Zak was having a bad day. The sky rumbled loudly, and rain incessantly poured like God’s himself was crying. The box in his hands was sopping wet and of course, falling apart. It was then that the sky chose to rumble, again. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered to no one in particular. Climbing up the stairs, Zak slipped. It was just his luck. And he slid hard, clipping his chin and nearly biting his tongue off. He should have expected all of the above; it was Berkeley after all. If you didn’t spit on the city, and show it who was boss; Zak knew it would chew him up and spit him out. 

Moving deliberately slowly, as to not further injure himself; he pulled himself up. He wanted to sit there in defeat, but his pride wouldn’t let him. He was a Ravenwood—but before that, he was his father’s son.  And Timberland Ravenwood was no quitter. Well, he was dead now—but that was beside the point.

Zak heaved his body up and dragged himself through the doorway, box in toe. He kicked the door closed and sat in his own despair for a few seconds more. Until he realized he couldn’t stand it anymore, that was. Then he needed a glass of orange juice. 

Normally he wouldn’t have drank from the carton—his mother’s training was still going strong. Nevertheless, once he got to the kitchen, Zak downed a few swigs; and reflected on all he had lost…and gained. His house was not quite a home yet just bare walls and boxes. It was nice, but not exactly the world he was from. The opulence of his last home was gone. And hopefully it would stay that way. 

Zac sighed. He had to pull himself out of that mindset; he didn’t want to be that guy. That was part of the reason he had left. After all, if he wanted the drama, he could have stayed in Seattle.

No mom to breathe down my neck; no crazies, paradise. It was only day one and as his grandmother had reminded him, “you gotta take it one day at a time, shug.” 

He wandered in to the only other room in his tiny apartment. Then he laid down on his lone mattress, and pulled the folded comforter to him. Turning on and pulling his laptop from the backpack beside his bed, Zak started clicking away. What did he want to do though? The sky outside rumbled, and gave him the inspiration he needed to write. Updating his blog after checking Facebook, he hoped would maybe give some direction. Sadly, the kids he had gone to school with were still that—kids. They had their petty arguments and their drama, and he had moved.

He pulled himself from that when he left and the struggle to put it behind him was constant. After all, if he wanted the drama, he wouldn’t have left. Drama seemed to always find him, Zak didn’t plan it. 

After typing a few strokes, the friendly blue backdrop of the blog website came to his screen. Then he started to type, losing himself in the craft that was now all that remained of the old him. Detailing the drive, and even the people he ran into in the gas station, sparing no expense for his followers, Zak wrote. Afterwards, he passed into the oblivion that is sleep.   

The morning that followed was beautiful; the sun broke through the window in a way that made Zak want to capture it forever. So, he sketched and after forty-five minutes, he had something to show for it. The scene looked great (as great as any artist allowed himself to believe his writing was). The whites cascading and the blacks, deep and full. The scene depicted light, shining into an entirely black room. If I were diagnosing someone, I say this were an image of depression. A call for help or something. He chuckled to himself.

Now that his morning had been started, Zak had no choice—he knew, than to let the day move along. After a deep sigh, Zak threw open the door and reluctantly walked down the hall and entered the bathroom. Although it was his favorite part of the morning, not many people—including Zak— looked at their morning shower with glee. 

It took a bit of time to figure out how the hell the shower knob worked, but once he got it; he stepped into the steam and welcomed the feel of the scalding water on his body. A lesser man would probably have screamed at the temperature, but Zakariyah Ravenwood did everything in extremes; it was just how he liked it.

After drying off, he whipped up some pancakes and an omelette. And as always, he burnt the pancakes. Sighing deeply and wishing for the thousandth time since he had moved out that he had learned to cook, Zak frowned at his misshapen creations. They weren’t that burnt this time, in fact they were probably the most edible he had ever made them. If only he was as good as his dad or even his mother was at making them.

“C’est La Vie.” 

