’VE ALWAYS PREFERRED older things, which survived the test of changing times. Such things not only provide comfort but also tell stories. For example, people keep collecting vinyl in the age of streaming because holding a physical disk allows more emotional attachment to a record than listening to it on a mobile phone. I do collect vinyl. And I prefer living in older apartments.
I didn’t think for too long when the broker showed me a two-bedroom on Riverside Drive and 106th Street. He was a young man wearing dreadlocks who played in a free jazz band when he wasn’t showing people apartments across Manhattan.
‘The price is great, but honestly the reason it’s been on the market that long is that it’s in need of some repairs, as you can see,’ the broker told me. ‘If you’re willing to make some fixes, I think the owner would agree to deduct at least a share of the expenses from your rent.’
That was how I moved into a two-bedroom apartment for the price of a studio. However, the apartment was quite old and in dire need of fixes. It looked like it hadn’t been renovated at least since the mid-twentieth century. The wooden floors were squeaking, the faucets were leaking, the pipes clanged and screeched, the majority of power outlets were not working, and the kitchen light was controlled by a switch in a bedroom.
Still, it was a great deal in a pleasant neighbourhood near the river, and I thought that I could make small renovations step by step.
I never met or spoke with the owner. The broker said it was an older man who had retired and moved to Connecticut. They rarely spoke—always on the phone, never online—and the contract bearing the owner’s signature was sent by Priority Mail.
The payments had to be made by mailing a cheque, so I had to order my first chequebook in my life and learn how to fill it out. In fact, I preferred this limited communications approach, as my previous landlord lived in the building and annoyed me with constant inspections.
During the first week in my new place, I made a list of things that needed to be fixed, replaced, or upgraded. I thought that if I checked one thing off the list per week, it wouldn’t take more than six months to make the place unrecognisable. But then I couldn’t decide where to start. The wooden floors were uneven and made sounds as I walked, but at the same time they had their charm and I grew fond of hearing my footsteps echoing in the floor. It would have been annoying to hear other people walking, but I lived alone and never had people coming over. Then I thought about replacing a bathroom faucet which leaked a little, was difficult to turn on and generally looked old. But when I went to a hardware store to look for replacements, I couldn’t pick one. All the options I saw looked bleak, the material felt cheap, and overall there was nothing meaningful or historical about them. It was just a faucet, I told myself, but I couldn’t imagine turning on that glossy, ugly thing to brush my teeth in the morning.
The owner couldn’t do it either, I realised. Perhaps he wouldn’t dare make any repairs, upgrade the apartment, or even hire someone to do it. It must’ve been much more important to him than to me, as apparently he spent decades there, growing up and getting older, surrounded by these floors, walls and fixtures.
In fact, there were two faucets, on the opposite walls of the bathroom. Above the sinks were two identical mirrors. I imagined that it made it possible for a married couple to go through their morning or evening routine at the same time, but the space constraints didn’t allow for a double side-by-side sink, which is more common these days. Out of the two faucets, only one was leaking, so I opted for using the other one and decided to leave everything untouched.
It was a Monday about two weeks after moving in, when I was preparing to go to the office. I showered and brushed my teeth and combed my hair in front of one of the mirrors. In the mirror I saw not only my reflection but also the opposite mirror’s reflection. Therefore, I could see the back of my head, which was an unexpected benefit of my unusual bathroom configuration. Beyond that, the opposite mirror also reflected my reflection, which I could see in front of me, just smaller. Altogether, there was a chain of seemingly infinite reflections, each one smaller than the previous one.
On that particular Monday, after I finished combing my hair, I leaned down to wipe my face with a towel. As I lifted my head again, looking into the mirror, I saw the reflection of the back of my head. Only it remained still throughout my upward movement, as if it had always been there. I tilted my head to the left, keeping my eyes locked on my reflection in the opposite mirror, which remained in the same position. Tilting my head to the right was already redundant, but I still did that, knowing for certain the reflection wouldn’t move.
Then I slowly turned around to face the back of my head, fifteen inches from my face. In the mirror, I now saw two faces. In fact, it was the same face—my face. One of the faces had a huge smile on it, and the other one was terrified.
That smile disarmed me. I was ready to scream, but the smile made me confused, if not comforted.
‘Who are you?’ I spoke into the mirror.
