Doppelgangers

It wasn't a happy day for Jason Thomas when he got up that Wednesday in November 2024, but he thought he at least should be glad he didn't have a uterus. Counting his blessings and the pennies in his pocket, he exited the subway, closing his jacket to his chin, careful not to let what was soon becoming a beard get tangled in the hungry teeth of his zipper. 

Arriving at the building, he stood beside the beeper without removing his keycard from the breast pocket. The fabric of his uniform was just thin enough to let the signal through. 

'Anyone in?' he asked Georges, who shook his head, slammed the newspaper on the counter, and grabbed his coffee mug on his way out. 

'Mood?' Jason couldn't stop himself.

'Same as yours,' the brisk Greek mumbled before the glass door shut with a click. 

He was right. And that was the only thing that was right that day. 

Jason sat down behind the counter, felt the imprint and warmth from his colleague's ass engulf his own, and shuddered before he reached for the tablet and signed himself in.

The job was dull. So dull paper newspapers had become the highlight of Jason's day. The puzzles, crosswords - even the jokes - were interesting, but the best part was the comments. 

Georges had been at it. He'd read every political column and written his usual fact corrections, yes, along with some subtle points about the spelling. Best of all, he'd listed his thoughts and wishes for the next four years, words that'd make alarm bells ring in certain bureaus if posted on any social media platform. Here, scribbled in the margins of a day-old newspaper, it was so harmless Jason smiled. 

There was a note next to the monitor, too. "How's your debt?" It said. It started as a joke back in May, but it led Jason to check his accounts more often. His student loan debt wasn't unusually high, but the increase in interests made him adjust his expenses accordingly. He'd have to ask for a smaller uniform if things continued like this. 

The education he'd worked hard for didn't earn him a job, and like so many others, Jason took whatever he could get. Unlike those who happily took on unpaid apprenticeships as if they'd earned some price. Jason had seen right through it. All you ever got from such positions was the front-row seat when some brat related to the boss got the position you'd been aiming for. Slavery - without board and lodging - but laced with hope. Hope that soon felt like burning coals and left you a total failure. The rent for the room he shared with Tulip-the-tranny was also getting pretty steep.

So there he sat, day in and day out, watching the door to an empty castle on Billionaires Row, New York. There were no names on the mailboxes; hell, there wasn't any mail. The lights were on. The heating, too. Twice a week, cleaners took the elevator to the penthouse, cleaned the empty rooms, exchanged the untouched food, bringing the "old" back down. They'd roll their eyes at him when they returned, sometimes giving him a bag of groceries. That was the only fruit he ate during a month, and Jason often thought he'd have scurvy if it weren't for that. 

Why was it like that? Georges blamed capitalism. The evening shift, Edna, mumbled about communism. Jason only wondered how and when he could expect some change. It wouldn't happen with that ass for a president, that's for sure!

Someone had asked, "When's the revolution starting?" He wondered the same thing. 

It wasn't right that prime real-estate like that even existed. What if he made a replica of the skeleton key and moved into one of those empty apartments? He hadn't seen or heard of anyone staying there since he started working as a doorman, and he'd worked there for almost a year. 

The apartments were investment property, somewhere for the wealthy to store their money until something new and shiny came along. If they ever went to New York, they didn't stay at the home they owned. No, such people wanted to be pampered. They likely stayed in one of those expensive hotels, saying "This will do" to whomever they brought with them, hardly tipping the bellhop and definitely not looking at him.

Meanwhile, two people shacked up in the former living room of a three-bedroom apartment bought by some entrepreneur in the nineties who divided it into ten tiny dwellings with rents so steep you had to work several jobs just to have a place for your pillow and your weary head, and maybe - just maybe - hot water when you finally had time to do something with your b-o. What. Was. The. Point? 

Tulip the tranny, his choice of name, not Jason's - often spoke in capital letters about the upper classes and how we're fooled into spending what little extra money we have on meaningless junk. He never watched TV and refused to buy into the wifi-package, saying if he wanted to know stuff, he'd go to the library. Tulip didn't want to know things. He spent most days and nights at the club, trying to make a name for himself, honing his craft. He'd tease Jason for his job whenever he swung by the apartment. "Stop worshipping your oppressors, dude! You're far closer to being homeless than you are to becoming a billionaire!" Jason shrugged it off and never told the thirty-something to stop dreaming. Tulip would only bring up Debbie Harry, saying something like, "She was 32 when Blondie broke through, and I'm a millennial, so I have more time. We look younger, you know!"

