And Laughter Followed in His Footsteps

1.

George was standing in the doorway glaring at us with puffy red eyes and for a few seconds we all sat quiet and ashamed, like children caught playing rough at preschool, it wouldn't last though. He stood there while we waited quietly at our desks till he seemed to come to some decision and edged his way in. Without saying a word or looking any of us in the face he walked the gauntlet of two rows of facing desk till he reached his own desk at the back of the office pressed nearly against one of the teal filing cabinets lining the pastel blue walls. Behind the desk again he stared at the computer screen and started working his way through the paperwork, playing with the numbers and feeding them into the computer as he ignored the rest of the world in general, and us in particular.

He was a funny little man, George, with his fat round body and long simian arms covered in thick patches of yellow hair. It wasn't that George himself was funny, he couldn't tell a joke if he wanted, which he wouldn't, there was just something about him that made us laugh. We loved him for it, but he hated it, and probably hated us as well, though he'd never admit it. We didn't mean to. You should never think we meant for it to get that bad, at least not at the start. There was just something about fat little George, with his blotchy red face and thinning yellow hair.

He was always trying to act so serious, always trying to act so earnest, and when we laughed, you could see in his face how ashamed he was, how hurt; he'd go red, his ears almost purple, his whole jaw would clench, and his body would shake, slightly, almost shivering. When he got like that and tried to speak his voice came out high pitched and squeaky. We'd hear that tiny voice and we'd just laugh harder. We couldn't help it, and George would go so red it seemed like his head was either going to pop. We never meant for it to get that bad, but we couldn't help but laughing.

We did try, at least at the beginning, but anytime one of us would laugh George would spin around from the water-cooler, or his desk and stack of papers, staring across the room, sure it was about him, even though it hardly ever was, at first. His jaw would be clenched and his eyes bulging as his face went pink, then red, then redder. We'd see that face and how could we help but laugh, so hard we could barely breathe, and George would give this closed mouth scream, like an elephant crying charge. He'd bolt out of his chair and head for the door, running the gauntlet between our two rows of desks, while we sat there and laughed.

George would storm past, red and going purple, and we'd just laugh harder. He'd would shove the door open and march out into the hall with his back stiff. And we'd be laughing even harder, hard enough to almost cry; and our laughter would follow in his footsteps down the hall, to the elevator, and through the lobby where he'd rush past the same wrinkled security guard who was always there, watching. He'd go out to the parking lot and into his car where he rolled up his windows to keep the laughter out, but it would sit outside like a dog, loyal and patient.

For an hour he'd sit there trying to wait it out or maybe going to grab lunch at one of the local dives where everybody, even the fry cooks, were probably sniggering at him behind their napkins. There was just something about him, wherever he went, he was the funniest man in the room. He was George, he was the best of us. George was in his niche and there was no getting out, but he never needed to worry about losing his job, or getting transfered, and he'd never quit, because who would hire him, the funny little man that was getting older. Not old, but older. We knew he'd always be ours, unless something extraordinary happened

2.

We tried, we really tried. But any little giggle would get him going red, any little giggle no matter what it was at and it got to be a game for us, and everyone in the office took turns going first. Maybe even George played, sometimes it seemed like he started going red even before any of us could make a peep, like he had hypersensitive ears. It would start first thing in the mornings, sometimes it would be Jerry, one desk over, or maybe Cindy on her way to water-cooler next to George's desk. Maybe it would even be me at my own little filing cabinet lined desk and stack of papers next to the door; it had been me that morning.

It had been a little laugh at first, something small enough to hide behind a hand or cough, but he knew. His face had started going peach, and he started feeding in numbers faster. We watched, his fingers moving in a blur, his ears twitching at the smallest sound, and we had smiled looking back and forth between each other like vultures surrounding a corpse. There was another little laugh and his typing was even faster as his ears went red. Another, louder now, not even hiding. His jaw clenched and he pounded the keys even faster, our smiles stretched a few more centimeters across. At his best you barely saw George's hands at all, you just heard them, hitting the keys, heavy like rain outside the windows.

We didn't want him to catch us staring though, somehow we knew that that would ruin the fun, so we used long sweeps of the room that took everything in to watch. The teal filing cabinets, the plastic trees, the bushes, and the motivational posters that still managed to promote company loyalty lining the pastel blue walls. George typing at his desk with beads of sweat on his face. We could always tell when he was almost done by this slight grin he got every time, then we really started laughing, all of us together, deep-throated belly laughs that started at one end of the room and spread out till they encompassed everything.

