Free Interfictions by Delia Sherman

finally reached. The problem of the one-legged man who wants to buy a shoe would be solved by myself, the most cultured and also the most lettered, by writing a Directive to Address Irregularities.
    I wrote the Directive, and it properly addressed, I thought, every possible permutation of irregularity. I framed it and hung it behind the front counter, where it was admired and read out to those who could not read.
    It explained that the stock in the shop was for sale.
    It exhorted all workers to do their duty, and not be waylaid by people from outside the unit who would not have the unit's productivity as their goal, or might even be saboteurs.
    It made clear the inalienable difference between the shop and the window. Each to its purpose, and each to its needs. (I would no more think of taking shoes from the SHOES shop to put in the window than I would steal a man's hair from his head, though his hair might look good under a hat in my CLOTHING window. His hair serves the man's head. The shoes in SHOES serve their inventory.)
    The Directive went into finer detail than perhaps you have patience for. But by the time that the nail was banged into the wall and the Directive straightened, there was no fault in understanding amongst any of the workers in the unit, even the young girl who had never worn shoes till she came to the city, let alone seen a shop.
    A state of peace and equilibrium reigned again.
    I was at SHOES today, hanging shoes on a painted vine that sprouted a red shoe, a blue one with white laces, and a patent-leather boot, when an insistent knock on the door of the window broke my concentration and made me fumble the shoes, the precious shoes.
    I knew before I opened the door, that it was him.
    'I wish to buy that shoe,’ he said, taking hold of the door and pulling it open. Not only that, but he insinuated his long body onto the base of the window floor and stretched out his long arm to point to the shoe he wanted. A left-foot shoe half hidden under the dropped patent-leather boot: a green shoe with yellow laces and a punched design along the toe. I leaned my body out over his, partly to push him back and partly to see what he was wearing: the same drab lace-up as every man who had bought shoes in this city for the past three years.
    I pulled back into my window and stood upright. He stood upright also, supported by a cane in his left hand—a respectful distance from my window door.
    He puffed out his chest to make sure I saw the stiffness of medals.
    So this was to be a test of wills!
    I fought in the Great War, too, though I was not, like him, a pensioner, if that was what he was. He was either that or something more sinister, as he clearly wanted to turn my life upside down.
    I used the classic defence, which usually works: pointed disinterest. I went back to my work, shutting myself away from him.
    He tapped on the door with his cane.
    I called out: ‘Luka, please ask for this hero's identity card. We will have to report him as an attemptive—supply liberator.'
    'Comrade,’ I heard Luka say, and I could see without looking, that perpetual bubble of spit grow large and pop at the side of her mouth.—
    Then I heard Luka cry out some primitive peasant Save me! curse. The supply liberator must have had a shock of a card.
    'Comrade window-dresser!’ the man called. ‘Come down, by order of the Ministry of the People's Welfare.'
    I had known in my bones that he was a spy. Others would have wet their legs at the word Ministry , but I had nothing to fear. My feet met the floor with a steadiness none of the SHOES work unit felt. They stood around comically rigid. But I had comported myself faultlessly throughout this trial.
    The man leaned on the counter. Luka snatched the abacus out of his elbow's range. ‘With the exception of....’ —and here he pointed with his cane to the couple of middle-aged men—'Unit SHOES, Hero Boulevard has performed with distinction.’ He