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“Prejudiced against rich people? Hell, maybe I am. That’s not just random, though. I got to that point after working in Hollywood for years and being treated like shit by almost every rich person I met. There are some exceptions, like Harper, but they’re few and far between.”
Dallas sighed and said, “I don’t understand why you keep working as an assistant if you have contempt for almost everyone you come in contact with.”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown accustomed to luxuries like keeping a roof over my head and eating food.”
“Were you always this sarcastic?”
“Absolutely.”
My twin didn’t say anything for a few moments, but the car kept rolling along in reverse, keeping pace with me. Finally, he said, “Come and have a drink with me.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you could really use one.”
“I could, actually,” I admitted, “but if you and I try to spend time together, we’ll just fight.”
“Let’s break that cycle, Phoenix. Have a drink with me. I wanted to do that when I ran into you in New York, but you shot me down. Now here we are. I feel like the universe is giving us another chance to patch things up.”
I stopped walking and rubbed my forehead while Loco squirmed in the crook of my arm. After a pause, I said, “Fine. One drink somewhere that isn’t super pretentious.”
“I don’t think we have a lot of choices,” he said, as I climbed into the passenger seat. “Most places aren’t going to let you in with livestock, so let’s just go to my hotel. It’s not far from here.”
I partly buttoned my flannel shirt and tucked the front of it into my jeans, and then I slipped Loco into the shirt before putting on my seatbelt. Meanwhile, Dallas flipped the car around in a tight U-turn. Then he glanced at me and sighed as the chicken stuck her head out above the fastened buttons. “For a minute there, I thought you were actually fixing yourself up in anticipation of going somewhere nice,” he said. “But no. You were just making a chicken pocket.”
I glanced at him and frowned. “You’re one to talk about appearances. Nice highlights, Dal. I don’t think there’s anything about you that’s natural anymore, from that fake-ass tan to those tinted contacts.”
“I’m not wearing tinted contacts.”
“Come on. Our eyes aren’t that color.”
He asked, “How are you this clueless at thirty? Seriously. I’m wearing a dark green T-shirt, and that color brings out the green and gold in our hazel eyes. The tan’s not fake, either. I spent part of last month in Bali, while you look like you’ve been hiding in a cave. How can anyone be that pale?”
He held his tanned arm next to mine, and I rolled down my sleeve and said, “Fine. So, the tan’s real. Apparently you missed the memo that sunbathing is terrible for you, but whatever. And congratulations on knowing which colors to wear. That’s quite the accomplishment.”
“At least I’m trying. Not like you, in that baggy, gray T-shirt and tired-ass flannel. It’s not 1992, and you’re not a roadie for Pearl Jam, Phoenix. You could make a little more of an effort, you know.”
“Why do you care?”
“I just do.”
I turned to look at him, as much as I could with the seatbelt restraining me, and asked, “Is it because people mistake me for you in public, and you don’t want them to think you’re a hot mess? That’s it, isn’t it? The only reason you care how I look is because it reflects badly on you.”
He shifted gears and accelerated down the hill. As the wind whipped our hair around, he admitted, “Okay, maybe. But can you see why that’s annoying? I put a lot of time and effort into my appearance. Then I open a magazine and see a picture of you, looking like you mugged Paul Bunyan for his giant wardrobe, with the caption ‘Dallas Jaymes spotted running errands in Los Angeles.’ That’s fun.”
“That only happened a couple of times.” He sighed, and I added, “Well, you don’t have to worry about it happening again, now that you’re on an all-steroid diet.”
“Dude, this is the result of hard work, not steroids.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. It’s a fact.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and started composing a text, and he glanced at me and asked, “Am I boring you?”
“I’m sending a message to the guy who takes care of Harper’s pets, so he can let him know where his chicken is. Harper’s really attached to her.”
“Then why’d he name her ‘crazy’?”
“It’s even worse than that. Her full name is El Pollo Loco.”
Dallas grimaced and asked, “Isn’t that the name of a fast food chain here in Southern California?”
“Yup, and it’s famous for its chicken dishes.”
“Alrighty then.” When I chuckled, he asked, “What’s funny?”
“You’re still quoting that Jim Carrey movie we saw when we were ten years old.”