He ate in silence, listening to the sounds of the world at his black marble island counter. He didn’t remember leaving the windows open, but surely he did. No wonder last night had felt like his apartment was an icebox. 

Returning back to his food, Zak, pushed away his plate before he was even halfway done. He opened the door in his boxers setting on a new direction. This, is definitely not my smartest idea.

The cold air rushed in, and he grabbed the New York Times and the Chronicle off the porch just as a gust licked his legs. He yelped like a kicked puppy. Then he unwrapped The Times from the plastic bag, and put the rubber band around his wrist as he began to read. 

He smiled as he navigated to the politics section and read an article he had covered and sent in a few days prior. 

‘Californian Politics in a Nutshell by Matthew Pace’, he smiled. 

Of course that wasn’t his name. Zak was a ghostwriter of a sort, and he loved it. The entire mystique of it fascinated him. While he knew he couldn’t keep up the “act” forever, he was in Berkeley, home of writers and actors alike. Whenever his internal voice asked And when you’re found out? He’d mutter, “Ask Abby kept it up for a while, why the hell can’t I?!”

Zak had stuff to do, even if “stuff” was only to put on pants and button up shirt, he needed to move. Grabbing his phone from the countertop, he tapped the music app, and put in his earbuds.

 He was planning to actually get some work accomplished today. Walking in to his room and retrieving his laptop to Kanye West’s Heartless; Zac began to write. His pseudonym, Matthew Pace didn’t exactly have deadlines, but he could always go digging for a project. He was a freelancer and a firm believer that there was always something to write about. However, the process was always slow, it came with the territory: full of mountainous highs and very deep lows. 

He had been surfing Wikipedia and CNN with at least a dozen tabs open , when the realization came that he had gotten nowhere in the hour since deciding work was going to get done. The glamorous life of a writer. 

Just as he sighed, his phone began to ring. Without looking at the caller ID he clicked his earbuds and answered the phone with a curt, “Yes”.    

“Zakariyah?”

Shit.

A cool voice filled the other side of the line. A voice that he dreaded, a voice that he almost hated. It had a melodic cadence that was almost attractive to the ear. Just from hearing a few words, one could tell that the owner of the voice was charismatic—dangerously so. 

It belonged to someone both schooled and skilled in the cutthroat world of business. The owner was ruthless, and you could tell by the lilt in the voice that dripped with venom. His heart began to thud as he hesitantly peeked at the phone’s display. Bianca Ravenwood, it screamed

“Hello mother,” he nearly whispered into the phone.

“So nice of you to pick up for once in six months. Nice to know my only heir is still alive.”

“That was kind of an accident”, Zac muttered. “Sorry for the delay, I’ve been kinda busy with the beginning of my life y’know?”

A small harrumphing noise sailed through the line as if to say “really now?” 

“And what, pray tell, have you accomplished Zakariyah? You know that your deadline is approaching don’t you?” Of course he knew. It was kinda hard to forget that in 93 days his mother was going to cut him off from the family fortune. That was kind of a big deal seeing as he’d been living off of it since he left home at two years earlier. The same year he graduated from the University of Washington at Seattle—which irked her to no end. After all it wasn’t private. 

“Believe me mother, I know.”

“And?” Bianca prompted for more information without actually doing so, a skill she had mastered.

“It’s being taken care of.”

She harrumphed again. 

“Zakariyah, RW’s been in our family since your father’s father started it after our land was stripped from us. It’s your birthright as a male Ravenwood—”

Now he was getting upset. Not many people could get under his skin the way she managed to, “Mother, as you damned well know— dad’s last name was Ravenwood. Yours is Kiyosaki…your claim to that last name is even less than your claim to the company.”

“I don’t want RW, mom. I don’t care if you plan to cut me out, you cut grandma out and she’s doing fine. You may think you have power over me but, at the end it’s my decision and I’ll do what I think is best.”

