I’ll start, too.”
“I can’t help it!”
“Ford, you gotta listen to me! Will you please look at me?”
Ford, in his emotional daze, knocks his glasses off. The right lens cracks as it hits the frozen wood beneath him. He wipes his face with the damp sleeve and looks toward the blurry figure in front of him. He can’t process what’s happening fully, but he’s swiftly lured into the large body, his face dug into wet leather, but a familiar scent still lingers: the cheap cologne. It’s Stan. He’s still here.
“I don’t hate you. I can never hate you. You’re my brother—”
“And that’s why you should hate me.”
“I love you, Fordsie. Please, can’t you understand that? I love you so much.”
“I don’t believe you. If you loved me, why have you been so distant lately?”
“It’s because…I don’t know.”
“You’re out late every single night. You don’t think I hear you climb through the window, but I do. It’s three in the morning, or sometimes later. I don’t know when, or how, or why, but you picked up smoking, and now you’re stealing liquor from our own father—”
“He’s the last person who needs it. He has more than enough to keep him full.”
“Stanley, I can’t take it!” Ford sobs and slumps into the heavy chest. “I can’t bear to watch my own brother destroy his life before me. I don’t know how to help. Every time I try all you do is come back with some snide remark and walk away.”
“Why should I care? I’ve got nothing for me.”
“You have me! Aren’t I enough?”
“Of course. How could you even say that?”
“I love you, Stan. I don’t know how to explain it, because I don’t think this is normal love. I don’t know what it is because I’ve never been in love— or maybe I have been all this time but have repressed it for years.”
“When did it start?”
“I don’t know. Maybe around the time when dad grounded you the entire summer for stealing the gold chain from the shop.”
“And you stayed with me the whole time. Not once did you ever go out without me.”
“I didn’t have a choice in the matter…at least at first. I had no friends besides you. Over time, though, it became clear that I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t bear being apart from you, leaving you alone to suffer. And it still hasn’t changed.”
“I’ll never leave you, Fordsie.” Stan cups Ford’s scarlet cheeks and nods his chin up. “Will you kiss me again?”
“You don’t mean that…do you?”
“I sure do.”
“You can’t. What I did was unforgivable and it should never have—” he’s cut off by a feathered kiss.
“You have the most gorgeous eyes.” Stan traipses his finger along Ford’s cheek. “Have I ever told you—”
Ford pounces on his brother, pinning him to the deck, and delivers a fiery kiss. He tries to recreate Stan’s actions by darting his tongue at the chapped lips of his newly found lover, and Stan doesn’t need to be told twice. Ford glides his tongue across the rows of teeth, soaking up the potent taste of cheap whiskey. Their bodies are ablaze with desire. Ford moves a hand between their chests and takes a hold of the metal zipper of Stan’s jacket, moving downward, before a stifled moan comes from the man under his grasp.
“Sixer…wait,” Stan tries to squirm out of Ford’s grip, “I don’t know about you but I’m freezing my balls off out here. You mind if we take this inside?”
“I think it’s best we do.” Ford lifts himself off of Stan. The snow tapers off again. He feels around for his glasses. He finds them half-buried in the damp snowfall. He wipes them as best he can, smudging the water across the glass, and puts them on. “Damn it, the lens cracked...dad's going to kill me. What do I do? We can’t afford to buy another pair.”
“I don’t know, Fordsie, but they make you look kind of hot…kind of dangerous. I like a man with a dangerous side.”
“Stan, not right now…speaking of dad, he’s got to be home by now, and when he finds out that we’re gone we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”
“I won’t let him touch you, I’ll take the fall on this one. It’s what I deserve.”
“Don’t say that.”
“How much do you suppose he’s drank tonight?”
“Enough…oh God— if he were to smell the alcohol on us, we’d be dead men. I propose we wait until tomorrow.”
“We can’t stay out all night. What about ma? You promised her you’d bring me home.”
“You’re right, I did. Besides, where are we supposed to sleep? It’s not like we can set up camp on the beach tonight.”
“I have some blankets in the trunk; I say we hunker down in the Stan-Mobile tonight. The backseat fits two— I should know— that is if you don’t mind some tight quarters.”
“I suppose you don’t have a change of attire packed in there, too, do you? We shouldn’t be sleeping in these wet clothes.”
“I see what you’re tryna do, Sixer…and it’s working.”
“I’m not doing anything, Stanley,” Ford stifles a cough, “and the fact that you’re insinuating something like that is…”
“I’m right. Right?”
“It’s for our health.”
“Okay, okay.” Stan takes a firm hold of the railing and stands up. He extends his hand to Ford and helps him to his feet.
Ford hugs Stan from behind, for a brief moment, before letting go and taking a step back. “We should at least call ma…let her know where we are.”
“There’s a pay phone at the gas station down the street. I need to stop by anyway; I’ve been running on fumes for two days. I figure it’s early enough we can get something to eat, too.”
“What if pops answers the phone?”
“Ma would never let that happen.”
“But on the off chance?”
“…Then I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Let’s go.” Stan walks to the ladder leading down to the shore. “I haven’t been able to feel my toes for at least half an hour, and I can’t tell if it’s from the weather, the alcohol, or the fact that my twin brother just professed his life-long love for me.” He begins his descent down the rungs.
“Stanley…” Ford stands flustered atop the deck.
“Hey, didn’t I return the feeling?” Stan jumps off the last rung. The wintry mix of slush and sand crunch beneath his feet.
Ford follows suit. He meticulously approaches each rung to feel for built-up ice. He steps off the ladder cautiously, “I guess you did.”
“Let me say it again. I love you, Stanford Pines. I would give up the world for you.”
“I’m not going to ask you to do that. I just want you to take care of yourself.”
“Understood. Come on, lover boy, let’s dry off.”
They gaze along the deserted beach. Their hands find each other; they’re a perfect fit.