Grinding his teeth, George logged out of the network after feeding in the last data. He grabbed his brown leather bag, an old beat-up carry-all that might have been his father's or his grandfather's before him, someone who had the same type of little job and was probably laughed at by a thousand different people everyday too. He'd grab his antique leather bag and flip it open, stuff it full of all the papers he could do at the diner or sitting in his car. In an almost fevered rush he'd throw all his things together, fishing his keys out of his left pocket, never the right, while he waited for the computer to shut down. Looking at him you almost heard the mantra he was chanting inside his head: come on, come on, come on. And we sat behind our desks, smug and fascinated, laughing so hard there were tears in our eyes.

He had run the gauntlet between our desks with his shoulders slumped, a beaten man with barely enough strength to push the door open by the time he reached the end. Outside, in the white tile hall, our laughter followed in the echo of his footsteps to the elevator, or the stairs if he couldn't wait for the lift to reach our floor, and through the lobby, past the same security guard who was always sitting there staring straight ahead. It would still be following him when he came back at the end of an hour, we could hear its echo, and it had made us smile.

When he finally went home it would go with him, buckled up beside him for the ride down the highway, to the turn-off, and down his neighborhood streets to his apartment, or his mother's house, or wherever else he might live, and the other tenants, or his mother, or even his pet goldfish, Tuna, all probably heard it and started laughing too. He was such a funny little man, with his red puffy eyes, and long hairy arms. He tried to be so serious, but that just made it funnier. He was George and there was absolutely nothing he could have done to change that, and absolutely nothing he had ever done to deserve it either.

The announcement came that afternoon. Our Supervisor was dead and the Company had decided to promote someone from our office instead of looking outside the Company. George was the only one who cared, he stood up from his desk right after the intercom started to fade and marched straight down to the Boss's office and demanded to be considered for the post. He demanded to be considered. All he really wanted was the private office where he could be alone with his computer and stack of papers, safe from us.

Afterward nothing seemed to bother him, because he knew he was getting out, he actually went home whistling, I never knew George could whistle. He didn't even turn red when we laughed anymore so we all but stopped. Pretty soon the fun had gone out of it. A week passed, and the next, before we got a memo from the floors above us saying the announcement would be next day and the Boss himself would be coming down. Not the Big Boss, but the little one, the one who ran our department and assigned our work, or at least told the Supervisor what to assign.

3.

The next day George came to work in a suit and tie; a dark pinstripe suit that had dust and cobwebs hanging off it where George had missed a spot brushing it down. It was made for someone taller--you could see the pants bunching up around his ankles. The waist was let out, but the jacket fit perfectly and had bright bronze cuff links that George would reach over and polish with his opposite hand as he waited. George sat at his desk for hours trying to get comfortable in that suit, shifting forward, leaning back like he had never worn a suit except once or twice for a funeral. He didn't do any work, George never even turned on the computer screen, he didn't want to risk getting caught by surprise in the middle of a form he'd have to finish.

Eleven was our lunch break and the Boss still hadn't come. One by one we trickled out and headed to get Chinese or burgers down the street somewhere. George never left his desk, shifting forward, leaning back. He'd look at the clock every couple of minutes.

Around twelve we started coming back. Even Cindy, who was usually the last one back, was there by twelve thirty, straightening her dress as she walked in, pausing at her desk to put on fresh lipstick. Cindy could take two hours for lunch even though she never left the building. She saw a man two floors up, he had a wife. I knew because she had dragged me into the copy room at the last Christmas party, drunk, and then started to tell me all about it while she did a strip tease. Before she finished she was crying, and I had to leave.

At one the door opened.

4.

The Boss was young, late twenties, a few weeks into his thirties. He had a predatory face and one of those smiles that creeped into his eyes. His business suit was black and well tailored. George's face went pink for the first time in a week. The only splash of color to the Boss was his blond hair and his power tie, an ugly wedge of cloth with blobs of red, and green, and blue acrylic paint poured over it in shallow puddles. Except for the tie he had all the makings of a corporate lynx. His smile was pleasant too, as long as you didn't look too hard and see what he was thinking. He'd get far once he picked out a better tie. He knew it, and so did we. He'd be here another week, two, a month and someone else would take his place. That was the way it worked. We were just a stop on the corporate ladder going up or down.