“—I’m only trying to do what is best for you Zakariyah.” He could hear her pursing her lips, attempting to mitigate the situation. “If you’d only come and consider—“

“Good bye mother,” he sighed as he hung up the phone. She still didn’t understand. After all these years, it seemed as though with her it was still about the money.

It wasn’t that Zak didn’t have his own money. After all, his grandfather had set a large sum aside for him, not to mention the fact that his mother had complete control of it, at until he was 25. So in a bank acquiring interest, it would probably sit until he was 25. 

That was fine with him, his check from the Times every two weeks was more than enough to keep him living comfortably for a long time. But only if he wrote, which seemed at the present time to be a pipe dream. 

He was frustrated and furious. Zak needed a walk. Rising from his chair, he opened the door and stared out at the beautiful scene painted before him. He lived on the edge of Berkeley; not far from the University. The grasses in the area were greener and fuller somehow than the ones in his hometown of Seattle. It was almost impossible to remain upset with all the beauty spread out before him. Zak paced into the yard, breathing deliberately to calm himself. Wet. That was his first thought as he descended the five stairs right into the grass. He looked at his feet…they were bare.

He stood and adjusted to the initial temperature and climate change around his feet. Then he went onward. Zak walked across the yard into the street—still barefoot— and approached the mailbox. Retrieving the mail, he took more deep breaths. He thought about everything except her, then rifled through the mail. Bill. Bill. Bill. What’s that?

It was an envelope. The words on the cover were handwritten and had a lilting style that made it apparent that effort went into its production. Zak tore it open with a finger and read the contents. Inside were two letters. The first letter was from his Agent, who explained that the second envelope was sent to her and she was “just passing it along, darling”. 

His agent, Emma S. Wong, was one of the few people who knew his actual identity as Matthew Pace—the only one, actually. She was a sweet woman, with a heart as big as was capable for a human to possess. 

Zak, don’t know if you’re interested in this event...but M.P. was named as an honored and requested guest. I know you’ve been trying to break out on your own, it might be just what you need kiddo. You know email is the quickest way to get me

—E. S. Wong

He pulled the second letter from the fold to read.

Mr. Matthew Pace, 

You are cordially invited to the 39th Annual San Francisco Humanitarian Society benefit gala. The public of San Francisco has diligently for the past 39 years chosen a topic of dialogue that will benefit the community. It is strongly encouraged that guests donate to help the cause. 

The letter then went on and detailed the locale and more of the snooty host’s history. At the bottom, it listed the current topic for this year: homelessness. It seemed as nice as any topic for an event in the city. 

Zak walked back to his house, absentmindedly flipping through the rest of his mail. His mind was thousands of miles ways when plopped back down at the countertop. 

Zak left the door open so that the breeze could blow in and hopefully give him some relief. For a day in Berkeley, in the beginning of October, it shouldn’t have been this hot. The newscasters had been calling it an “Indian Summer”, to which he took great mock offense for all of three minutes. Then  he got back to work, or rather the lack there of.

On his screen, the email tab was lit up. He clicked it and began to read. 

Hey, Zak. I could only get the number to the main office, but I’m sure you can make it work. The publishing house is one of the big 8 and it’s in San Francisco. Apollo Publishing, the proprietor is Victoria Dawson. Call ASAP, it’s a Tuesday at 11, she should be just about to go on lunch break, make it work. Talk to you soon, 

—Emma.

He saved the number at the bottom of the message into his phone. Then called it. Zak’s heart was racing in excitement. The line was ringing, and then it clicked over. 

“Victoria Dawson’s Office, how may I help you?”

He was in. “Um, yeah…  My name—“

“Please hold”, the voice on the other line said curtly.

Zak sat there in his kitchen and waited for what seemed like centuries. He sat  and stared at the cursor on his laptop for so long it seemed like it was enveloping his world. Just as he made the decision to call back later, he heard a click.

“Still there? How may I help you?”

