by Matthew Shepherd
It was snowing when Lafayette left his office.
His hat was still on the kitchen counter, he realized, watching news pages scamper through the tumbling flakes. Snow was uncommon in early November, and Lafayette could swear that it was too cold for it. A passing flurry, surely. Five minutes at the most.
Ten minutes later drifting flakes were consolidating into white walls. The little light the sun eked through the clouds was waning. Lafayette flipped his collar up and took a decisive step into the wind. He tried not to grimace as a flake found its way to his neck, becoming an infinitesimal drop of frozen water edging down his spine. He hugged his coat tighter around him and seized the front of his collar, knowing it made no difference but doing it out of deference. It was what one did; a function foolish middle-aged men performed when they were left without hats a ten-minute walk from the train in a blizzard. They gripped their collars and the fronts of their coats. That was how they recognized each other. Lafayette saw a bald man walking towards him through the sheets, stout and slightly bent, no hat, clutching his front and collar. He attempted a stoic, friendly, we’re all in this together my hatless brother smile, to be greeted by a silent snarl.
As he walked, Lafayette tried to calculate the time it would take the snow to reach his scalp. Would it cap on his head, or filter through his hair? More flakes had drifted under his collar, and the back of his neck was growing damp. For the snow not to melt, his hair would have to keep all the heat in, like insulation. For the snow not to dissolve at all, there would have to be very little heat coming off Lafayette’s head, which was unlikely. Unless he was dead. Lafayette tightened his grip on the front of his coat and walked faster.
Lafayette worked in an old building in the industrial section of the city. He was to the best of his knowledge not yet dead, but often felt like it, sitting in his cubicle running over figures with a Bic pen: red, medium point, clear stalk, no cap. He worked alone, finding fresh books in his cubicle every morning and leaving them at night. He had never met his supervisor, but functioned on the assumption that his work was satisfactory. Nobody had complained. His first few weeks on the job, he had fretted over how the person or persons who picked up the books would know they were done. To prevent errors, he had devised a system. If a book was unfinished, he would leave it face down with the Bic pen on top. If it were finished it would be placed face up on his desk with no pen at all. Those books were invariably taken; the books he wanted left, were left. From time to time, Lafayette would look in other cubicles on his way out of the office to see if other workers had adopted the system. Every time he saw a red pen on a face-down book, he would nod gravely. The Lafayette System worked, and every cubicle had eventually subscribed to its ineffable logic.
On the street, snow filtering into his hair and melting (for he was, indeed, not dead) Lafayette smiled. His fellow employees could be damned. He didn’t need their friendship, their companionship. He was an innovator. He had created the Lafayette System, leaving no question as to which books were finished and which not, a hallmark of efficiency and organization.
Lafayette slowed as he came to a corner and reached to support himself against a lamppost. His breath steamed in the chill air. Too much exertion, this striding. He could feel the heat pounding in his temples and the snow, melting. And there was something else, a subtle bell tingling in the back of his mind. He began to replay his walk out of the office, mentally retracing his steps. His cubicle, yes, and the one across, and the one next to it, and Bertrand’s cubicle before he died, yes, all using The Lafayette System. By the stairs, though – by the stairs, one of the cubicles that had always been empty before – had there not been books in it? He hadn’t really looked, rushing as he was to get out of the building, but now that he thought back… waiting ten minutes for the snow to stop, damn foolish…
…had there not been books in that cubicle? Lafayette squinted his mind’s eye. Yes. There had. Ledger books, accountant’s books, turned – turned – Lafayette gripped the lamp post, dizzy, oblivious of the glowing white man dictating ‘walk’ – face side up. And was the pen red, or black? There was no way of telling. He fought the urge to turn and run back, bolt up the stairs, look and see for himself. No. He should go home, have a cup of tea, put his feet up, read the paper, think about dinner. The new cubicle would fall into line. The Lafayette System would prevail. Looking up to cross, he saw the flashing orange hand demanding he stay. He steadied himself and waited for the light to change. A trickle of frigid water ran down from his scalp into his ear. He worried at it with his finger, forcing the water further in. Lafayette glanced over to see a young woman, also waiting for the light. He realized how he must look, hunched over and clutching the front of his overcoat, jabbing at his ear. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the coat and lowered his finger away from his head. The young woman was pointedly ignoring him. Lafayette was overwhelmed by the chivalrous urge to comfort. He leaned closer.
“I’m not mad, you know,” he said, his friendliest toothy smile turning into a grimace as a drop of ice water slid down the back of his neck. “I have a system. It’s very popular around the office.”
