JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Illustration by Anne Tamondong. Ink on paper, digitally replicated.

Published 8 July 2013

You know how, in those movies, something horrible happens to the lead characters — say, an EMP takes out all power for weeks in a major city and all life as you know it is disrupted and everybody ends up starving and turning into cannibals? Or a zombie apocalypse forces a band of survivors to hole up in a deserted mansion or something like that— and everybody Just. Loses. Their. Shit. It is in people’s nature to get paranoid and start throwing accusations against each other: “I saw him sneak into the tent and steal the last two cans of sardines.” Whatever. And everybody just starts killing everybody else. And while you’re watching the events unfold you’re going, “Fuck, this is too unrealistic. The screenwriters just put in all these mentally unstable character types to ratchet up the tension. Come on guys. Have a timeout. Freaking out’s never led to anything good in these types of tales. Everybody knows that.” And that’s when somebody snaps and takes out a gun or hunting knife or something and everybody but the lead guy and girl gets slaughtered? Well, something a bit like that happened to me six months ago and apparently, well, you can’t help but freak out. I am ashamed to admit it, but in the heat of the moment, I might have killed a bit. I might’ve tortured a bit. When times got tough and you’re surrounded by people who’ve gotten as paranoid as you have, one has a tendency to murder. Who knew?

It was the fourth of July and I was at this fourth of July Barbecue event in Makati. (Okay, I know it’s weird but there is a reason why there was even a fourth of July party that night. See, there’s this, WAS, this American filmmaker, a popular music video director, who had been flown here to conduct this workshop and I guess, so that he wouldn’t feel homesick or something, the organizers turned the event into a barbecue.

I was with a couple other filmmaker friends, Dan and Josel, and I had about six or seven beers that night. For the first hour or so, me and Josel were just having our beers and being all wallflower-ey as we tried to work up the nerve to go mingle. I remember there was this girl in a short white dress with a beautiful tan who walked into the room and started taking pictures of the people. As soon as she walked in, I remember audibly gasping.

I turned to look at Josel who at that point was currently having a bite of bagnet. “Hey, you’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?” He nodded. (about an hour later, I would ask Josel, “so you WERE thinking what I was thinking at that point, right? Oh my god, she was gorgeous. I wasn’t even looking directly at her but it was like, she warps space and time and walks into a room and you just don’t have a choice but just stare at her, you know.” “Oh, so that’s what you were referring to?” Josel said. “I thought you meant the bagnet I was biting into was so crunchy and you heard it and everybody else heard it and I was worried you guys around me were getting bothered.”)

Later on, the six or seven beers had the effect of getting me drunk and I started to do some mingling. My memory of the events afterwards are still hazy. I remember having a conversation with Gordon, the American director, about the animation techniques he uses in his music videos. I remember talking with his girlfriend, Meila, a Filipina, about the film production company she works for. I don’t remember talking with the girl in white, but apparently I had chatted her up as well that night. Her name was Maria.

All-in-all, I thought I did a fair bit of drunken mingling. At some point, after the workshop and barbecue, I found myself alone, still with a can of beer and stumbling across a hallway, getting on the elevator and heading to the parking lot. There, I found out Dan and Josel had gone ahead and left without me. Fuck it. I stumbled out of the building, walked all the way to Ayala Avenue and got on a bus.

Still a bit drunk, I slipped on a puddle of blood on the floor of my condo, hurting my ankle a bit. And then I saw him, washing his hands on the sink, trying to get all the blood off. He turned around and saw me and I couldn’t tell who was more freaked out among us. He looked just like me, wore the same clothes I did, nearly everything was the same except he had a lot more red on his clothes. “This… this can’t be real. I’m dreaming. I think I’m just drugged out of my mind and you’re a figment of my imagination.” he said.

Here’s another thing, you know how in zombie movies people don’t usually say the word “zombie”? And zombie movies would usually invent all these words to refer to zombies? Like Walkers or Geeks or Abominations or some would even just go by the phrase “the living dead” or some ominous pronoun like THEM or something like that? Well, I wasn’t going to have any of that. I see something, I call it what it is, I’m just that kind of person. “Doppelganger!” I shouted.

“What? I’m not a doppelganger! YOU’RE the doppelganger” he said.

“What? I’m not a doppelganger. I’m Rick, alright? I live here. This is my condo.” I said.

“No, this is MY condo. I’m the real Rick, okay? And you’re my doppelganger. Maybe you’re not supposed to admit it because that’s how you supernatural-types mess with people’s minds but I AM RICK.” he said.

I would’ve liked to say the cliche “I’m not the doppelganger, you are” conversation didn’t go on for about another two minutes, but it did. And neither of us wanted to budge from our respective beliefs. We asked each other questions. Who was the real Rick’s first crush, what was our deepest darkest secret, favorite color, those kinds of things. After that game of twenty questions, we knew we had the absolute same memories.