He was someone to look up to. If he wasn't so annoyingly right all the time. And good looking. With or without make-up, Tulip could fuck whoever he wanted, but never at home. "I'm like a real estate agent. I've almost screwed my way around Manhattan. Nowadays, I don't even care what they look like - I just want to know their address and if their showers have good pressure." When Jason asked how he knew about the pressure, Tulip waved a hand over Jason's head, almost touching the limp curls that ran down his temples. "It's their hair, man, I can always tell. Unless they've been to the hair salon that day. Boy or girl, there's always some offcut hair in the back of their necks. Fool me once...!"

Jason flicked out his phone, thinking he'd spruce up his resume and look for another job. A text waited for him. From Edna. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret." Attached to the message came a folder. 

Jason quickly put the VPN on like Georges had taught him. "If you ever see something like this, you have to make sure no one else sees it". Jason thought it weird at the time, but Georges always had good advice and was responsible for teaching Jason all there was to know about the job. Thinking the folder had something to do with the owners, to which privacy was highly appreciated, he downloaded and opened it. 

It contained instructions. Jason Thomas opened the cupboard behind him, fished out the correct keyring, turned to the tablet, opened the app for the cameras, and typed in the code that sent the last hour in a loop. Then he opened the door next to the elevator, ran down the stairs, and continued down a dimly lit corridor he swore wasn't there last week. He found the door, pressed the code, and watched it open to the alleyway he only recognized because he once had miscalculated how much he needed to pee.

'Jason Thomas?' said a blonde bombshell about his age. He nodded. 

'I have a package for you,' the bombshell stepped aside to reveal about a dozen people behind her.

Some looked familiar. They usually hung out by the dumpsters around certain restaurants, or begged for money on Jason's way to and from work. He looked perplexed at the bombshell, not really knowing what to say or do. 

'Let's get a move on,' she smiled, and the sorry bunch of people followed her inside. Jason's instructions hadn't taken him further than to open the door, so when the last hobo passed him, he swiftly shut it, joining the rear.

The bombshell stopped by another door Jason never knew of. 'Here you go! First floor, first door to your left,' the bombshell beamed and handed an old woman a key and a tote bag. The next ten got similar instructions, and soon, only Jason and the bombshell remained. 

'Penthouse,' she said and clasped a set of keys in his hand. 

'You look just like him, you know. It's fucking uncanny,' she reached for his face, but he stepped away before she touched his curls.

'Like who?' He asked.

'The son of the man owning the penthouse. Which is quite funny, him being Saudi Arabian and all. Where you from?' Her blue eyes felt piercing and exceptionally clear.

'Ohio...' Jason answered, wishing he'd paid more attention to his family tree. 'Why, though? Why would you want me up there? What is this?' 

The bombshell sighed.

'The guys I sent upstairs will go straight to the shower, so the amount of water this presumably empty building sheds will be enough to send someone from the office over. Luckily, the Saudi son is known for being a wild child, and it won't be unlikely that he'd fall asleep with a tap or two running.'

'So... I'm to play him? Then what about the front desk?' 

'Don't worry about that, we've thought of everything. Dress up and do as I tell you. I'll answer all your questions later,' she handed him a bag of clothes.

They went through the foyer like they owned the place, and presumably, he did now, at least the top floor. He was instructed not to look at the counter; the person he was impersonating wouldn't have, so Jason shouldn't either. But he'd recognized that perfume and Tulip's voice anywhere. He couldn't resist a glance. Tulip looked just like him; what that man could do with a brush and carefully placed colors never ceased to amaze Jason. 

The bombshell hid Jason's features from the cameras with a giggling kiss as they stumbled to the elevator. They kept the act going until inside the apartment.

The place was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of Central Park from the kitchen. He ran his hands over the marble top and sat on the comfortable barstool while she rummaged through a few cupboards, producing two wine glasses and a bottle of red he had no idea where she found. 

'What's this about?' He asked, waiting for her to have the first sip. It was good wine, probably the best he'd ever tasted. Jason didn't recognize the label - but doubted he'd find it in any of the places he ever drank in. Not that he spent much on such frivolities - he usually ended up at Tulip's club, drinking whatever was put in front of him by the barman Tulip swore had a crush on Jason. 

'Welcome to the union!' The bombshell clinked her glass to his and finally started explaining. 

The union had started as an actual doorman union, but as times changed, so did they. Tired of seeing how the world's richest took up empty space and drew up the cost of living merely by buying what they wanted, the union went in for change. When a building stood empty for too long, they rounded up people of sound minds and meager incomes and helped them with an apartment. They either had to look like the owner or some of their closest relatives - like Jason, or they looked like other important people. 

'Ever wondered how Elon Musk suddenly lost so much weight? Thank fuck for Wegovy!' 

