“‘You never knew how easy life would be with another you’,” Henry sneered, “fat load of rubbish that is! You’re worthless!” His anger was punctuated by yet another thrown wrench careening across the dust laden garage. It clanged harmlessly against the blue fender of the ‘71 Dodge Super Bee, half of which was torn apart and strewn across the concrete floor.

“You think I’d know how to put this back together any better than you, old man?” The voice that answered Henry’s anger carried the same strident timbre of the man. Black, oil-stained hands reached around and braced themselves against the hood of the car and whispers of thinning hair floated above the liver-spotted forehead that slowly rose from opposite Henry. The two men stared at each other; at themselves. “I’m a clone, not magic!”

“Exactly! Back in my day I tore five of these apart a day and put them back together the next!”

“I ain’t a clone of you from your twenties! If you remembered how to put it back together three years ago we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

“Why you old–” Henry threw his rag to the ground and stomped around to inches from his clone’s face. They both seemed ready to reel back and swing at the other, but stopped just short.

From just beyond the garage came a woman’s voice. “Fightin’ with yourself again, Henry?”

“Typical,” her clone chimed in. They both laughed deep as they kept walking down the sidewalk. “Who can’t get along with themselves?”

Henry’s clone was quick to shout back, a fist flying up in defiance, “How about you keep your damn nose out our business Eileen!”

“Darn straight,” Henry nodded, a smile crossing his face for the briefest of moments before his clone’s anger turned back on him.

“Wipe that grin off yer face. We need some more rubber tubing and screw clamps,” the clone said, spitting a large gob next to Henry’s faded leather work boots.

* * *

Taylor’s Automotive and Hardware Supply was a common haunt for Henry, he was close personal friends with the guy who built the place, but that was ten years past now. The son ran the place now; a fine enough kid but not at all sharp enough to run a business, though it seemed he was getting by with the help of his own clone. In fact, nearly everyone in the shop, employee and customer, were flanked by clones. It disgusted Henry, and by extension Henry’s own clone, who carried a sort of self-loathing for his own existence which was a by-product of Henry’s prejudice.

They watched a moment as everyone moved in perfect synchronicity with their clones; weaving in and around each other, staying out of the other’s way, and streamlining their life. The exact kind of life that Henry was supposed to have with his own clone, only, he didn’t. Henry couldn’t even walk three feet, reach for something on a shelf, or bend over without seemingly running into his clone. They crashed over each other and twice nearly fell over in their search for parts. By the time they made it to the cash register, you could see a fresh bruise or two welling up on both Henry and the clone’s arm. Their journey home was laden with more fighting and swearing between the two, carrying on long into the evening as they continued their work on the Super Bee.

“Turn her over,” Henry yelled past the engine bay towards where his clone sat in the cabin. When no response came, he yelled again, louder.

“Alright, alright, don’t get yer panties in a bunch, old man,” the clone said under his breath as he turned the key. The engine sputtered once, twice, then roared to life in a deafening rumble. A thick burst of dust and black smoke blew from the tailpipe then ran clean, the car idling as strong as the day it rolled off the assembly line.

“Hot dog!” Henry cheered as he slammed the hood down, his clone stepping out from the driver’s seat. They both wore a smile of childish glee and pride.

Henry walked into the den holding a beer in each hand; he inherited the taste for Budweiser from his father he had always said. The room was old and warm, dark carpeted floors, wood tables and shelves holding military memorabilia, family photos, and memories. In the center were two beige La-Z-Boys, one occupied by Henry’s clone. Henry handed his other one of the beers and joined him. The clone picked up the remote that sat at his armrest and clicked on the television. Friday Night Football, as it should be.

Henry and his clone popped the tabs on their drinks at the same time, sipped, and breathed out a sigh of hard-won relief in unison. The recliners stretched out, and they spent their evenings like they always had, in perfect harmony.