The Other Harold: Apparently, One of Me Wasn’t Enough

By J. Paddy Spaight

I’ve reached an age when discovering something new about myself usually involves a doctor, a prescription, or an unexpected noise coming from somewhere below my waist.

So naturally, I decided to write a novel about a seventy-four-year-old man who discovers he’s been sharing his body with another human being for his entire life.

And you thought your family had problems.

Meet Harold Benton.

Harold is a reasonably ordinary fellow who has reached that wonderful stage of life when getting out of a comfortable chair requires careful planning and occasionally a written proposal.

He’s also blessed—or cursed, depending on whom you ask—with a rather wicked sense of humor.

In other words, Harold and I have quite a bit in common.

We share a similar outlook on life, an appreciation for the absurd, and an almost religious devotion to tuna fish smothered in mayonnaise. And when I say mayonnaise, I mean enough mayonnaise to make the tuna wonder whether it’s still the main ingredient.

Some people consider this excessive.

Harold and I consider those people seriously misguided.

We also share the firm conviction that growing older is considerably more entertaining when you refuse to take it seriously.

But Harold has one problem I haven’t encountered.

He discovers he has an identical twin.

Now, discovering you have a long-lost brother might ordinarily be cause for celebration. Perhaps a family reunion. Maybe a few awkward conversations about who inherited Grandma’s good china.

Unfortunately, Harold’s twin has been hiding in a rather inconvenient location.

Inside Harold.

For seventy-four years.

I won’t explain how this extraordinary situation develops because that would spoil the fun. Suffice it to say that modern medicine, bewildered doctors, and one thoroughly confused patient become involved in a mystery that raises a rather uncomfortable question:

What happens when someone else has your face, your DNA, and your memories?

Personally, I find the prospect disturbing.

I’ve spent seventy-five years getting accustomed to being me. The last thing I need is another fellow showing up claiming he can do the job better.

Especially if he’s right.

And frankly, my greatest concern wouldn’t be sharing my identity with another man. It would be discovering that he also shares my appetite.

There’s barely enough mayonnaise in the refrigerator for one of me.

When I created Harold, I gave him many of my own characteristics, including my sense of humor. But I also placed him in circumstances so outrageous that even I would have trouble talking my way out of them.

And believe me, I’ve talked my way out of some pretty interesting situations.

The Other Harold is part mystery, part medical impossibility, and part exploration of what makes each of us unique.

It’s also proof that, given enough imagination, an author can make his own life considerably more complicated without ever leaving his favorite chair.

So if you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wondered whether there’s another version of yourself somewhere out there, consider this:

You might not have to look very far.

And if you do happen to meet him, my advice is simple.

Don’t lend him money.

He already knows all your excuses.

And for heaven’s sake, hide the mayonnaise.

“Harold Benton enjoys the simple pleasures in life: a comfortable chair, a good mystery, and enough mayonnaise to alarm his cardiologist.”

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