How could Yaakov, an ordinary bochur with ordinary interests (sports! grilling! power tools!), ever really understand someone who’s so different?

Let me tell you about Yaakov.

Wait. First, let me tell you about Blinder’s Hollow, though I’m sure you’re all already familiar with my hometown. Tzivi, you must be wondering, why do we need to know about Blinder’s Hollow for this story?

It’s all about painting a picture, see. This is how storytelling works. Close your eyes, imagine the quietest place you’ve ever visited. The kind of place where you can look up at night and see the dark blanket of the galactic bulge at the center of the galaxy. Where all you hear on Shabbos afternoon is the laughter of kids outside and women chatting on lawn chairs. Where every apartment advertisement proudly announces in walking distance to shuls — as though there’s a single part of Blinder’s Hollow that isn’t in walking distance.

Our town was built by Zev Blinder, a respected philanthropist who founded a yeshivah out in the boondocks. A half hour from Lakewood, back when a half hour from Lakewood wasn’t still, basically, Lakewood. That was 50 years ago. Now, we have a girls’ high school and everything! We’re basically a city.

Granted, sometimes the people here are a little unusual. Take me, for example. I’m a storyteller — I like to think a storyteller of great renown. I started out telling stories at our school shabbatons, and before I knew it, I was telling stories at other schools’ shabbatons, too. By the time I graduated high school, I was bringing in a nice amount of business telling stories to girls and women. I’m an entertainer, a performer, even though all I’ve got is my words and Blinder’s Hollow.

So it was a relief to know that Yaakov wanted to live here.