‘Who are you?’ the other face responded.
‘What’s your name?’
‘James.’
‘I am James.’
‘My name is James too,’ he said calmly, without a protest.
I entered the living room, closing the bathroom door behind me. I knew he could not be real; I apparently had some reaction to a medicine or food, causing hallucinations. Was I dreaming? I pinched my thigh, but the surroundings did not change. Was someone playing a trick on me, wearing a 3D-printed mask? But his voice was mine. That could be easily done too nowadays. Or did I have a twin brother? Wait, I needed to call my mom. No, I couldn’t really talk about what happened, not to anyone; they would think I was crazy.
It was already 8:15 a.m.—time for me to go to the office. I went into the bedroom and quickly put on my yesterday’s clothes, just to be able to leave as soon as possible. The bathroom door was still shut when I crossed the living room in three quick steps and went outside.
Once I stepped onto the street, I stopped to get my breath and thoughts together. The sun was shining relentlessly; cars were honking, and people were walking fast toward the subway. Life seemed as normal as ever, eliminating any possibility that what had happened in the bathroom minutes earlier was real. I went uptown on Riverside Drive toward the station. I kept thinking about who I saw this morning, still looking for a logical explanation, when a speeding delivery guy nearly hit me on 108th Street. The near miss brought me back to reality, brushing off those heavy thoughts.
Throughout the day, I managed to keep myself busy with work to keep my mind away from the disturbing thoughts. The day went by so fast that I didn’t notice when it was already 5 pm and my coworkers started to pack and leave. It was also time for me to go, but I didn’t want to return home. The person I met that morning was either there or not there. He either existed or not. It was too stressful to know the definite answer. Instead of going straight to the nearest subway, I decided to walk uptown towards Central Park. It was rush hour, with streets flooded by taxis and sidewalks busy with tourists and Midtown workers going to have a pint before coming home. I entered the park from Fifth Avenue and went up the hill, being passed by runners, cyclists, and horse carriages. There was no solitude in the entire city; every inch of it was already taken by someone. People were climbing on the rocks, lying on the grass. I spent an entire minute trying to cross Centre Drive, weaving between groups of cyclists, runners, and park workers in their cars. Further ahead, people were playing volleyball, roller-skating, and throwing frisbees to their dogs. I tried to leave the park as soon as possible, turning west, but I failed to find the right path. On my way, I encountered the previously unseen boulders, lakes, and bushes through which I couldn’t pass. I was born in a hospital minutes from Central Park and spent many hours of my life exploring it. I thought I knew every hidden path, and there was no part of the park where I hadn’t stepped foot at least a dozen times. But on that Monday I kept going the wrong way, all of a sudden coming out from the wooded area to the lake near the Alice in Wonderland statue. I certainly walked westward from there, only to face the Met ten minutes later. From the museum, I took a short walk to the Great Lawn and surely if I continued going straight, I would soon exit the park on West 81st Street near the Museum of Natural History. Instead, after twenty minutes of walking, I found myself in the middle of what looked like a forest. About half an hour later, I approached a lake. From there I went over the bridge and finally saw the desired high-rises on the west side. Exhausted from walking in the maze, I eventually climbed towards Central Park West and the late 70s.
I was thirsty and needed a place to rest, but the benches nearby looked frightening, as if I was afraid sitting there would drag me back to the swamp of the park. Like someone who had got lost in the desert for hours and seen an oasis, I approached an unnamed bar on Amsterdam Avenue.
Despite the time of day, it was nearly empty. Most people sat by the counter alone, silently sipping their beers and watching a game on an old TV. I ordered a pint, which I finished within a couple of minutes. I immediately felt better, even merry. I ordered another beer and a shot, following the example of men sitting next to me.
It must have been after 9 pm when I got out of the bar, as the street was already dark. I took the local train uptown, and only when I approached my street did I remember that I might have had a new roommate.
Fear crept up my spine, but I was able to surpass it thanks to the confidence that drinks apparently gave me. Standing outside the building, I saw no lights in the kitchen or living room windows. It must have been a vision that morning, I thought as I climbed the stairs.
As I approached my third-floor apartment, I heard some noise coming from behind the closed door. There were some voices and gunshots. I opened the door, my hand trembling as I tried to insert the key. Inside, there were louder gunshots and TV flashes. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, I saw a man sitting on my sofa and holding a controller from my video game console. It was the same person I saw in the mirror. He was there. And he played my video games.
