Brooke and Wes were born in the fantastic, fabulous year of 1981. They were not siblings, but there were born in the same town and in the same hospital at the same time. Kismet. It is said they came out kicking their little feet and wailing at the world. Normal for babies, but the nurses swear ‘til the cows come home they were singin' and dancin'. And they didn’t stop. Ever. So they were placed in neighboring bassinets. Their mothers met at the window when they came to say hi and became fast friends. And because each had big personalities and relatively dull husbands, they decided they should raise their kids together. They even moved next door to each other. Now that, that’s just crazy. But what’re gonna do? It’s the South.
Now the two children would wake up singin', dance any ole crazy thing to the bathroom (let me tell you, they left some MESSES in the toilet), and continue the rest of their day in pretty much the same way. Any song and whatever dance came into their little heads and feet. From cradle to crawlin' to walkin', just singin' and dancin'. Drove their houses to madness. And the neighborhood too. One summer day when they were seven years old, the radio one day introduced them to Dancing Queen, and bless my soul if the pair of ‘em weren’t inspired by the Good Lord Up Above. They demanded the cassette single. Then they locked themselves up in Brooke’s room for two weeks playing nothin' but that song and makin' odd stompin' and bangin' sounds (shut your dirty mind and just wait, Reader).
Brooke’s folks stayed at Wes’s house to avoid the commotion. Food was brought to the children at the appropriate times. School was not EVEN discussed. And the neighborhood had two weeks of peace (well, Mr. Chaundry ran off with his 20 year old secretary – typical – and Mrs. Johnston was arrested for God knows what and the two sisters on the corner declared that they were actually lesbians and that they were moving to Idaho to start a homosexual nudist colony, but that’s neither here nor there. And anyway, I’m not the biggest fan of potatoes – potatos? – potatoes.).
Finally the Twins…Almost (as they now called themselves) emerged with looks of slightly starved triumph on their faces. It was complete. Nervous, their parents asked what ‘it’ was. The twins yelled "Hit it!"
God bless me, but it was the most god-awful dance routine with off-key singin anyone has ever conceived, bless their little hearts. Momma and Daddy and Momma and Daddy smiled crooked smiles and clapped hesitantly. For the Twins…Almost, they had rocked it.
That night on their tin can phone, their prayers were extended. Tonight and ever more, the Powers That Be got the following synchronized message: Dear Jesus, Please make us famous. Amen.
This is a story that Art Club had come up with for a short film. We've all been distracted by life since then, but this is the start of story I wrote for it.
Now the two children would wake up singin', dance any ole crazy thing to the bathroom (let me tell you, they left some MESSES in the toilet), and continue the rest of their day in pretty much the same way. Any song and whatever dance came into their little heads and feet. From cradle to crawlin' to walkin', just singin' and dancin'. Drove their houses to madness. And the neighborhood too. One summer day when they were seven years old, the radio one day introduced them to Dancing Queen, and bless my soul if the pair of ‘em weren’t inspired by the Good Lord Up Above. They demanded the cassette single. Then they locked themselves up in Brooke’s room for two weeks playing nothin' but that song and makin' odd stompin' and bangin' sounds (shut your dirty mind and just wait, Reader).
Brooke’s folks stayed at Wes’s house to avoid the commotion. Food was brought to the children at the appropriate times. School was not EVEN discussed. And the neighborhood had two weeks of peace (well, Mr. Chaundry ran off with his 20 year old secretary – typical – and Mrs. Johnston was arrested for God knows what and the two sisters on the corner declared that they were actually lesbians and that they were moving to Idaho to start a homosexual nudist colony, but that’s neither here nor there. And anyway, I’m not the biggest fan of potatoes – potatos? – potatoes.).
Finally the Twins…Almost (as they now called themselves) emerged with looks of slightly starved triumph on their faces. It was complete. Nervous, their parents asked what ‘it’ was. The twins yelled "Hit it!"
God bless me, but it was the most god-awful dance routine with off-key singin anyone has ever conceived, bless their little hearts. Momma and Daddy and Momma and Daddy smiled crooked smiles and clapped hesitantly. For the Twins…Almost, they had rocked it.
That night on their tin can phone, their prayers were extended. Tonight and ever more, the Powers That Be got the following synchronized message: Dear Jesus, Please make us famous. Amen.
This is a story that Art Club had come up with for a short film. We've all been distracted by life since then, but this is the start of story I wrote for it.
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