by Sam Pink
“And this one comes with the full numerical keyboard—I get all numbers,” I said, splaying my fingers out over the model phone attached to a small piece of pressboard.
He said, “There’s a manual with each one on how to use it and what it does, man. You can go on the internet and shit but it looks like a fucking videogame from the 80s and it barely works—but yeah it does some shit.”
“And now, is this the classic ‘ear to the top/mouth to the bottom’ type of phoning device.”
He started helping someone else.
I wanted to ask if I had to dial the number then hit some kind of “send” button, or if just dialing the number correctly would send the call.
The phone cost $20 and then I had to buy a plastic card with minutes.
It was like, a fun thing to watch my time run out.
It gave my life a certain urgency that—if searched—would be hiding its own version of, “No, not yet.”
The first thing I did after entering the minutes was send my brother a message.
I walked out of the store and stood on the sidewalk.
Sent my brother a message that read: “This is my new phone number: (phone number)…you…fucking bitch.”
He sent back: “Haha you got a phone. You’re stupid.”
*
First night I had the shitty prepaid phone, I lay on the floor of my room, trying to sleep.
My brother and I had just moved in together and hadn’t had electricity for almost three weeks during a heatwave.
All I’d done for days was sweat and work and take showers where I’d sweat during the shower.
I lay on the slightly cooler floor of my room, crumbs and cat hair all over my naked sweating ass.
I thought—This is the end of something but I’m not sure what.
Then my shitty prepaid phone vibrated.
I checked it.
I pressed a button to receive the message.
Half a minute, subtracted.
The subtraction was done on the screen of the phone.
It showed how many minutes were being subtracted, then showed the remaining total.
Half a minute for a text message.
Full minute for each minute of talking.
A countdown.
An equation.
Death.
The end of my maniac youth.
Extinction.
My face, burnt black against my skull.
World peace times infinity.
I read the message.
It wasn’t from my brother and I hadn’t given anyone else the number.
The message was: “Hey man, you going to the postproduction party??”
Postproduction party.
I thought—What if I’m dead and this is an ambassador to an afterlife, and there are many afterlives and it’s up to me to select the right one.
I sent back: “Who is this.”
Subtract half a minute.
The person sent: “Dude it’s Wisnieski.”
Half a minute less.
Who’s Wisnieski.
I don’t know Wisnieski.
But, it was him.
It was really him.
Wisnieski goddamn it.
Me: “Oh hey man, how are you.”
Wisnieski: “Good, just seeing how you were getting to the postproduction party at Alex’s.”
“Wait, Alex is having a party????”
“Yeah he didn’t tell you. Haha”
“No man. What’s up with Alex is he mad at me.”
“Shit, I don’t think so. You think so?”
“Sometimes with Alex…you just don’t know.”
“Haha. For real yeah. You coming then?”
Me: “Wisnieski, how are you. Are you ok.”
“What. I’m good, why.”
“Wisnieski, I mean, are we good. Did I do something.”
A few minutes passed without a response.
I started sending “are we good” over and over.
My minutes, vanishing.
Drying up.
I’m dying—I thought.
Dying!
Oh Wisnieski, help me!
Please fucking help me.
Me: “Wiskieski, just tell me. We used to be so good man. It was me and you. Just me and ol’ Wisnieski. What now.”
Minutes passed.
Wisnieski: “Who the fuck is this.”
Me: “It’s Wisnieski dude.”
And I lay there in the dark, waiting for Wisnieski to respond.
To tell me we were all right.
But he never did.
No.
Wisnieski.
What happened.
Where did you go.
I’m never going to get to the postproduction party—I thought.
I’ll never make it.
Never!
And I spun the shitty phone around on the floor, sweating.
When I looked at the alarm clock, the time changed from 11:52 p.m. to 11:53 p.m.
Somehow it was the worst feeling ever, to watch that happen.
The end of something, but I didn’t know what.
Just, the worst.
*
My brother and I walked to the post office.
He had to mail out something for a minor league baseball team.
A few years ago, he signed up for a minor league baseball team’s mailing list, under the name Clive Jackson.
Clive Jackson.
He wrote that name on a mailing list and the team started mailing him things: reminders about ticket deals, “free (something)” days, and other things.
Each newsletter or flier always had, “Greetings” (which was typed in the same font as the rest of the letter) then, (in a bigger less defined font), “…Clive!”
Today my brother had to mail out a raffle ticket entry for Clive, with the possibility of winning a duffel bag that had the team’s logo on it.
Walking back from the post office—through the hot shitty sidewalks, gang territory, through people, bicyclists, joggers, men selling ice cream off bikes, walkers and standers—we discussed what could be kept inside the duffel bag, if Clive Jackson won it.
Ultimately, we agreed the best use for the duffel bag would be zipping up Rontel in it—only up to his chin so his face was exposed—then cutting out four holes for his limbs, which, being too short, would be supplemented by hydraulic(?) mechanical(?) limbs that he could operate with his mind (after we shave his head again and implant what we agreed would be “electrodes or like—”).
