Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Which, on measure, was precisely where he would choose to be, if given the choice.
But his exclusion from the phone tree, like most of the other exclusions in his life, had not been his choice, even if it was one of the less painful ones.
* * *
Zachary rose at 6:30 as always. He did his stretching, his exercises, and stretched again. He took a shower and dressed. He considered himself in the mirror: slim, average height, ordinary. Nothing to invite the torment he had once received. No more laughable clothes. No more hand-me-down shoes with flapping soles. No more “Aren’t Jews supposed to be rich?” comments.
But his face, well. He couldn’t look at it without hearing those voices more than a decade in the past. He couldn’t see his curly brown hair without hearing them say “Pubes.” Couldn’t look at his olive complexion without hearing “Where are you from and why don’t you go back there?” Couldn’t see his nose—which he was pretty sure was of an average size—without hearing the nickname that had begun in elementary school for reasons that were obvious but never made explicit: Captain Hook. The Jewish pirate.
His brown eyes were sharp, focused. The eyes of someone who got things done. Someone who looked at the past and said, “Bah.” No. Someone who didn’t even look.
Zachary had been told that he was nice-looking. He’d even been pretty sure the people who’d said it had meant what they’d said. But it didn’t matter. The words had entered him like fishhooks when his skin was thin, and his tender mind held on to everything. They were lodged beneath the surface now—they sat like tattoo ink, six layers deep.
And mostly he was fine with it. It wasn’t like looks were an important part of architecture. Mostly he didn’t think about it. But every morning, when he got dressed and combed his hair, he took one moment to look in the mirror and make sure that the kid who had drawn all those horrible comments was nowhere to be seen.
He tied his brown brogues and walked to the mailbox. He did this every morning. The United States Postal Service was the last bastion of infrastructure in a world crumbling from the inside out and he took comfort in its regularity.
He had multiple pen pals, subscribed to three architecture journals, four horror magazines, and Martha Stewart Living (shut up), and he enjoyed the anticipation of the walk to the curb, the slow opening of the mailbox, like unwrapping a present but without the waste of wrapping paper.
He pulled out the mail and was delighted to see a manila envelope from his favorite eBay store. He opened the envelope carefully and slid the vintage 1983 October issue of Fangoria out. He’d bought it for an interview with Vincent Price and John Carpenter’s article about the music of Halloween. It whispered Read me to him, but Zachary couldn’t indulge it until after work. It would be his reward.
There was also a fat envelope from Penelope, one of his pen pals.
It was a good mail day. Often, that meant it was going to be a good day all around.
“You work early, huh? Do you commute?”
The voice was unfamiliar and therefore immediately identifiable as the new neighbor’s. He was clearly not from Wyoming, given that he didn’t sound like he was from Wyoming and also that he thought 7:30 a.m. was early to go to work.
Zachary turned slowly.
The man—Bram; he knew his name was Bram—had the kind of messy blond-brown hair that Zachary associated with surfers or people who went to music festivals, but although Bram might not have been from Wyoming he looked like a lumberjack through and through, from the broad shoulders, muscular arms and chest, and the beard through which his white teeth gleamed in a smile.
“I work from home,” Zachary said.
“Ha-ha.” Bram’s smile lit up his bright blue eyes and made the faintest wrinkles around them.
Zachary frowned. What part of that could possibly have been interpreted as funny?
“I do.”
Bram faltered.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were joking cuz of...” His gesture encompassed Zachary’s whole body. “You really dress like that to work from home?”
“I’m a professional. I dress like a professional. Productivity has been proven to be affected by dress in those who work from home. Besides,” he added. “I have video meetings.”
Bram ran a hand through his hair. “You look nice. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just never imagined someone would dress like that unless they had to.” He winced at himself. “It just seems uncomfortable.”
“It’s not,” Zachary said simply, ignoring the rub of his right shoe against the thin skin at the back of his heel. They were just new and not quite worn in yet, that was all.
“Sure. Cool.”
But Bram kept standing there as if he expected something from Zachary.