He let us stare at him for a few seconds before walking in, taking long steps to the center. He cleared his throat to break the silence. It was the first time I had taken part in an awed silence, but it was also the first time one of the Bosses had come down in person. We were all looking at him but he gave a glance around to make sure as he reached up to adjust his tie flashing his college ring. It looked like something Ivy League; Princeton, Yale, but it could have been from the University of Alabama for all I knew. He was the first person I ever saw who wore his class ring. I had a ring from high school I kept in a nightstand at home.

"As you all know," he began. "We've recently had a position in lower management open up, and we, the Company, have decided it would be best to fill that position with someone who already knows his way down here.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head in agreement. "Someone who knows all of you and has shown us the potential to keep things running along smoothly." George was swelling up in his seat. The rest of us sat quiet. "We've been keeping a watchful eye down here and we, the Company, are pleased with you all and think any one of you could and would make a great Supervisor, but, surprisingly, only three of you filled out the applications. Maybe that's for the best since, unfortunately, only one position is available."

"All three who did apply, did extremely well though. George, Stanley, Walter, if you would stand up. I want everyone to give these men a hand." We clapped. I was surprised there were so many, everyone knew George deserved the job. Stanley probably just did it for something to do, I didn't know about Walter, he was new.

Stanley was a lot like George, except he managed to not be funny at all. He had worked for the company as long as George and his hair was going gray. He was a quiet man, at least at work. I saw him once on the outside when I wandered into the park during the weekend. He was playing chess alone while some kids, who might have been his grandchildren, played on the swing set. He was playing a losing game.

Walter was a different type altogether; young, barely in his twenties and only with us for six months. He still had trouble making copies. He said he was taking a break from college but it was more than that, it always is. He looked like he belonged in a frat house rather than behind a desk. He had that same predatory look the Boss did, just rougher around the edges, less intelligent, less controlled.

He was the type to work his way up to middle management and stay there his whole life, a small-scale office dictator. Maybe at the end of his career he'd manage to reach the borders of upper management, but probably not. Either way he wouldn't be going back to college, his type never do.

5.

The Boss cleared his throat again and we stopped clapping. He smiled again showing off his perfect, pearly teeth. "All three of them did extremely well. Stanley here," he pointed at Stanley. "Surprised us all with his verbal scores, and George," he pointed at George who beamed--there aren't many people older than ten who can beam like he did. He couldn't have been happier if the teacher was handing out gold stars and candy. "Well, George, he got one of the highest scores from anywhere in the Company."

The Boss continued. "But not everything is in test scores. While we, the Company, were all very impressed by your performances, we, the Company, feel you're both too vital to replace at the present moment. But, we will keep you in mind for any future positions when we can spare you." George seemed to deflate, his shoulders collapsed in and sagged. The Boss was all smiles.

"If you two would please return to your seats," he said dismissing them from mind as he turned to Walter standing at his desk next to the door. Stanley hurried back down into his seat, he seemed relieved. George stayed standing, staring at something on the floor.

The Boss was at Walter's desk shaking his hand and giving congratulations. We could see it already, Walter was the Supervisor, we could smell it on him. It was probably why Walter was hired in the first place, he certainly wasn't any good in the office. The two of them laughed together at some private joke like frat buddies.

The Boss turned around and saw George still standing behind his desk and his smile slid off. "George," he said softly. "Please take a seat so Walter can say a few words." George, still staring at the carpet, ignored him.

"George," The Boss said slowly, like he was practicing the pronunciation. Still George didn't respond. The Boss was getting impatient, a hooded look in his eyes and a subtle clench to his jaw. Anyone else would have been fired but George was too valuable to the company. More valuable than the little boss was. Walter nervously edged out from behind his desk and leaned against the wall by the door behind him. The Boss drew in a deep breath flaring his nostrils and puffing out his chest.

"George!" he barked, sharp and loud enough that everyone jumped a little in their chairs. George looked up surprised and confused, utterly lost. Seeing that face the Boss shook his head and sighed, "George, please take your seat so Walter can say a few words."

George stared at him instead of sitting down. "That job should have been mine," he said. His voice sounded hurt but it wasn't the squeaky mouse voice we knew like an old friend, it was something else.

"George..."

"No," George slammed his fist against his desk top and stood up the straightest anyone in the office had ever seen him. "That job belongs to me. I had the highest score. I've worked here for twelve years. I'm the best worker you have. I deserve to be Supervisor. Not him. Not some kid who doesn't even know how to fill out the paperwork." His face was screwed up in disbelief and disgust and he said it again shaking his head, "No."