‘The switches don’t work,’ he said casually, maintaining eye contact with the TV. ‘You need to fix them or we won’t have any lights in the apartment.’
‘It’s in my bedroom,’ I said.
‘Oh, I didn’t try that, as I took the spare room.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m James, don’t you remember?’ he paused the game and looked at me with a smile. Unlike the morning, that smile looked more natural in the light of the TV, even kind.
‘But I am James!’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he responded before returning to his game. ‘Oh, you need to go to the store—the fridge is empty.’
That’s how we started living together. I tried to avoid my new roommate, going to the office early in the morning and going to the movies or concerts after work. He didn’t express much desire to talk, beyond complaining about food or household problems, which I mainly ignored. I started to eat out most of the time and rarely brought food home. I got tired of the grocery trips, which seemed to be endless. Whatever I brought from the store was eaten the same day, since he didn’t do much beyond watching TV, playing video games, and eating. Soon, my double discovered the food delivery website on the video game console, and after that, he stopped complaining about groceries.
His appetite was enormous. During a single day he could order a giant sushi set, a sandwich from the Italian deli nearby, a double burger, and a beef pho. I knew that because I was receiving the receipts in my email and, of course, he used my credit card to pay for it, leaving generous tips. That started to annoy me. Before that, the roommate was a mild inconvenience which didn’t cost much. We had the same size, obviously, so I gave him some old clothes which he didn’t change often anyway. The only new expenses were a slightly higher electricity bill from the TV running 24/7, and groceries. But now, as he became used to ordering anything he wanted at a particular moment, I couldn’t support his lifestyle.
‘Why don’t you find a job?’ I suggested to him upon returning from the movies one night.
‘But you have a job, right? Otherwise, what do you do all day?’ he responded.
‘No, I mean that you need to find a job. At least to cover all the food you are ordering. And then the rent, electricity bills, and whatever.’
‘But what kind of job?’
‘You could work for that delivery service!’ I thought I had a great idea.
‘I love the delivery app,’ he smiled.
The next day he started delivering orders on foot, as I didn’t own a car or a bike. Certainly, I didn’t plan to buy one for him, besides, I wasn’t sure he was capable of operating them. The income he got from the app was miniscule, since he spent too much time walking between deliveries. He was often late which reduced the amount of tips he got. If anything changed, he became even hungrier, as now he spent much more energy walking compared to sitting at home. He started to eat at restaurants five to six times a day, trying cuisine from different continents on a single day.
I also started seeing him in the mornings more often. Before he found a job, he slept in and I could sneak out of the apartment at 8 am. Now, he was on a schedule which meant we often had to share the little bathroom we had. Thankfully, there were two sinks and two mirrors, so I tried to finish my morning routine as fast as I could and leave.
One morning, I finished shaving and straightened up in the mirror to check if I did well. Inadvertently, I looked into the mirror reflection where I saw my double brushing his teeth. I wiped myself dry with a towel and turned around hitting something soft with my elbow.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the double. Only it was not the same man who lived with me. That person was still brushing his teeth but between him and myself there were now two more men, identical to us.
So, now there were four of us. On my way to the office that day I smiled to myself how ordinary this new addition felt compared to my initial shock when I saw my first double several months ago.
Our living arrangements became more complicated. It was out of the question that I would share my bedroom with anyone. So instead the original double moved to the sofa in the living room, where he spent most of his time anyway, while the new doubles shared the second bedroom. The financial situation became more tense. I hoped the new doubles would find jobs too but instead they followed the example of the first one and started delivering food. Since they shared the same identity—my identity—they couldn’t create new profiles. Instead, they took turns delivering food, while the other two played video games at home. At the end of the shift, whoever was working on that day brought food home. So their income remained the same while their food expenses at least tripled. In addition, they developed a taste for French wine, particularly from the Bordeaux region, as I kept finding numerous empty bottles in the kitchen.
To avoid seeing them as much as possible, I started leaving home even earlier and coming back late. To spend the extra time I got, I started to write this diary. Mostly to prove to myself and to whoever might read it that the situation with the doubles was real. I still didn’t confess to anyone about it, but this diary is the only proof it was happening.
