On Jan. 1, 2000, scientists at PPL Replications, the world's leading genetic research laboratory, issued a press release stating their intention to clone a human being. The reaction — from politicians, religious leaders, social scientists and ethicists — ran the gamut from impotent outrage to incredulous outrage.

I phoned up PPL on getting cloned. I can't entirely explain why I had such an overwhelming urge to perpetuate myself in this way, but somehow the idea that I could become a father just struck some emotional chord.

After an exhaustive screening process, one that included rigorous physical and psychological testing as well as a methodical, meticulous appropriation of all my liquid assets, I succeeded in convincing the PPL people that I was the right human for the job.

It wasn't until much later that I learned PPL was financially strapped. In fact, their very survival depended on being "first to market" with their groundbreaking, investment capital-attracting clone. Late last summer, PPL decided to initiate a "maturity acceleration program" on my multiplying cells — that is, to inject them with a series of hormone "cocktails," similar to foods used to speed chicks from hatchling to killing floor in 49 days

Because the hormone treatments were experimental, exact concentrations and long-term effects were impossible to apprehend. By the time proper levels were ascertained, the cells had been overdosed and, apparently, over-stimulated. We know this because the clone — my clone! — matured at an alarming rate; he was "newborn" on Sept. 26, a toddler by November, an adolescent by January and, as of March 18, 2001, he turned, by all objective physiological measures, 21 years old.

Needless to say, as soon as the rapid, uncontrollable, troubling growth of my clone revealed itself, PPL considered him less a venture capital magnet as a failed prototype. As such, he was not trotted out for the press. Glowing headlines did not ensue. Leaving PPL Replications bankrupt and non-viable. And leaving me with a homeless adult "son."

Last Monday, shortly before PPL closed its doors for the last time, I visited once again.

Sadly, I did not know him during the months he was "growing up." Rather, I was kept at arm's length, allowed only to observe the boy, not interact or speak with him.

But I wanted to talk to my son. To my clone. To myself.

Me:         It's odd, really, since this is the first time we've been allowed to meet.

Me Two: You're telling me about weird? Until I was 12, I called a 500-milliliter beaker "Daddy."

Me:         OK, but now you know better. You know your story. So tell me: What are your thoughts right now, as you look me, your progenitor, right in the face for the first time?

Me Two: I'm thinking I better start flossing more regularly.

Me:         Um-hmm. I have to say though, on the subject of looks, I don't think you have anything to worry about. You're an extraordinarily handsome man.

Me Two: You have to say that, you're my father. And my biological twin.

Me:         No, really. I'm being objective. A stranger would tell you the same thing.

Me Two: Right. Whatever.

Me:         It would also seem that the hormones that accelerated your physical maturation effected your mentality in the same way. I mean, your language skills, your demeanor, the fact that you're not blowing bubbles, hey, for seven months old, you're doing very well.

Me Two: Thanks. I try hard to present myself as a mature, responsible adult. But believe me, I'm still a work-in-progress. For instance, I just made a poo-poo in my pants. (He begins crying.)

Me:         Uh... Let's shift gears a bit. Do you think it's been harder for you growing up as a clone, than for, say, the traditional fertilized egg-type person?

Me Two: Hold on, man. So far, you've been asking all the questions. But, you know, the people at PPL have told me stuff about you. Trying to provide me with a context. And based on what they said, I have some questions for you, too. About your motivations to perpetuate yourself this way and the role of your bloated ego as it relates to that whole thing and about how and where I fit into your life and why you wear leather loafers with no socks and ...

Me:         And we'll get to them. Honest. But you know, right now, I was thinking we'd flip on the TV. Do a little tube bonding. Hey, the 1978 Sugar Bowl is on ESPN Classic.

Me Two: Are you avoiding my questions, and if you are and we're gonna watch TV, can we watch Comedy Central?

Me:         What channel is that? I forget.

Me Two: So do I.

Me:         You know, I blame my poor memory on my youthful overindulgence in drinking and illegal drugs.

Me Two: That's funny, I blame my poor memory on your youthful overindulgence in drinking and illegal drugs, too.

Me:         And what's that supposed to mean? That all your problems are all my fault?

Me Two: I couldn't have said it better myself, you rusty bucket of genes ...

Me:         Hey, boy, I'm your DNA source material. When you talk to me, you'll show some respect.

Me Two: Respect? You want respect? Hah! I may only have an IQ of 110, but I think I'm smart enough not to waste my respect on some underachiever like you with a lousy 110 IQ.

Me:         Oh, yeah, clone-boy? Well, damn you!

It turned out to be my poorest choice of words ever.

　(918 words)