Duped

I always hated the Franktown Mall. The food court took up the entire top floor, but there was still nowhere to sit. Too many high school kids set up residence there during summer break when there was nothing better to do. I watched them all, sipping on their burnt, overpriced drinks from a chain coffee shop that had three identical locations across the mall. What was the use in having so many of the same thing?

The food court also had a corn dog place that I used to work at. Well, not at the one in the Franktown Mall. The location I worked at was in Kernville. I don’t remember much from that life except that it was dull and humid and standing over the deep fryers all day gave us a heat rash. It was an insubstantial existence and one that I did not feel guilty eliminating. It did give me a lingering fondness for corn dogs though, which is why I decided to eat one while I waited for him to appear.

I had a vague impression that he frequented the area. Just flashes of images really. Some of them were obvious, like the glow from the illuminated sign above a department store. The light in the letter “d” burned out a few years ago and no one ever bothered to replace it. That made it easier to place.

Other memories were still trapped behind frosted glass. I couldn’t figure them out. There were too many colors, scents, and sounds. Too many mixed emotions. Was the room purple or green? Were those laughter or screams? Was I happy to be there or happy to be leaving? Thinking about it for too long was head-splitting, so I gave up trying to decipher it and finished my meal.

There were about half a dozen kiosks between me and my destination, each of them pushing the same array of useless plastic tchotchkes and other toxic crap imported from overseas sweatshops. As I passed the first one, a perky salesmen leaned out from his station, “We’re not just selling shoes, we’re selling a lifestyle! Just one minute of your time! You won’t regret it.”

I glared at him until his smile faded. He retreated back into his seat like an anemone in the oncoming tide, and I picked up the pace, hoping to dodge the next five snake oil salesmen and their derivative, faux-friendly ambushes.

Down the way a bit, an elderly woman exited the pharmacy, triggering a worn-out electronic door chime. I found myself drawn to the sound. Something about it called out to me. Without thinking, I shoved my way past her and into the store, setting off the robotic bird-like song once more. He had definitely shopped here. Maybe even today.

Tracking a Dupe required absolute trust in one’s instincts. Memories were slippery. Focus on them too intently and they would fade away, receding back into the Dupe’s mind. It was, in this way, like any other sort of hunting. If the hounds lingered on a sent too long, they’d lose the trail.

There was no one else inside, save for the woman behind the sales counter who didn’t bother to look up from her phone as I entered. I stopped to investigate anyways. As expected, the walls were covered in bottles of medicine. I would like to say they were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but that would be a lie. In reality, they were all packaged in the same rounded, white, child-proof containers. I would like to say that at least the pills inside these bottles were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but that would also be a lie. Even shelves that appeared to have six or seven different medications for sale were, more often than not, all the same product.

Take ibuprofen, for example. Yes, there was the generic medication, but there were also four different brand-name varieties all sporting their own taglines and promises of efficacy. Then there was the chemical name itself, isobutylphenylpropionic acid. That one was only spelled out on bottles marketed to the real health nuts who preferred “additive-free” drugs. And don’t get me started on the children’s brand and the geriatric brand and the women’s brand and the stronger prescription-only doses that were hiding in the back under yet another name.

The worst part was that most of them weren’t just the same active ingredient, they were the exact same pill. Probably even made in the same factory, by the same poorly maintained machine. The different labels and names only served to provide an illusion of choice. The thought of it all made me nauseous, and I was about to leave when the pharmacist called out to me.

“Did you forget something here earlier, Mr. Johnson?”

I studied her. “What is my first name?” I said.

She paled. “Um… I think it’s Scott?”

I waited, unable to provide confirmation.

“No wait, it’s Andrew! Yes, definitely Andrew.” She chuckled uneasily. “I’m sorry. I swear I know you, it’s just that our system always shows the last names first, so those are what I tend to remember.”

I smiled. “You don’t know me at all,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

The door shut behind me, repeating its muffled ring.

Andrew Johnson seemed an offensively boring choice for a name, yet this Dupe’s affinity for the mundane gave him an advantage. His memories were entirely unremarkable. Every day he took the same route from his average-sized house in the suburbs to his run-of-the-mill office downtown all while listening to the same monotonous, marketable radio hits as everyone else. There was nothing substantial for me to latch onto. Anonymity at the cost of originality. I detested him for being the last one to evade me.

