His are the kind of looks that turned Neanderthals into homo sapiens with perfect DNA. This dude may actually be better looking. Josh Duhamel apparently has a doppelgänger, because I’m staring right at him. Someone get the paddles––I think my heart just stopped. The door eases open, and my mind draws a complete and total blank. I’m not a religious person, by any means, however, at this point I’m ready to try anything other than sacrificing live animals to secure a paycheck. But that’s just me.Īfter straightening my grey Theory blazer and brushing a piece of lint off my slacks, I ring the bell and send up a Hail Mary. Personally, I prefer season tickets to diamonds, sunscreen to makeup, and flats to platform heels. Let me be clear, every woman that grows up in New Jersey does not look like the Housewives of New Jersey. Coupled with my full lips, makeup tends to make me look like a Broadway performer, or a trany, so I generally avoid everything except mascara and lip-gloss. My complexion is medium, tanning easily, the same shade as my father’s, and I have a smattering of very distinct freckles over the bridge of my nose. Also, as usual, small pieces have started falling out. As usual, I’ve harnessed my pin straight, dark hair in a bun. Or what had once been mine and is currently property of the U.S. Unexpectedly, my throat pinches as I note that this house resembles mine. The winding gravel driveway extends past the woods and rough winter lawn, all the way to a large white farmhouse with a glossy black door and matching shutters. The gate doors peel back slowly, revealing the landscape of the estate. I finally locate the correct number on a plain wooden gate and drive up to the black security box, press the intercom, and announce myself. If you drove through it accidentally, you would assume it’s just another country town. Sprawling mansions hide behind high walls and heavily wooded landscapes. Nobody that lives here advertises their wealth they’re notoriously private.
Alpine is not your typical wealthy enclave. I drive my mother’s twenty-year-old Camry slowly as I search in vain for a house number that matches the one on the piece of paper I’m holding. Now names like Combs, as in Sean, Cece Sabathia, and Chris Rock rub elbows with some of Wall Street’s highest earners. Once upon a time, names like Frick called Alpine home. Where as my little town is staunchly working to middle class, Alpine consistently ranks in the top two most expensive zip codes in America.
Economically, though, they couldn’t be any farther apart. In a strange twist of fate, the town I grew up in, the town where my parents still live, is only three towns over from the address the employment agency gave me. An image of hairy, sweaty men with toothpicks hanging out of their mouths staring at my ass and calling me ‘doll’ crops up. My thoughts shoot straight to the gentleman’s club.
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