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there’s this arts-and-crafts sideboard I’ve had my eye on and a quick thousand bucks would somewhat alleviate my guilt if I were to buy it.
     
    Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll do it.
     
    The client wanted to chat a bit before our date. I hate feeling like I’m giving it away over the phone, but for a thousand dollars you get a little extra. We arranged to meet two days later and he told me about where he lived; he was a college professor in Pennsylvania, just a little older then me, and lived near the university in a house he had just had built. He lived there with his brother.
     
    And did his brother know why I would be coming? “He thinks we met through a personal ad and this is our first date.” What does your brother do? He’s a professor, too? Computer science, both of you? Interesting.
     
    That Friday was gray and rainy. As I drove from Manhattan into the wilds of Pennsylvania I tried to put a positive light on things. I had never been to this part of the state before, and the guy had to be intelligent, at least, if he was a professor at the university there.
     
    After leaving the Turnpike I drove across the state towards, and then through town. The directions my client had provided soon found me in an area that was strangely barren; the wooded suburbs of the picturesque college town seemed to end abruptly and left me driving through a flat, treeless district. The rain had let up and the late-afternoon sun sent frail rays through the greasy gray clouds, coating the oil-slicked road with a weak film of autumnal light. In the distance I saw four houses--two on either side of the road--lined up perfectly flat with the street on which they sat. The street sign told me this was my destination.
     
    As I drew closer I saw these weren’t just houses; these were mansions. Brand new, immaculately finished behemoths that sat close enough to one another to expose the underlying plans for each house as identical. Only the exterior details provided enough distinction to keep the occupants from entering the wrong domicile on a foggy evening. There were spindly young trees with twin upright supports planted here and there in the yards. Seams still showed between the strips of new sod.
     
    I turned into the arcing blacktopped driveway and pulled up to the front door under the twin-columned portico. My two-door vintage convertible suddenly felt Lilliputian in front of this monumental edifice. I turned off the ignition, got out and walked around the front of the car and up the two broad front steps. Within moments of ringing the bell, one half of the wide, double door silently swung open.
     
    There stood my date. He wore brown loafers, khaki pants and a pink button-down collar shirt as well as a very obvious blond toupee. That’ll be a challenge I thought, as I planned my strategy of never touching his head. But it was his skin that made the strongest impression. It was translucent as alabaster. I couldn’t quite call him an albino, but his white skin and blue eyes, pale as dead hydrangea, gave him an eerie, ethereal quality that reminded me of the evil children in the movie Village of the Damned . I tried desperately to remember how that film ended as I reached out my hand and introduced myself.
     
    “Hi, Scott. I’m Gus.”
     
    “You found it okay, I see.”
     
    I looked at the floor to keep my gaze from drifting upward to his hair and saw a shadow flicker behind the door. Scott must have noticed my glance.
     
    “Oh. This is my brother, Mark.”
     
    From behind the other half of the front door stepped a carbon copy of my client. Everything was identical except that he wore a blue Oxford cloth shirt, not the same pink as his brother.
     
    “I… guess you guys are twins,” I offered with a chuckle to cover my surprise, as I confirmed with a quick look that even the toupees were the same. “Nice to meet you, Mark. Are you joining us for dinner?”
     
    I’ve always had a fantasy of having sex with twin brothers, but,