Passing through the sliding glass doors of the department store, I was flooded with an onslaught of advertisements. Posters for BOGO sales, rewards points, and other flashy gimmicks littered every surface. I struggled to swallow the anger rising in my throat. At best, this place would be bankrupt within the decade. At worst, it would be bought out by some other overstuffed mega-conglomerate, a fact that the twenty-somethings working here seemed to know as well. They stared off wearing the same dead expression as the woman from the pharmacy.

I grabbed a couple of graphic tees from the sale rack and sauntered over to the register. “I’d like to return this, but I don’t have my receipt,” I said.

The cashier looked me up and down. “Can I get your name and phone number?”

“My name is Andrew Johnson, but I don’t remember the phone number I put down. Can you tell me which one it is?”

A few moments later, I sat down on a low-quality mass-produced bench outside and dialed the number. If the Dupe was nearby, his ringtone might give him away. I listened intently, eyes scanning the courtyard for someone who looked exactly like me.

A woman’s voice appeared on the other end of the line, “Hello?”

“Hi… honey,” I said.

“Andrew? What number are you calling from?”

“I had to borrow someone’s phone. I lost mine.”

“Oh, I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you,” she said. “Have you picked up Katie from the party yet?”

“No,” I answered without missing a beat. “I was actually calling because I got turned around in here and forgot the name of the place.”

“I think it’s just called the playpark. It’s the one on the first floor near that big store with all of the soaps and candles and things.”

“Thank you,” I said in earnest. It was strange. I did not know this woman, but I knew the sound of her voice from the Dupe’s memories. I hesitated to hang up the phone.

“Are you alright, Drew?” She asked. “You’re acting kind of strange?”

“He loves you,” I said and ended the call.

Upon arrival, I could see why the playpark had been so painful to recall. It was like some kind of unholy love child between a jungle and a rainbow. Nothing but tube slides, ball pits, and trampolines as far as the eye could see. Stinky sneakers fogged up the entryway. An assortment of fried foods bubbled out of the kitchen. A bath supply center loomed next door. There were so many contradictory smells and colors that it was impossible to focus on any one in particular.

I strolled past the ticket booth and deeper into the establishment. The staff were busy attending to three different birthday parties and did not seem to care as I integrated the mob of middle-aged men milling about near the TVs. My eyes surveyed the room. There were too many people. Combing the place would have taken hours, but to my great fortune, something beside the arcade machines caught my eye.

Coming across a Dupe was never an ordinary experience. After all this time, the sensation still gave me chills. The man was not just my doppelganger. He was me. Same thin eyebrows and cleft chin. Same big nose and bald head. He even had the same smug look in his eyes, an expression that I had come to know well. Seeing my reflection move and breathe on its own was not just uncanny. It was sickening.

Though he had not noticed me, I could tell that my presence was making him uncomfortable. The soul has a way of knowing itself even when split among many forms. Being separated as we were, our bodies were like magnets. The closer we came together, the more impossible it was to ignore the pull. I made neither sound nor movement, but soon enough his shoulders began to tense and his eyes darted about the room.

I once eliminated a Dupe that had been a troop leader. He was trained in preventing confrontations with wildlife. The guidelines were different for every animal. For example, grizzlies wouldn’t usually pursue humans, so the best advice was to get low and play dead. Mountain lions were a different story. They could stalk their prey undetected for hours and hours until an inexplicable sense of dread started to set in. For that reason, the best advice was to seek shelter and be prepared to fight back. On some level, the Dupe seemed to remember this lesson as well, for he soon bolted down the hall and into the restroom.

I followed him inside, placing an “Out of Service” sign on the door behind us. From the far stall, I could hear him struggling to suppress his frantic breathing.

“You had to know I was coming,” I said. “You have access to my memories too, even if you don’t know how to read them.”

The Dupe said nothing, his gulps more audible than before.

“Do you remember the First’s goal in fracturing us? Why he even did it?”

“Please,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. If you want money, I can get you that. We can be friends here.”

“Come out of the stall.”

The Dupe went quiet again.