After a while, as the reality of the situation sank in, I tried a different tack. I sat on the plastic monobloc chair in front of my computer. He didn’t want to sit on the sofa on account of the blood on his clothes so he remained there, standing, leaned against the wall. “And why do you have all that blood on you? Were you just born or spawned or gestated or something? And more importantly… are you going to kill me?” I asked him.

“I’m NOT going to kill you. I don’t even know WHAT you are. And this blood… it’s not mine. It’s… there was an accident, okay? I went home with this girl I met at this party and she—-,” he pointed at the blood on his shirt. “This is hers. I didn’t mean to but something weird happened. We split a bit of ecstasy and—-”

“The pill?” I asked.

“No, we split a bit of ecstasy, the emotion. Fuck, of course the pill!”

“There you have it,” I said. “You’re the doppelganger. I DON’T do drugs. That’s not in my character. I drink. I smoke. And okay, I’ve done some weed on occasion. But not ecstasy. That’s something totally alien and out of character for me so YOU’RE clearly the fake and I’m the real one.”

“You don’t– I don’t– you’ve never done ecstasy not because of some amazing moral compass you possess but because you’ve never been offered any. But if a really gorgeous girl offered to share one with you, you’d take it because you’d—- I’d do it because there’s a pretty good chance of getting laid.” Okay, he had me there. This man’s logic was unassailable.”

“What happened?”

“We got high. We had sex. I think. I don’t know. And I fell asleep. I woke up alone in her bedroom I was really thirsty and I tried to find the kitchen, and then I saw her lying there. She slit her throat, I think. And I tried to help her but she was already gone. Fuck. That’s it. You’re a figment of my imagination. I’m having a nervous breakdown because of all that shit.”

“I’m not anybody’s nervous breakdown, man. And you and your imaginary girl are the ones who aren’t real.” So then it dawned on me. The beautiful girl in white. “Where exactly did you meet this girl?” I asked myself.

“At this barbecue in Makati. The one Dan invited me to. I almost didn’t go. I wish I didn’t. But I saw her there, she was so beautiful and I had to talk to her right away.”

“No. You’re lying. I was there. There was no way we were both there.”

And then the conversation was interrupted when the door suddenly swung open. In I walked, wearing the same shirt and jeans I was wearing, right in the middle of me having a conversation with myself. This one, this “me” had gone on a joyride with Dan and Josel and a couple of other new friends right after the barbecue.

Ten minutes later, I walked in again, perfectly fine but a lot more drunk than I’d been, stumbling against the edge of the sofa right before noticing the three of us in the room. This one went to have a couple more drinks at a nearby bar before heading home.

On and on, I kept on arriving until about six in the morning when we had a total of seventeen Ricks. A bunch of my selves got really freaked out. Some tried to run back down the hallway but me and the rest of the Mes managed to grab ahold of them before they could get away or call for help. In truth, by three a.m., me and the rest of my other selves had developed a system already. Have a couple of us standing by the stairs and waiting to see how the new arrival would act, see if he would freak out or just take it in stride. The various levels of alcohol in our blood seemed to affect how well we would accept the night’s turn of events, I thought. Two of my selves vomited on the floor but the rest of the latecomers took it well, relatively.

Some of us managed to sleep during the night. Some of us had showers, had a change of clothes. Some heated up a couple of cans of soup and had meals. At eight in the morning, we all decided one of us should call in sick. And then, we had the meeting.

We told each other about how each of our nights went. And so, we’d all gotten drunk. We’d all mingled. This me went home with that person. This me hung out with that group. This me got the director’s email and promised to collaborate on a project. This me went on a ride with Dan and Josel. The theory we came up with involved possibilities and some Schrodinger’s cat type of explanation.

We then came up with a strategy. Who would go to work? Who would stay at home? How would we prevent other people from finding out what happened? An hour in, we realized it wasn’t that bad. It could even be to our advantage. Yes, food would be a problem. We’ve got sixteen extra mouths to feed and we only had one job that didn’t pay nearly enough but we could have a fix for that. (By the way, we were surprised to find out nearly all of us had a wallet with about two thousand three hundred pesos each).

The scenario opened up a whole lot of possibilities, didn’t it? Working together, we could each stay at home and specialize on something. Some of us would get new jobs and if we pulled our resources together, we’d probably end up richer than we’d ever been. We could finally write that novel we always wanted. Some of us would learn Spanish or French. Maybe in a couple of years, some of us would like to split up from the rest of the pack and travel abroad? The potential at that time seemed limitless.

Truly, I think things could have worked out. But as I said at the beginning, if you somehow get yourself into one of these events, you can’t help but freak out. I wish I didn’t raise my hand then to share to the rest of the group something I’d noticed. We each told our tales, but at least one of us didn’t tell the rest of the group what really happened to him the previous night. I wish I’d taken note of which one he was. But maybe I was just too drunk or shocked and we all looked exactly alike anyways so I doubt I’d even remember if I had tried to. Which one of us had gone home with the girl in white?