Everyone else was silent, awed for the second time in one day. The Boss licked his lips, "Now, George, be reasonable..."

"No! I deserve this and you give it to him. Why?" George looked like he could cry. Drilling the boss with his eyes he asked again in a lower, almost broken voice, "Why?"

The Boss shook his head and sighed, "George, you're just not suited for management. Walter is. He's young, he's fresh, he has a bright future ahead of him with the Company."

"How do you know that? How do you know Walter's suited for management and I'm not. I'm as good as he is, I'm better. What did he score on the test? Huh? What did he score that makes him so special that you pass me and Stanley up."

"George, calm down," the Boss said raising his hands and putting them out in front of him, palms up in a non-confrontational pose.

George was having none of it. "Tell me why. Why him? Why am I not good enough, but he is? Tell me!"

"Because look at you George! Look at yourself in a goddamn mirror. Look at yourself in that, goddamn, suit. Take a closer look. Do you think anybody's going to be taking orders from you?" The Boss' face was twisted up, his forehead knotted, his lips pulled back in an angry sneer. The Boss gave a shallow little half laugh, then let his face go back to it's pleasant mask. "Don't be ridiculous, George," he said shaking his head softly.

"You're good at your job, and you don't have to worry about losing it. It's always going to be here, but you're reaching too far for this." The Boss took a look around the room, trying to find support. "Can any of you imagine taking orders from George? Can any of you?" he asked.

Behind him Walter snorted, and it caught on. Cindy behind her desk and collection of pink haired trolls started to giggle. She put a hand over her mouth to try and stop it for a second, like she was ashamed, but then she let her hand drop and she laughed loud. It spread across the room and seemed to beat against George making him crumple back to his former slouch while the Boss shook his head and looked away. I would have laughed too, but my throat was sore and it hurt too much. I think Stanley must have had a sore throat too because I saw him behind his desk laughing, and he had tears in his eyes. He was crying.

"George, please take your seat," the Boss said raising his voice over the laughter. George's face was going red, his ears purple. His jaw clenched and when he looked up his eyes were bulging and his whole body was quivering. Without saying a word he marched the gauntlet to the door. Walter reached over and flipped the deadbolt, I didn't think anything about it.

The Boss got out of George's way leaning back over Walter's desk as George marched forward. George got to the door and tried to push it open but it wouldn't move. Furious he jerked the door knob back and forth while he gave his close-mouthed scream sounding charge.

He threw himself against it in a body check with a wet, meaty thud. There was no way he was going to force it open, a steel door, in a metal frame, in a concrete wall, but he threw himself against it again, screaming like a bull elephant. Again, he bounced off. And again. He threw himself against the door again so hard his head whipped forward against the door and split his eye open, blood started drippings on the floor. And again. There was a star of blood where his head hit the door a second time.

And again, and again, and again till he was kneeling on his knees in front of the door crying while all around him everyone laughed. He wouldn't stop. He pounded against the door with his fists, battering it over and over like any second he would beat it down. Again and again, till his fists were bloody ruins and still he kept pounding while everyone watched and laughed.

I couldn't.

When all he could do was curl up in a fetal ball and cry the Boss edged around him, his face pale, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and looked down at George with what might have been real pity. "Go home George," was all he said as he held the door open. George stared up at him and somehow understood. He crawled on his hands and knees out of the office crying and leaving a trail of blood dripping from his head and fingers.

The Boss shut the door after him, but the laughter snuck through following the trail of blood. It followed him down the hall, and down the stairs, past the security guard in the lobby, and into his car, and to his house, and into his bedroom, and underneath the covers while he cried himself to sleep, the laughter wrapping its arms around him like a lover. The Boss looked at us in disgust as the laughter died down, leaving the room after George, and he shook his head. He didn't say anything before he opened the door again and walked out but I could tell he wanted to spit and get the taste out of his mouth. Walter followed after him like a puppy in love.

George had forgot his brown leather bag. I didn't want the janitor going through his things so when it was time to go home I tucked it under my arm after I shut computer down and got ready to leave. We had to step wide and make a little jump to avoid stepping in the blood as we went out the door, but Cindy just wadded through like it was nothing, like it wasn't even there and the others followed her example. The others headed for the elevator leaving bloody footprints, but I followed George's trail, I followed it down the the four flights of stairs, and into the lobby past the same guard who always sat there and watched, but he called out for me to stop before I could follow it any further to the parking lot.