I also spent more time at the office, accomplishing more tasks before and after the scheduled work hours. My manager noticed it and I received a solid end-of-the-year bonus and a 10% raise. Of course, I didn’t mention it to the freeloaders at home. As I kept giving them my old clothes I didn’t need anymore, I spent some of the bonus on two new suits and some casual clothes I kept in my wardrobe.
Christmas came and went and in January my manager announced that the firm was opening an office in Connecticut. They needed someone to move there, hire a team, and manage operations. He asked me if I wanted to go, as I was showing a lot of enthusiasm at work. I felt proud that he chose me but I also realised it was because I was the only unmarried and childless person in the department, so it would be easier for me to move. In addition, my salary wouldn’t change but the firm provided housing, so in the end it was economically beneficial for me.
I took a day to think about but in fact I made my decision on the spot. It wasn’t that I really wanted to move to a sleepy town or have a better job title. I saw this opportunity as my only chance to escape my doubles. I would ask my broker to contact the owner—who by coincidence lived in Connecticut—and give him a thirty-day notice. I would give the doubles the same notice and it would be up to them what to do next. I was moving alone, leaving the past behind and forgetting about them.
The next day I accepted the offer and upon my return home I announced to the doubles that they would need to find a new place to live and probably real jobs if they wanted to stay in the city.
Their response was muted at first but on the following days they kept pressuring me not to leave them completely. They wanted to move with me as they suspected I would stay in a bigger house. They wanted me to keep the place in New York and pay for their expenses. All this was of course unacceptable.
The evenings at home became very tense. We were either arguing—me against my three doubles—or they pretended they didn’t notice me. Even before they had never cared much about doing house chores. But after I announced that I was leaving it became much worse. There were dirty dishes everywhere and wine spills on the sofa. They wore my new clothes and stained them with ketchup and coffee.
It all made it impossible for me to stay in the apartment any longer. Day after day my life was turning into a nightmare. I also suspected they discovered my diary when they looked for clothes in my wardrobe as I found it on the bed last night.
I decided to leave earlier and stay in a hotel for several days before my official move to Connecticut. So I started to pack discreetly, not to alert them. I decided to take only the essentials with me, maybe only two or three suitcases with new clothes, my vinyl collection, and some books. Friday would be my last day in this hell.
I figured it would be wrong to leave the story unfinished. And not everything written above was entirely true, so I wanted to set the record straight.
First, I didn’t want to be here. We didn’t want to be here. He brought us here—we were basically him. He didn’t ask whether we wanted to exist, no one did. And he had the nerve to suggest I got a job. Which I had to do as he wanted to starve me to death. I was always hungry, and all I thought about was food. While he was wining and dining in his fancy suits, I was a prisoner in this home, eating stale lettuce from the fridge. Of course I had no choice but to order delivery so as not to die from hunger.
Now, video games and TV. What else could I do to fill the emptiness inside? I’m basically a human being who started living at age twenty-nine. His age. But I had no friends, no classmates, no relatives, no one. And as a human being I wanted company. Someone to speak to. Someone who could hear what I felt, what I dreamed of. He never listened. He came in late, often smelling of alcohol, and went straight to his room, cursing me and complaining about his life on the way. We could only meet in the bathroom in the morning where he tried to avoid me, pretending I didn’t exist.
When we were three, it got better. We could talk, play video games together. It was nice to share a meal with someone. But still, each of us longed for his approval, for a sign of attention. To no avail. He gave us his old clothes that were in such bad shape that we were embarrassed to leave the house. Meanwhile, he bought expensive new shirts, cashmere sweaters, and Japanese jeans that he hid in his room.
And then when he suddenly decided to kick us out and leave, it was too much. It was a betrayal.
We wouldn’t be able to survive without him. We were him. So I, as the oldest, decided I couldn’t let him go. But also I couldn’t keep dragging the other two. So I had to get rid of them all. With those two it was easy, I just added poison to the meal I brought home from the deli.
But for him, I wanted to let him know what was happening. To make him suffer and see with my own eyes as the life leaving his body. I did it when he was shaving in the bathroom in the morning. He glanced into my eyes in the mirror reflection. I smiled, like the first time I saw him.
Tomorrow, I’m going to start my new life in Connecticut.
