My Difficult and Flawed Clone

When I was living in Los Angeles, a scientist from Cal State Institute of Technology contacted me to inquire whether I'd be interested in becoming a test subject for a research project he was working on in the field of genetic engineering. Right away, my curiosity was aroused. After further questioning, I learned he was confident that he and his team of scientists were on the verge of making a major breakthrough in successfully cloning the first human beings. The thought of being one of the very first people to have my own clone gave me a real ego boost.

Later that week, after signing a confidentiality-agreement--because the experiment was top secret and not sanctioned by the government--he used a hypodermic needle to withdraw 10ccs of my type-A blood.

Exactly four-years later, on a bright spring morning in 1978, I picked up my clone from the institute. From the moment I laid eyes on my clone, who I l dubbed Ceessell--pronounced like my initials C.S.L.--I found myself in a state of incredible disbelief. Although he had the physiognomy of a four-year-old, which he indeed was, his facial features were that of a mature man. This was both amusing and indescribably freaky at the same time.

After the two of us spent six-hours in orientation with the entire scientific team and the head scientist, who must remain nameless, I took Ceesell home to my spilt-level pad in the hills of Laurel Canyon, the hip spot for artists and musicians at the time.

I soon discovered, despite his pint-size appearance, Ceessell was an old-soul in the purist sense. Immodestly, I confess he was extremely charismatic, knowledgeable, witty and possessed a charming sense of humor. Still, it was disconcerting at times to balance his physical appearance with his apparent Will Rodgers' cowboy-like wisdom, Iceberg Slim-black-ghetto pragmatism and his slapstick, Charlie Chaplin-like antics. But as fun a companion as Ceessell was to have around, there were many problems that presented themselves on an everyday level.

However, before I go into that aspect of the story, I think it's necessary to paint a picture of my lifestyle at the time. During that phase of my life I was on a retainer with a major Hollywood studio as a script-development writer. I also spent most of my spare time pursuing the dream of becoming a national icon as an internationally respected novelist.

In other words, my ego was way out of control and shaded all of my thoughts and nearly every action. And the fact that I was a mere minion with the studio I worked for was a major point of resentment. Developing screenplays that were never produced was very frustrating, especially since I saw myself as being so gifted. I used to joke with my friends, saying, "Most of my time is spent trying to suppress my ego. And controlling it is a full-time job."

Five days a week, I wrote during the middle of day and reserved the late night hours and weekends for parties at my pad. At least twice a week, though, I stop by my favorite disco-joint with my bell-bottom trousers flaring and platform-heeled-shoes clicking as I boogied under the '70's style spotlighs and an obligatory spinning-mosaic patterned globe. Also typical of the times were lamb-chop side burns, lava lamps, patched jeans, tire-soled sandals and wife-swapping parties in the San Fernando Valley.

Anyway, it was at this time that little Ceessell came into my life. For the first few months, I abandoned the parties and nightlife to spend time getting to know my clone and how difficult and flawed he was. One glass of wine and he'd fall into a catatonic slumber that lasted for days. One puff of herb and he'd start bouncing face-first off the walls, cursing like a war-hardened, atheistic platoon of marines. Moreover, after getting high on wine or herb, he'd be lethargic for days.

When I'd wake up, about noon, he'd still be snoring on the living room couch. On most days, until well after four or five in the afternoon he'd still be yawning in his little pajama sets, bathrobe and slippers. Unable to put up with this behavior any longer, I made arrangements to take Cee back to the institute for what the head scientist called "fine-tuning."

Ten days later, he was back with me, noticeably different. Now he was full of energy and a regular whirling dervish. However, it soon became apparent that there were drawbacks to this new Cee.

In no time at all, he was stealing all of my girlfriends--one by one then two by two. At any given time of day or night, they came calling at the house. Soon they were barging past me at the front door as though I wasn't even there, looking to get their hands on little Cee. Call it jealousy, selfishness, or whatever, but I couldn't put up with this. Therefore, seeing red, I took him back to the institute.

"This is the last chance I'm giving him," I warned the head scientist. "When I come back for him this time, I want him totally obsessed with a work ethic and nothing more."

The head scientist assured me that once a few more adjustments were made little Cee would be all that I wanted him to be--a regular workaholic.

Two weeks later, he was back home with me, a changed clone. For a while things went even better than I could have imagined. Cee spent sixteen-hours a day in front of my manual typewriter, clicking away with an electric-like intensity, turning out almost fifty spotless pages a day. In less than a weeks' time, he'd completed a masterful novel, of which I was certain had Pulitzer Prize written all over it.

A few days later, he was halfway finished another book. However, I discovered Cee had contacted an agent and had all of his writings copyrighted under a pseudonym of his own choosing.

"This is the last straw," I shouted at him as he cowered behind his writing desk. "I put a roof over your head and provide you with food and clothing. And how do you repay me? First, you prove yourself to be a lazy slug, then you turn into a shameless womanizer. Now I find out you're a two-faced ingrate who thinks of no one but himself!" He opened his mouth to speak but I was having none of that. "Three strikes," I shouted, "and you're out!"

I wasted no time making arrangements to return him--once and for all--to the Pasadena institute. As I drove closer to the laboratory, I felt a slight tinge of guilt. After all, I told myself, he was blood of my blood, a true chip-off-the-old block, unable to do anymore than follow basic human nature. Nevertheless, I'd made up my mind. Yet I could not bring myself to look directly at him, convinced that I truly understood the adage: Familiarity breeds contempt.

Without so much as a farewell glance in his direction, I dropped little Cee off at the curb where the head scientist was waiting to take him off my hands. Still, as I drove away one single tear trickled down my face.

Many years have passed since that day, and although I think about Ceessell often I've never set eyes on him again. However, I've heard rumors that little Cee is presently residing in New England with Stephen King.