'So it wasn't Wegovy?'

'It isn't Elon Musk.'

'You're kidding! He's a basket case now. He used to be tolerable. Why?' 

'We needed someone to get close to the president; I know things seem bleak now, but "Elon" is just where he's supposed to be. Trust me.'

The people she'd rounded up today could live in their appointed apartments for as long as they wanted, but they couldn't make changes, turn on lights seen from the street, or be seen using the building until the person they personated had an "accident." The corridor from this morning was completed last week, which was lucky since the body of a certain billionaire heir was fished out of the Hudson this very day. That's when Jason's building was put into action. The cover-up was easy when the coroner was on the union's side.

'So I'm the dead body now?' Jason thought of those back home. The sister he only talked to during Christmas, the mother he hadn't cared for since she married that awful man, and his beloved dad, dead for several years now. He wouldn't be missed. Much. 

'Do you have a problem with that?' 

Jason Thomas didn't answer. 

'OK, so why. Well, it started as a middle finger to those who'd grabbed too much of our wealth because when you think about it, such people seldom give much back to the community. But what if they had a change of heart? We're not waiting for that to happen. We make it happen. The hobos will stay indoors, watching recordings of whomever they're impersonating, learning how they speak and walk - all the little mannerisms typical for their personality. Some will have to undergo plastic surgery, others will do with a haircut.' Jason wanted to pinch himself because he had to be dreaming. 

'So you round up people from the streets of New York and make them impersonate whoever they look like, kill the original, so they'll donate more to society or some shit? Really?' 

The bombshell nodded.

'And none of them go off script or get greedy?' The ever-so-slight smile was still there when she nodded. Confidently. 

Unbelievable. 

'You'll have to learn Arabic. You like rock?' Jason stared at the record she placed in front of him. 'It's sad how they'll be executed if they ever play live, but they've gathered quite an audience regardless. Your boy here, the not-so-promising-son, listened to them a lot. Start by learning the lyrics. Try to translate them. You have a steep learning curve, but I'm sure you'll manage.' 

'And if I don't?' Jason imagined a visit from his "dad" turning catastrophic due to the mispronunciation of some word or mannerism he couldn't learn. 

'I doubt you'll have much contact with his family; he didn't. It's merely to be on the safe side. By the way... His body will be on the way to Ohio soon. Suicide by drowning. Do you want to write a few parting words for your sister and mother? To give them some closure, I mean.' Her hand touched his, and he remembered the way she held him in the elevator, wanting a similar embrace. He nodded.

A month passed by until he saw her again. 

She was suddenly in his living room - it's odd how fast he adapted to the idea that the apartment was his. The news was on for a change; a Robin Hood-type figure had taken over all the channels, and it was fascinating to see how he eluded the police.

'This one of yours?' He asked the bombshell.

'Yep.' She reached over and took his coffee from him.

'He'll get the chair for sure. Am I supposed to kill someone, too?'

'You're forgetting how rich his family is and what rich families do to protect their own.' She put the cup back on its saucer so hard Jason worried for the china. He still cared about stuff, unlike the Arabian prince he pranced around town pretending to be.

'Not to worry. Your "dad" has a wife up his sleeve, the reason you left - remember? You will rekindle your relationship now that you're clean. Your parents will be pleased. They'll even let you and that beautiful young maiden they found for you set up shop in New York.'

'But I don't know enough Arabic! I can't read those scribbles to save my life, and I mispronounce half the shit I'm trying to say!'

'You understand it, though?'

'If they speak slow.'

'Your father is known for speaking slowly when agitated.'

'And he'll be that even if I do exactly what they want?'

'Yeah. Because you'll only speak in English.'

'Ah... Right.' Jason reached for his cup, filling it with shaky hands.

'Your voice is darker now, more like his. I detect a bit of an accent. You've done a good job.' She bumped him with her elbow, making him long for that elevator kiss; he handed her his cup before he spilled it.

'I'm to contact him? I'm freaking out here!' Jason wiped his face with both hands, ending with them ruining his pomaded hairstyle, leaving brown residue under his nails. He picked at it and was about to rub the brown stuff on his jeans. 

'No, don't! That's disgusting, J! Anyways. Don't work yourself up. You'll call him, and whatever he says will be translated simultaneously on this gadget I have here. Like texting. By the way, what did I tell you about not contacting people from your past? You and Tulip are still hanging out.' The bombshell looked... Amused?

'The heir's habit... I don't know where to score or whatever, so I went to the only guy I know who might've, you know... It was his idea to get me "clean." There's nothing that suggests this isn't a new friendship...'

'I know. But no more, you hear me!'

The former Jason Thomas nodded.