He wears his day glow orange cap. It is a warning to all those who approach. I am here. Do not shoot, stab, run over, douse in gasoline and set alight, drop, confuse with wild game, or otherwise maim, disfigure, or injure.
And otherwise, a dark brown suit, white shirt, cream colored necktie, polished—but not shiny—brown penny loafers, sans penny. The breath he takes before speaking is uniform, deliberate, deep, and has a certain air to those who hear it often of a small, frightened field mouse—for whom a passing cloud may as well be the wing of a circling hawk casting a shadow over his swiftly beating, tiny mouse’s heart.
It has been a few years since anyone has called him Jack. His landlord calls him Thomas. Down at the deli, he is Mr. Singer. In the lobby of the Georgian Hotel, where he has been witnessed holding quiet meetings and unclasping his briefcase to allow just a peek inside, here he is known as Mr. Martin Fletcher. He is in possession of many other monikers as well. But the one which no one now calls him is Jack. It is what leads us to conclude that this must be his real name. For a man with many names, the only one he won’t suffer is his own.
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