Her real identity was no more my business than it was that of her clients. But almost two years later, I listened again to my tapes. In one section, late in the interview, in a part I hadn’t transcribed because it wasn’t important, she unguardedly said her daughter’s first name.
I got out my files. For some reason, I still had the model releases I had gotten the women to sign for Paolo that night. Jocelynne had signed only her first initial and had scrawled out her real last name in a nearly illegible hand. I could make out the first letter and a few possibilities for the next four. But if the daughter’s first name was real and the Texas A&M story true that might be enough. I went to the Texas A&M web site and began typing in names. Within five minutes, I had found Jocelynne’s daughter. I went to Facebook and there she was. She looked like Jocelynne, the wholesome co-ed version. She looked sweet. She had posted hundreds of pictures of herself, mostly wearing Aggie Sprint wear and posing with an arm around friends. Looking through her friends list, I found her little brother. She had recently written on his wall: “Congrats to my favorite Little League pitcher—you rule little bro!!!”
She was friends with her mother, so I found Jocelynne, too. Her name, obviously, was not Jocelynne. She was wearing normal clothes and sunglasses, but she looked the same. Her Facebook page was public too, so fifteen minutes in, I also had the name of her ex-husband and the names of her real-life friends. Not Cherry Pie and Exotique and Candee Gal but Lori and Chelsea and Jeanne. I was looking at pictures of the most normal family in the world: carving pumpkins, opening presents at Christmas, cheering at Little League games, striking goofy poses at the beach. I went on the Web and found her address, the books she was reading the clothes and hairstyles she had pinned on Pinterest, the home decor she liked on Houzz. Her ex-husband really was a dentist. She really had a dog.
The whole story checked out. The desperate housewife, the soccer mom, Belle de Jour—it was all true.
Company Town by Ginger Strand in Tin House, 2013 Fall