He was a black man with deep seated wrinkles and a thick mustache going white. "What the hell did ya'll do to that boy today?" he asked me. I couldn't look him in the eyes. I just shook my head staring down at the marble tile. "I ain't never seen him looking that bad. What the hell did you all do?"

"I don't know," I said looking up at him. "I don't know, but I didn't mean to. I don't think any of us meant to."

He stared at me for the longest seconds trying to understand and he shook his head without taking his eyes off me, "Get away from me boy. Just get, the hell, away." There was a revulsion in his eyes I had to turn and ran to get away from. I hoped tomorrow none of it would be real, but I knew it was. It irreversibly was.

6.

Something made me go through George's bag that night, I hadn't wanted the janitor to do it, but I didn't seem to have any qualms. Somehow I felt like I had permission. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have just left it at the office, but I hadn't. I opened the bag and went through his things.

I don't know what I was expecting pens and papers for sure but there was so much more, it was a treasure trove. A real treasure trove. A two-inch tin soldier painted red like a revolutionary beetle back. A scratched and dented lacquered oak music box. Two origami cranes one red, one yellow. A rusted boy scout knife. A tattered and highlighted copy of Peter Pan. An envelope of pictures taken in the park, everyone of them with a red headed woman who was smiling into the camera, seeming to laugh at some private joke. A bag of wooden chess pieces but no board.

I took each out and handled them for a time, feeling their age and staring at them trying to imagine why George always carried these with him to the office. I wanted to know what they meant, each and every one. Was the soldier something from his childhood, was the music box his mother's, was the girl in the picture someone he had loved once and who might have loved him. I stared at each of them for minutes that seemed like hours before putting them, one by one, back into the bag. I smoked a cigarette and then I fell asleep. I don't know if I dreamed.

7.

The next morning I walked past the guard station and there was someone new sitting there, a fortyish man with a wide potbelly and a bushy eyebrows. I felt relieved. I rode the elevator up with four other people from the office. No one talked. I was hoping it all might have been a dream even though I was carrying George's bag, but when the door opened there was a stained trail of dried blood in the tiles cracks and I knew all my hopes were false. Someone would have to get on their hands and knees to scrub it out. I avoided the stained tiles but the others walked right over them and opened the door so I followed trying to step lightly.

Everyone else was already there, including George, wearing that same ugly pinstripe. His hands were bandaged up, but the cut over his right eye left exposed. He was hanging by a noose of nylon cord in the middle of the office a chair kicked out beneath him. His face was red, his ears purple. His too long hairy arms hung low and a note was taped to his chest with one word written in big letters: Ha. Everyone had surrounded him like vultures, just standing there and staring, afraid to take the first peck.

"Has anyone called security yet?" I asked.

Stanley pulled away from George and shook his head. His face was blank. "No. No, I'll get on that." He went to his desk and picked up the phone.

"We should get him down," I said.

No one was listening, they were too caught up in staring at George. I went to my desk to try and find something to cut him down, I only had a letter opener but there was the boy scout knife in George's bag. I unsnapped the blade and went to the center of the room roughly pushing my way through the others. I picked George's chair up, put it in front of me, and climbed on. I tried sawing at the cord but his body kept shifting and bumping into me; I was afraid George was going to knock me off like we were playing a morbid king of the mountain and I couldn't get a good cut started. Cindy giggled behind her hand from where she stood in the circle.

I had to hug George close to me with one hand so he wouldn't swing and I could saw the rope with the other. After the last strands got cut I had to balance holding George with one hand as I stood on tip-toe on the chair. We fell. I was on top, my arm stuck underneath him. Everyone laughed as I struggled to pull my arm out. I didn't say anything as I stood up. I could already feel my face going pink and my ears going red as I clenched my jaw. The laughter got louder.

Wordlessly I went to my desk and put the knife back in the bag. I took it by the strap and put it over my shoulder. The security guards burst in as I was leaving. Two of them talking into their walkie talkies.

"Yep, we got a dead one here." I heard before the door shut. Their laughter followed behind me, echoing in my footsteps. It followed me down the four flights of stairs, and through the lobby, and outside onto the sidewalk, and even down the streets as I walked away.

It followed me, and it followed me, and it's even followed me here.