“I like Clive’s chances,” my brother said, wringing his hands as we entered an alley.
People had begun throwing out things in the alleys, preparing for moves.
April and August were the moving months.
“Is it April or August,” I said.
My brother said, “It’s May.”
I imagined Rontel operating his duffel bag mechanical limb suit around the apartment.
Would I like him more, less, or the same.
Seemed like I loved him too much to ever think anything different about him.
I was so in love with him.
I imagined him slowly walking around the apartment in his new bionic(?) suit—his artificial limbs making tszoo tszoo sounds and then he starts bumping into the wall over and over and when I get home I find him asleep in the suit, still bumping against the wall, tszoo tszoo sounds.
My brother said something, but I’d been distracted by a nice flower in someone’s back yard.
Wanted to pick it for my girlfriend.
Then I realized she might be sad I killed it.
Seemed like something she’d get sad about.
Maybe not.
I could just say, “Here, I killed this for you.”
As in, “Of course I would kill something for you.”
As in, “Everything is potentially your gift.”
My brother and I were both sweating.
“Kill you,” I said, kicking rocks against someone’s garage.
>
Realized I’d been thinking, “Kill you,” about nothing in particular.
Randomly.
Like I don’t even know if I’m talking to myself or someone’s telling me that or whatever.
Which at first was scary.
Then I realized I did it to preserve myself in some way and it became comfortable.
I kicked some more rocks against a chainlink fence.
Both my hands in fists.
A part of the city skyline was visible over garages and loading docks.
Kill you—I thought.
My brother said, “All I ate today was a bag of jelly beans and some pretzels.”
I said, “All I Ate Today Was Some Pussy seems like the name of a mix CD someone around here would try to sell you.”
My brother said, “All I Ate Today Was Pussy, And Also A Bag Of Jellybeans And Some Pretzels.”
I didn’t say anything.
Felt like I should.
But I didn’t.
He said, “That’s a better name, don’t you think.”
Then he punched a branch that hung over someone’s fence and kicked some rocks.
One of the rocks hit a metal garbage can, which scared a bird out from a bush up into the air.
The fucking business.
*
Back at our building, my brother went upstairs but I saw Enrique in the hallway and he invited me in.
Enrique was my friend from the warehouse where I used to work.
He had an at-all-times transparent sexual interest in me.
He once told me that if I were gay he’d never let a man like me go—a man “who looks and acts like a man.”
Today he said, “Oh god, you look shitty. Ugh, I have air conditioning, come in, come in.”
Inside, his roommate sat at the kitchen table with his legs crossed, looking angry.
His roommate was really funny.
Big Moms.
Big Moms smiled and winked when he saw me.
He worked at the store with us for like, two months, then got fired when a customer called him a “faggot” and he slapped the customer (like slapped the customer down).
We called him “Big Moms” because he was physically big and also he was the meanest person in the world.
The whole world!
Nice to me, but mean to everyone else.
He liked being mean.
I remember him making a girl cry at work once when he raised his hand and looked up towards the ceiling with his face excited, and said, “Bitch, you (pointing at her with his gigantic hand) need to relax, I can smell that vagina through your pants, honey.”
He just liked to be mean.
He also liked to fabricate things.
He said shit like: “Rainwater actually has more minerals and nutrients or whatever than bottled water, and potassium too.”
Or: “If everyone just didn’t buy gasoline for one hour—one hour—all at the same time—then the oil companies would all have to shut down and we’d own those fuckers, you could buy a company for a dollar.”
He would just make claims.
Like: “You do know that every time you buy blueberries, it goes to the fucking Mormons.”
Seemed so weird for him to be angry and serious about something he made up.
At first I didn’t react to whatever he’d say or I’d ask him where he learned whatever he just said.
Then I learned it was better to agree with/encourage him.
Validate him somehow.
Something.
“Yeah you’re right about those fucking oil companies.”
Or: “No, I didn’t know yogurt has the same calcium as dandelions, cool. Looks like it’s dandelions for me! Fuck yogurt!”
Or: “I guess that makes sense, there aren’t many mosquitoes this year because less people are getting the flu and there’s less construction, hm. Interesting.”
Sometimes it was best to just review things he said.
When I walked in today and squatted in the livingroom, Big Moms said, “Hey you” then nodded towards Enrique and said, “What are you doing with the gayest, most Puerto Rican-iest nerd in fucking Chicago.”
Outside of work at the warehouse, Enrique owned a small share of a game store where people gathered to play boardgames and talk about videogames and play live-action games where you act like a wizard or knight or mythical creature.
“Oh fuck off,” Enrique said. Then he leaned against the counter by the kitchen sink and said, “Ugh, I shouldn’t have shown your friend I could put my legs behind my head last night. It’s already like throwing a penny down the wishing well down there.”
