Vigilante

2, Henry Lafayette

The dry whisper-rustling of hardbound books soothes Henry Lafayette's senses, as he walks into the bookstore. Quiet murmurs overarch the towering bookshelves, as the scent of fresh-brewed coffee glides through the air from the in-store cafe, and Lafayette emits a breathy sigh.

—Here it goes again, the blond-haired man mutters to himself, heaving another languishing exhale.

Henry signs in and greets his boss, a balding man who's also very conveniently the manager of the hideaway establishment, nesting the business that is Henry's savior and demise. The man, Mr. Picardeau (affectionately christened Prickardeau by his subordinates) reminds Henry about the new shipments that need to be shelved, because of course the younger of the two didn't notice the massive stack of boxes near the loading docks that had seemingly magically appeared.

Lafayette mock-salutes the blue-collared brute, who's sitting in his cushy leather chair and counting the money that his lackeys make slaving under him. Yes, the man was unnecessarily cruel, and yes, he consistently hit on the younger women working alongside Henry, but the job paid well and the young man couldn't afford the loss if he quit or reported the manager. And anyways, most of Pricker's flirtations were just that - he only meant a little bit of uncondoned mischief.

Henry reaches the worker's breakroom, and almost instantly, an arm is slung around his shoulder and a voice begins to prattle away into his ear.

—Hello, my fellow working man!

—Leslie, you're a woman.

—Doesn't change anything. I'm still hella lazy and hella quitting this shitty place tonight.

—Must you complain like this every morning?

—Relax and stop talking like you're from the Ice Age, Henry-o. What, did Pricker shove his thing up there already? I know you're gay and all, but to go for him? Really? It must've been bigger than I thought if—

Henry sputters and interrupts her before she can finish the blasted sentence.

—Jesus, what is with you and dicks? You're like forty!

—Why, o Henry, I'm not Jesus, but lovely of you to presume so.

Henry throws his hands up into the air before tossing his backpack into his designated locker. He takes a moment to admire the one picture he has pinned to the door of the storage unit; taken eons ago, it depicted his college friends after a night of drinking. In fancy clothes and with red-eye from the camera, the characters in the image seem to stare accusingly through the blond, smiling all the while. He kept the tattered print as a reminder of the happiest time in his life.

—C'mon, Leslie, we have to go unload the new shipments, Henry grumbles to his coworker. Leslie was a quirky red-headed-shot-with-gray woman with two young children and a loving husband; she often forced Henry to eat dinner with them, and if Henry were honest with himself, he would say that he enjoyed it. It had been too long since he had sat down at a family table with people who resembled parents; most of the time, he was alone and dining from a cheap take-out carton, hunched in front of his shit-ass cracked-screen laptop, searching for new opportunities to escape from the mutinous rhythm of a lonely life.

Henry hears Leslie swear behind him.

—I'm on my break, man, can't this wait?

—You literally got here fifteen minutes ago and you're already on a break?

—Yeah, you don't do that? The tall woman reaches into her back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a flask.

—Are you seriously already drinking, Henry monotones.

—You know it, honey. Want some? It's the good stuff. Leslie gestures sloppily towards him with the flask, and Henry rolls his eyes, before snatching the container and downing it.

Henry's packing up his bag, and he's almost home free, he's heading towards the front doors, he just has to pass by Pricker's office, which is going to be pretty damn hard because his wall is all windows and overlooks the entire bookstore but maybe he can just sneak past and-

—Mr. Lafayette!

God damn it.

—Yes, Mr. Prick-Mr. Picardeau?

—Could we talk for a couple of minutes?

Henry checks his watch; it's 5:30, and he'd like to leave, but he's pretty damn sure that his sleazy boss would fire him if he didn't obey. The young man heads into Pricker's room, casting one last longing look at the sun hanging low through the floor-to-ceiling display windows that offer his escape. He'd like to go home, wallow in self-pity a bit.

—Sit down, Lafayette. The man isn't smiling.

—Sir, am I in some kind of trouble? Henry starts to panic now; he can't lose the only source of income he'll ever get; his lack of a college degree would land him on the streets again in no time.

Pricker laces his hands, clears his throat, and crosses his legs, prolonging the time that Henry stares, terrified of the words that may come after the cursory glare that Picardeau just shot his now-wrinkled uniform. Then, he hears raspy laughter from his boss.

—Ha, I got you good, didn't I? The bastard wheezes, his balding head turning ruddy as he gasps for breath. You really thought I was going to fire you or something!

Lafayette waits patiently for the man to finish his laugh attack, plotting ways to kill the fucker in his sleep all the while.

Eventually, Pricker continues.

—So, Henry, the reason why I invited you here was to offer a proposition to you.

Henry's only going to take the offer if it gives him more money, less hours, or both.

—As you know, the annual Moth Ball is coming up this weekend. I have to attend, as the manager of the most influential literary business in New York. I'd like you to come with me.

Hell to the no, Henry thinks to himself. First of all, weekends. Second of all, with Pricker? He'd rather feed his dick to a chicken.

—Of course, Mr. Lafayette, you would be paid overtime, and even after that, there's a generous bonus. All you would need to do is stay with me and look good, which shouldn't be that hard. Picardeau gestures to Henry's fit body, snickering at his own joke.

Well. There's lots of money involved. And if all he has to do is be eye candy, it can't be that hard. Henry tilts his head, considering the cons.

What were the cons? He wouldn't be able to sleep his lazy-fucking-ass off the entire day. That was pretty much it.

—I'll think on it and let you know tomorrow, Mr. Pr-Picardeau. Henry reasons that he might be able to make a few connections and leave this hellhole, maybe take Leslie with him.

And so, Henry Lafayette leaves his workplace with a new plan to waste some time over the weekend; he still has three more days to kill until then, but it's a start.