Being Jonathan Taylor Thomas

I don't know what it was about Jonathan Taylor Thomas, but for some reason my sister and I wanted to be him. Like, all the time, legitimately wanted to be JTT. We would fight about it, constantly. Who got to be him on Home Improvement, or in the Lion King, or Wild America, or Tom and Huck.

"I get to be Simba!" Niela would proclaim triumphantly.

"No, way!" I would scream at her, "You got to be Simba yesterday!"

And it wasn't just JTT either. No-ho-hoooo all fictional characters on TV or in movies were party to our ridiculous competition: Devon Sawa, Andrew Keegan, Jonathan Jackson, Brad Renfro...and that's just the boys. All Disney princesses were subjugated to our madness, as well as any real-life girls who we deemed worthy enough to embody.

The fighting would usually escalate to some hysterical screaming match where one or both of us would eventually resort to petty violence to get our way. Dad would intervene and separate us, not ever really understanding why we were fighting in the first place, while we sat and glared at each other out of the corner of our eyes, not paying attention to the show, just plotting...concocting ways to make the other one suffer for the injustice that had just happened.

It. Was. Mental.

Because, really...what does it mean to BE a fictional character, especially if only for just the duration of the movie or show, and from the comfort of our own couch?

Absolutely nothing, that's what.

I look back on this, and I realize that these arbitrary declarations of being were actually just a vehicle for our sibling rivalry to escalate and be released into the world. At eighteen months apart, we were too close in age to differentiate any sort of special privileges, like later bed times for the older sibling, or new clothes for the younger. Our parents tried to treat us equally, which is of course what drove us mad.

Mum was the worst offender in all of this. She couldn't for the life of her remember our names when she was angry. It was always some bastardized meld of both our names, usually spoken with a certain sense of insanity tinged exasperation.

"JUSNEE!" She'd exclaim, her eye twitching from the anxiety of it all, stray wisps of hair sticking haphazardly from her carefully sculpted coif.

We failed to appreciate that Mum couldn't possibly be expected to differentiate between either of us. We were both awful 95% of the time, and she would spend her days plowing snow, or patching potholes, or working a jackhammer...like the bad-ass mother fucker she is, and then come home to Satan's children.

No, all we could think about, was how dare our mother have the audacity to forget our extremely special names.

"MY NAME IS NIELA!" my sister would wail angrily.

She never did get over the emotional scars this name-meld caused, though our sibling rivalry has pretty much disappeared.

~*~

The importance of Jonathan Taylor Thomas remained relevant fifteen years later. I was a university student, and Niela worked at the Cactus Club Café in Vancouver, BC.

I was in French class when my newly purchased cell phone rang. This is the most embarrassing thing that can happen to you when you are in class, even more so when you've inexplicably chosen a Jack Johnson song as your ringtone.

I quickly ignored the call, looking apologetically at my professor and classmates for disturbing the quiet tranquility of conjugating French verbs.

Thinking the great disturbance over, I returned my cell phone to its designated pouch in my backpack, not turning off the ringtone, like a smart person would, because seriously...this is 2006...who uses cell phones?

I was caught unawares when it rang again.

I thought, 'This must be an emergency. I just got this thing, no one has my number except my family...someone is dead!'

Avoiding the annoyed stares of my classmates, I ducked out of the classroom to answer the phone, prepared for the worst.

"Hello?" I said hesitantly.

My sister's excited voice blasted loudly into my ear, "Oh my God, Justine! You are not going to believe what is happening!"

"Niela, I'm in class! I thought it was Mom calling to tell me you died!"

"I'm sorry!" She said, "But I don't think you understand. JONATHAN TAYLOR THOMAS IS SITTING IN MY SECTION! JTT is sitting...in...my...section!"

I could detect a hint of panic in her voice, like she just couldn't deal with the prospect of interacting with the mythical creature that was Randy Taylor. I reacted appropriately:

"Shut UP! Is he cute? What is he wearing? Have you talked to him? Is he with anyone? How tall is he? Why is he there? What the fuck is happening??!!!"

 She paused for a moment, "...actually, he looks kind of gross. He's really short, his hair is kind of greasy, and he's wearing these stupid blue sunglasses."

"Well that's disappointing." I said, leaning against the brick walls of the Arts Building hallway. "Is he with anyone?" I asked, curiously.

"Yeah...he's with a dude. They're talking kind of closely...I don't think I can process this right now."

"Breathe, Niela," I encouraged, "Just bring him a glass of water and be your usual charming self." I thought for a moment and continued, "If you can help it, try not to spill anything on him, and whatever you do...don't tell him that we rented Man of the House and kept it for over a year."

"What? Oh my God, I forgot about that! Now that's all I can think about! I'm probably going to blurt out something stupid like 'penis pants' and pull a total Gina!"

"Niela, it's going to be fine. You are not mom. You can do this!"

"Okay," she said, taking several deep breaths, "I can do this."

I chuckled and told her I was going back to French class.

Look at his stupid little face. Who WOULDN'T want to be this kid?