Big Moms smiled and said, “I heard.”
I said, “I don’t show people I can do that until the sixth time I see them. That’s when I pull them aside and say, ‘Hey just so you know I can do this,’ then put both my legs behind my head.”
“Oh shit,” Enrique said, slapping his face. “Forgot I got a Gaymers meeting tonight.”
Gaymers: A club for gay men who liked playing boardgames.
Enrique told me since he was considered a more attractive gay gamer than most—he was called a “unicorn.”
When he told me that, I said, “Well I’m very happy to be friends with a unicorn.”
He said, “I don’t even want to go, I just want to sit here and eat an entire pizza and feel like fucking shit.”
“Speaking of anal,” Big Moms said, smiling at me. “Whaaaaaat about (girl who worked at store with us)?”
Enrique leaned forward off the counter and said, “What about her.”
Big Moms then communicated a rumor he’d heard from someone who worked at the store that I’d had anal sex with (girl who worked at store).
Enrique made a shocked face.
“That’s true,” I said.
Enrique yelled, “Aw,” then said, “You dirty bitch. You’re a dirty no good sucia, bitch.”
He always got jealous.
“She asked,” I said.
“Did you use lube or spit,” he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling.
I said, “Lube one time, then after that, nothing,” and I assumed a louder, more aggressive tone and rubbed my hands and said, “I’d just put it in front first to get slicked, see.”
“Spit is for love,” Enrique said, making a face and staring off.
Big Moms said, “So, how about your new girl.”
“What do you mean,” I said. “I don’t think it will happen with her.”
He said, “Has she ever played with herself in that area, like used a dildo on herself?”
“Or three to five fingers,” Enrique said, scratching his shin with the heel of his foot.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think it’s happening. One thing though,” I said, pointing at both of them as I stood up, “I’m not going to rest until I get you no-good homos out of my goddamn building.”
Big Moms said, “Honey, the ‘mos own this part of town—sorry.”
And he pointed up into the air, looking up at the ceiling and rotating his head.
Big Moms.
I love you, you stupid ass.
I sang a few lines of a song I made up that had the lyrics, “…like a penny down a wishing well,” and Enrique and Big Moms were already humming backup as I went to leave.
Enrique said, “Wait, help me order a pizza so I can eat the whole thing and feel like shit. I can’t do this shit.” He sat down by the computer, clicked on a number of things and typed random keys and made noise by hitting things. “How the fuck do you do this.”
I went over to help him.
He was on an internet page for a pizza place.
“You want me to help you,” I said.
“He wants help,” Big Moms said, smiling at me and winking.
“You shithead,” I said to him. “Kill you.”
He smiled and raised his eyebrows once.
“Just help me,” Enrique said, touching my arm. He sniffed at me and said, �
�Hmm, you tried to use cologne to cover up body odor.”
“Sorry.”
He quickly said, “No, it works for you.”
He rubbed my face a little.
“And you shaved,” he said. “What the fuck.”
I looked at the internet page again and helped Enrique order a pizza.
To order, you had to click on icons of ingredients then move the icons over a steel grater, for them to sprinkle over the pizza icon below.
Enrique pointed at ingredients and I clicked them and brought them over the grater.
Every ingredient, clicked and brought over the grater.
Pieces spraying.
At the top of the webpage there was a picture of the owner’s face.
I said, “We should be able to click on his face and drag it over the grater.”
“Stop,” Enrique said, grabbing my arm again. Then he said, “Ok that’s good I guess.”
I finished the order, imagining the owner’s face dragged over the grater, screaming as pieces of his face sprayed the pizza and the screaming was the “ohhhhhh” kind not the “ahhhhh” kind.
“All right later,” I said.
Big Moms said, “Later masturbator”—winking at me and smiling.
“You no-good homo,” I said.
Enrique crossed his arms and did a wave from one hip to the other, saying, “Buh.”
I left.
Decided to go get a sandwich.
In the hallway, I took out my phone and sent my brother the message: “Remind me to explain ‘neck sizzles’ to you.”
Neck sizzles were something I’d recently done to Rontel.
You just twist the hair on his neck over and over while he falls asleep.
My brother didn’t respond until I was almost at the sandwich place.
He sent: “Just saw a video of a baseball pitcher dying when the batter hit the ball right back into his face.”
*
I got a sandwich at this place near my apartment.
I didn’t like the food there, but felt very hungry and dizzy.
I went in and ordered.
The man put together my sandwich as I directed.
I pointed at the things I wanted.
“That bread, please,” I said, pointing towards some bread behind a glass blocker.
It was very intimate.
An intimate process.
A mutual trust.
A marriage.
In which he agreed to gently make my sandwich as I directed.
No, commanded.
The manager started yelling at the customer behind me in line.
“Vutt kind bread, vutt-kind-bread,” he yelled.