“My name”, he started using the business tone his mother had ingrained into him, “Is Zakariyah Ravenwood, I’d like to submit a manuscript.”

“Mr. Ravenwood, I don’t know how you got this number but you can refer to our website for the address to send in manuscripts. Replies typically take between 3-5 weeks, and I can assure you Ms. Dawson reads very few personally.”

Zak was in shock. No one save his mother had ever brushed him to the side that quickly. He was losing ground and fast. “I don’t think you understand, so I’m going to repeat myself, I’m Zakariyah Ravenwood, Bianca Ravenwood’s son. I’m the heir to the RW business empire. I—“

“—Listen Mr. Ravenwood I don’t think you understand, Ms. Dawson is busy woman. She doesn’t have time to take calls from rich children who want to play writer. Submit your manuscript like everyone else and we will get back to you in 3-5 weeks. Because I feel compassionate today, I’ll let her know that you called. Have a nice day.”

Click.

That seven-minute exchange just determined the course of his life. That secretary just killed his dream. No, she had stabbed it and buried it in the backyard. He couldn’t believe even after the name drop she still didn’t care. 

Then the mental voice slapped him. He was too strong a person to let her hamstring him that easily. Navigating to the publishing house website, he planned a new course of action that had nothing to do with that belligerent assed secretary. What crawled up her ass and died?

The website was extremely modern and businessy. It was full of pure whites and deep blacks, and vibrantly coordinated colors. Zak clicked a few times until he got to a page that said, ‘Got an idea you want represented?’

Writing down the address listed, Zac typed an email to Emma. He updated her and let her know that he wasn’t giving up that easily. 

Zak stood and wandered about his kitchen, it wasn’t as if he had something to do or somewhere to be. He was kind of just, existing for now. Glancing down and around the kitchen he saw the letter for the gala again. Something about it attracted him. He picked it up and navigated to the website listed at the bottom. 

Zak was still unsure whether or not he wanted to attend but he felt like he should probably get some background on the event at the very least. The site had a huge banner at the top, proclaiming, “Sponsored by RW’s, Apollo Publishing, and Phantom Law.” And now he had an in.

Zak adjusted his messenger bag and looked into the mirror. I did pretty well for myself. He was wearing the only tuxedo he owned, it belonged to his dad. His shoes, black alligator skins, were the only ones his father ever wore. On his neck was a bowtie, and of course—it too was black. His hair was cut in a short fade that made him look slightly more militant than he actually was.  

He peeked within the messenger bag on his side and assured himself the manuscript was still there. Repeating his usual mantra of ‘glasses, wallet, phone’, Zak stepped out into the cool night. It was nearly seven o’clock, and he was just on time to be fashionably late. Emma had scheduled his car service and it was supposedly “always on time, so try not to be late, Zakariyah.” And it was—it had been sitting in the driveway of his building for a good fifteen minutes, when he finally decided to grace the driver with his presence. 

It was a town car and the interior was all leather. “Where to Sir”, the driver asked in accented English once Zak had strapped in. 

“The San Francisco Symphony on Van Ness.”

A thirty-minute ride (and several games of tetris) later; the driver—whose name Zak had learned was Dawud— pulled up to a beautiful white building. From the comfort of the car, Zak could see the sidewalk, filled with beautiful (read: rich) people bathed in black satins, and luminous whites. Their gowns glowed and their suits shimmered. Zak was particularly transfixed by a woman who he was sure was wearing a dress with diamonds studding it. Then, the car came to a halt and the woman, escorted by her date disappeared into the crowd.

Dawud opened the door as cold wind blew in even as Zak stepped out. The building before him was beautiful. It was an opulent white and seemed to glow with the promise of a night that was sure to be remembered. Zak certainly hoped so, it would be a shame for him to have come across the bridge for nothing. The building sounded like a pleasant roaring and classical music— even from the outside. The sides of the building were lined with giant plants encased in pots that conjured up images of twenty foot tall gardeners. 

