TWO GUYS NAMED JIM WHO LIVED IDENTICAL LIVES UNKNOWN TO EACH OTHER

You would know Jim anywhere. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, with a distinctive face and mannerisms. You would know him by the way he stands, the way he crosses his legs, the way he folds his arms, and the way he gestures with his hands. He smokes Salems, prefers Miller Lite, and chews his fingernails to the quick. There is no mistaking him.

Nor was there ever. In school, his best subject was math; his worst was spelling. He never cared much for school, actually, and he sneaked cigarettes in adolescence, becoming a habitual smoker by his teenage years. At eighteen, the headaches started. And that’s another thing: Jim’s doctor would know him anywhere. Not only by his pulse, his blood pressure, and his EEG patterns, but by his unusual headache syndrome—a distinctively described combination of tension and migraine. He would know him by his chronic hemorrhoids, by his vasectomy, by the time he thought he had a heart attack, and by the time he suddenly, inexplicably, gained ten pounds. Jim’s doctor could look at that medical history, and there would be no mistaking him for any other patient.

Jim has been married twice; he divorced Linda, and Betty is his wife now. He has a son, James Allen, an adoptive brother, Larry. Anyone in his family—even his dog, Toy—would know Jim anywhere.

Jim makes his home in Ohio and vacations at the same three-block-long beach on the Florida Gulf Coast each year. He hates baseball, loves stock car racing, and politics bores him. His hobbies are mechanical drawing, block lettering, and carpentry. In fact, he built the white wooden bench that encircles the tree in his yard. 

Jim had law enforcement training and has worked part-time as a deputy sheriff. He drives a Chevrolet—a blue Chevrolet.

You would know him anywhere.

Both of him.

Because everything you have just heard applies to two people. Two Jims. Two men named Jim, both of whom divorced women named Linda and remarried women named Betty. Both have sons named James Allen and adoptive brothers named Larry. Both have pet dogs named Toy.

Two Jims, both of whom chew their fingernails, chain-smoke Salems, drink Miller Lite, and drive the same model of blue Chevrolet. Two Jims with identical school records, down to the best and worst subjects. Identical medical records, down to their brain waves. Identical body language, down to the way they fold their arms. Two Jims with the same hobbies, the same preferences, the same aversions, and the same personalities.

Two Jims who have lived seventy miles apart in Ohio, who have vacationed on the same tiny strip of St. Petersburg beach each year, utterly unknown to each other. These two Jims, whose lives have precisely paralleled, from periods of weight gain to suspected heart attacks to chronic hemorrhoids, are biological twins. They were separated four weeks after birth and reunited thirty-nine years later.

Abraham Lincoln tried to tell us that all men are created equal. Well, two were.

Now you know the rest of the story.