“Now!” I screamed.

The door creaked open, inch-by-inch.

“Face me,” I said.

He did as he was told.

“No…” he said. “No, no no! This can’t be real. Those are just bad dreams.”

“You’re right, they were bad dreams. The First’s dreams. He wanted to live many different lives, experience all that the world has to offer. He thought that cloning himself would bring him freedom.”

“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I’m happy. I just want to live my life and you can live yours however you want to,” he said, openly crying.

I continued. “What the First didn’t realize is that freedom doesn’t breed innovation, it breeds conformity. We’re all the same, each doomed by his hand to lead a miserable inconsequential existence.”

“You don’t know that,” he pleaded.

“You don’t know that!” I yelled. “You only have half-baked inklings of these things. I’ve killed them all, so I’ve lived them all. Their memories are mine now, and there’s so many that I can hardly keep track. We’re all the same, and we’re all damned for it.”

“But you and I aren’t the same,” he cried. “We may have started with the same materials, but we made something completely different. I have a family, kids, something to live for! I’m not a killer.”

Enough talking. The longer a Dupe struggled to merge, the worse the memory would be for me when they finally did. I removed the knife from my belt and stepped toward him.

“Stop,” the Dupe urged. “We can both walk away from this perfectly fine. The two of us can coexist.”

“Do you know why the statue of David is considered a masterpiece?” I asked.

Eyes wide, the Dupe shook his head.

“Because Michelangelo only made one. It’s perfect only as an individual.”

I drew my foot up and kicked him in the chest. The Dupe shot backwards into the stall.

“I’ll only be perfect once I get rid of all these cheap recreations.”

I took an ear in each fist and bashed his head into the toilet. Repeatedly. After about the tenth or maybe twelfth time, I stopped to catch my breath. The rim of the bowl dripped with blood, and he moaned. It was a low, ugly sound like that of a dying animal. A concerned citizen outside started to bang on the restroom door. I dunked his head into the bowl and flushed to cover up the noise. I’d have to finish the job here quickly and flee before someone discovered the body.

I turned to grab the Dupe, but the stall door slammed into my face, knocking me out toward the sinks. I scrambled for something to balance myself, but my foot slipped in a puddle of mop water and I crashed to the floor. My vision went black as a pair of wet tennis shoes squeaked across the tile and burst out the main door.

I touched a hand to my forehead and winced, fingers returning slicked with blood and sweat. By the time I exited the bathroom, the playpark was already in chaos. Terrified parents scooped up their children and fled toward the ticket booth. Herds of party goers trampled one another in the lobby. Toward the rear of the building, a crowd roared as the Dupe barreled through them into the nearest ball pit.

I was on him in seconds, bushwhacking my way through the colorful orbs like a huntsman slashing through vines. The Dupe scooped up an armful of balls and began hurling them at me in desperation. They bounced off my chest as I approached him.

“Don’t you see? There’s no joy in homogeneity,” I said. “Think of the soul-sucking suburb you live in. It was once a forest or a wetland. It could have supported hundreds if not thousands of species. Now, there’s nothing but track homes and asphalt.”

He looked for escape routes, of which there were none.

“Useless carbon copies - that’s what we are. Reproductions of something once great, made more and more worthless with every replica. Repetition. Duplication. Assimilation. These are the death of perfection.”

I made to strike at him, but my blow did not connect. With shocking speed and accuracy, his hand flew into my elbow sending my swing wide and loosing my grip on the knife. My brain had not yet caught up with my body, and in an instant, his other hand tightened my shoulder. He gritted his teeth, bending my arm further and further until the bone snapped in a sudden, explosive release.

The Dupe looked more dumbfounded than I did. “I could see it somehow,” he said. “How you were going to swing the knife. It was so familiar… like I was the one doing it?”

“Finish this. Take them all,” I said.

To my surprise, he did as he was told. He was learning from our memories already. With a grunt, he buried the blade between my ribs. It landed at an odd angle, sliding deeper with every ragged breath that shuddered out of me. The pain was blinding, but it didn’t matter. A smile blossomed across my face as the plastic balls engulfed me like the tar they were made from.

“True beauty is singular,” I whispered, sinking into darkness. “Enjoy it.”