Patting himself down and making sure he had his most important pacifiers, Zak made his way through the people on the street to meet the guards at the main gate. Along the side of the building, wound a staircase, and posted at the entrance were two well suited men—clearly security. 

“Ticket,” one guy asked.

Zak rummaged for a few minutes, then he held the slightly wrinkled letter out. The second guard studied the paper, and then nodded to his comrade to open the door.

“Welcome Mr. Pace.”

It was strange to be called that in public. Zak seldom had someone say it aloud, and all the people who knew of his alias were still in Seattle. He smiled and nodded his thanks before walking through the open door.  

Inside, the main room was huge. It was packed and even louder than the outside noise led him to believe. People of all shapes and sizes passed and brushed against him. The overhead lights— even dimmed, were in his eyes and all the bodies kinda made him uncomfortable. It was not exactly what he had expected, and yet he was exhilarated. He was also glad he put on deodorant, the hundred and fifty or so people in the room that milled about, generated a lot of heat. The last thing an enterprising young anything wants, is to smell like armpit when approaching important people. Zak had discovered long ago that leads only to being underestimated and spurned. And ruining your suit.

But, this was his element, where he thrived. Pushing past people, Zak moved towards one of the wide room’s walls and the table adjacent. 

Once he found the table, he surveyed the room for someone important he could badger. There was no sense in being anything but frank, and Zak was here for a reason. His mission, however could wait for him to get something to drink. It was damned hot. 

He wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed one of the plastic cups on the table. When the cool water ran down his throat, Zak found his thirst even less quenched, but he contented himself with waiting to see where the night would go.  

The music that played over the loud speaker abruptly changed to a more upbeat song. On the far side of the room, Zak saw a man who walked from somewhere offstage. He was caucasian— not exactly tall, but not short either. His hair was brown, and his face was lined as though he had spent too many hours in the office pouring over papers that didn’t really concern him. He wore a smile that couldn’t be anything other than a forced affair. 

“My name is Vincent Lake”, he paused for effect. Zak was surprised to hear a smattering of clapping around him. Vincent smiled charismatically, “And I am the coordinator for this year’s Humanitarian Society benefit. I hope we’re all having a good time?”

Zak rolled his eyes. This was a benefit for charity, for homelessness. And it seemed that it was going to be turned into another public relations endeavor by people who had too much money to care what happened to people who lived on the streets. Also, he hated it when people ended their sentences like they were questions; it was annoying.  The man’s voice was a bit higher than Zak was comfortable with, but he endured the speech for another five minutes before he glanced down at his phone. 

The gala had started at eight sharp, and Zak frowned upon realizing had only been there for thirty minutes. And yet boredom seems to be the order of the night. A deep sigh followed. He set his cup down, and searched frantically for something or someone to hold his rapidly shrinking attention. Sadly, he saw noting but nouveau riche in clusters chattering in hushed voices over Vincent and attentive blue bloods casting scornful glances and laughing in all the right places. Behind it all Vincent droned on, and on, and on.

He had to get out of there, the room was suffocating him. Zak grabbed a drink off passing waiter’s tray, and Zak inconspicuously started towards one of the glass panel doors. The carpet beneath him thudding, and blue bloods left in his wake, he took a gulp of air, and his drink, once he got outside. It was hard to pretend like he hadn’t escaped, but internally it was all he could do to not shout to the city stretched out before him. 

He sipped the rest of his drink and stared at the bottom of the glass in irritation. Oh, how old habits die hard, his brain seemed to whisper. So he whispered right back to it.

“I need a drink.”

He set the cup down, and sighed. Zak was a recovering alcoholic, and it was a steep, uphill, road. A replying sight to his left made him jump. And upon closer inspection he saw the woman sitting on the marble bench behind him. She was holding out a glass just like the one he set on the banister. He furrowed his brow and studied her in the moonlight. 