The young woman smiled back at him. “Fuck you,” she said, and crossed against the light. Lafayette watched her walk away. No respect, that was the problem. Young people had no respect these days, for their elders or their systems…
Good Lord. Lafayette watched the white figure of a man flash on. It meant something, but his mind was fuzzed with panic. This cubicle by the stairs – what could it be but some whelp from upstairs, moved down to a promotion with the Old Boys? Lafayette’s floor had been changeless for twelve years. His system had time to flourish in a closed environment, but now… a new person on the floor, a young person with flashy ideas about how things should be done, ideas involving coloured pens and Post-It notes and God forbid, computers…
Walk. The white man was telling him to walk. Lafayette began to cross the street, his mind racing as more cold water danced down his neck. It would be hard to attach the new man to the Lafayette System. He would have his own ideas, young thoughts, pomp and circumstance and sound and fury. But the Lafayette System still worked, was still brilliant in its simplicity, universally adaptable and revered. So what if some young fool chose to ignore it? He would come around, once he saw how everyone else used the Lafayette System. Unless, of course, they preferred his.
Lafayette was transfixed by a flashing orange hand. He was standing in the middle of the street, gazing raptly at it blinking on and off. A car was honking, insistent, angry. Could it be possible for The Lafayette System to be rousted by a green stripling? The car horn was a persistent bleat in the periphery of Lafayette’s consciousness. The new boy would woo them – Blake, Junko, Harries – woo them with personal organizers and highlighters and how they’re doing it upstairs these days. Bastard. They might take his system to spite him. The car kept honking. Lafayette felt his blood rise. Blake had it in for him. Always ‘borrowing’ his pens. Junko would do whatever Harries was doing – and Harries had always resented the Lafayette System. Every day at work Lafayette would see Harries with dark circles under his eyes and know that Harries had spent another long night trying to come up with a better way. Harries would take a new system to spite him. Junko would follow, and before you know it the floor would be riddled with Post-It notes saying ‘DONE’ and ‘IN PROGRESS’ and would that damn car stop honking!
Lafayette turned to face the car. The car’s owner, a young man wearing a baseball cap the wrong way, was mouthing gaping obscenities behind the windshield. Lafayette started pounding his fists on the hood. Drops of water, snow melted by the heat of the engine, jumped up and down. The metal made a satisfying noise as it flexed and shuddered under Lafayette’s fists. “I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS CHAOS!” Lafayette had a dim sense that something was wrong, but couldn’t put his finger on it. He was standing against disorder, against flurrying Post-It notes and honking horns and upstarts with a ‘better way.’ He kept hitting the hood, screaming, feeling vital and alive despite dizziness and cold water running down his neck. “I HAVE A SYSTEM!” He could see fear in the driver’s eyes. “I HAVE A SYSTEM!” The water leapt rhythmically, in order and accordance with his hands, pounding dents into the car. “I HAVE -”
The car jerked forward, hitting Lafayette and throwing him backwards. His head struck the curb: there was a cracking noise, a bat hitting wrapped china. Lafayette smiled, watching the snow fall towards him. He could feel them settling on his face and melting. He couldn’t feel much else.
“Shit!” Somewhere out of vision, a car door slammed. “I meant reverse, I meant – oh, shit!” The driver’s face filled Lafayette’s view. “Are you all right?” The young man looked around, head jerking.
Lafayette’s arm fluttered up and grabbed the young man by the leg, surprising both of them. The man looked down, his face a white moon of fear. Lafayette tried to smile. The boy was scared. That was enough.
“Your problem,” Lafayette began. Then he stopped. The youth pried Lafayette’s hand off his leg and laid his arm back down.
“You say something, man? Just take it easy.” The young man knelt down next to him and put his ear to Lafayette’s mouth. Lafayette felt nothing, but remembered what he was going to say.
“Your problem is chaos, young man. Honking. Yelling.” Lafayette squinted. “Your hat is on backwards. You need…”
“Take it easy. Don’t try to talk. Just –”
Lafayette felt hazy, but pleasant. “You need a system. Red pen on top. Book face down. Remember.”
“Sure, man. Sure.” The youth stood up and looked around again, his head darting back and forth. The street was empty. The young man walked away, Lafayette heard his car door open and slam. The car drove away. Silence wrapped Lafayette in sweet tranquility.
Lafayette lay with his head against the curb. Satisfaction warmed him. The young man was scared. He would respect order, systems. Order was addictive, Lafayette knew that. In time, his System might reach the newcomer; might even convert the whole company.
Lafayette sighed, deeply, contentedly. As he exhaled, he saw two or three snowflakes drift aside. He inhaled again and blew, weaker, but more direct. A snowflake in the path of his breath was forced off to the side. Lafayette snickered. Even snow, even this flurry of meticulous chaos, could be affected by him, could be tamed, could be ordered. He drew another breath, blew it out, and watched another snowflake drift according to his wishes.
Some time later, he stopped breathing.
The snow continued to fall, blanketing the city in white. Stark. Cold. Orderly.