Her eyes were the first thing he noticed. They were the most beautiful color he’d ever seen. He couldn’t quite decide if they were violet, or—if it was the vodka he just chugged. The girl’s skin was a tone not quite white, but not dark enough for her to be considered anything other than mixed. With what, he wasn’t sure. Her light brown hair draped naked shoulders in loose ringlets, and the remainder was tied back with a pearl comb. The gown she wore was of some expensive fabric he didn’t know the name of, nevertheless it clung to her in all the right places—even sitting. She was tall, and he could tell that too. The girl shook her glass of what he hoped was scotch, again. 

“Are you going to take this, or should I continue pretending I wanted it in the first place?”

It was then Zak realized he had been staring. “Um, yeah thanks,” he took her drink and knocked it back. Yup, it was scotch, and expensive too. See, not an alcoholic at all, he thought. 

“Slow down tiger,” she said. 

Zak raised his brows even higher, “It’s not 1940 anymore, doll.”

She smiled lopsidedly, “I prefer Sarena anyway,” she extended her hand and picked up a cocktail that was waiting conveniently on the bench’s other side.

Who was this girl and could he marry her? 

“So, what’s got you so down that you had to seek the refuge of the adoring gentry out here,” he gestured to the empty balcony. The sounds of the city they overlooked punctuated the long silence between them. Small talk wasn’t exactly his specialty, but he wasn’t a doofus. Worrying he hit a nerve too hard, Zak opened his mouth to apologize.       

“— was either out here or in there. And I don’t really have any interest in what’s going on in there.” She wrinkled her nose in displeasure, “Its bad enough I have spend my week with her. I don’t relish giving up my weekends...” 

“How do you mean,” he asked gently.

“My boss takes me to these things a few times a year, its usually just guys hitting on me, and people trying to buy attention.” 

She was gazing up at the moon, and her eyes were glittering like purple gems set into a face of cream colored marble. It was only then that he realized her mascara was running down her cheeks in graceful lines. She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes.

“Your boss, does he—,“ he was getting a bit angry even thinking about it.

“—She, is kind of a harpy, and no she doesn’t.” Sarena interjected.

That still didn’t explain why she was crying. He was having just as bad a night as her, but that was mostly a product of his own lack of initiative.

“I see…don’t people usually come to these things with dates,” he hedged.

Sarena made a harrumph as if to say ‘look at the pot speaking to the kettle.’

“He went off to hit on one of the waiters…I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you.”

Ouch. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done the same thing before, but he had never walked out with someone else. That was pretty douchey, and Zakariyah Ravenwood was a lot of things, but a douchebag wasn’t one of them. It had to suck, losing your man to...his man. So Zak did the only sensible thing, he sat down next to her. And he let her sit in the silence, it wasn’t his place, he knew, to say anything—there wasn’t really anything he could say. 

Sarena never shook, never sobbed. She just continued to gaze up at the sky while more tears ran down her cheeks.

“We were together for six months…I though he was the one,” she said, voice never wavering.

“I’ve been there.” They stared up at the full moon for another five minutes until he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. He guided her face downward so that her eyes rested on his, and surprisingly she didn’t resist. 

“Hey, its a Saturday; don’t cry.” He raised his glass, to her cocktail, “cheers?”

She patted her eyes and chuckled—her voice rattling. She knocked back her cocktail and set the glass down on the floor, then furtively met his gaze. “Who are you?”

He smiled. “My name is Zakariyah Ravenwood.”

She smiled even harder and shook her head. “Of course it is, you’ll probably be wanting this then…” Sarena dug around in her purse and pulled out a checkered business card and tossed it down in his lap.

Sarena Brasswell

Executive Assistant to Victoria Dawson

Apollo Publishing group

He did a double take. “I see.”

“I should get back inside,” she said before rising ceremonially and making her way back through the glass doors. She didn’t even look back once, and through the crowd, she disappeared.