Rontel

by Sam Pink

  He looked at me and the pie I had set down.

  He said, “Some people like hot pie, some like cold pie. I, personally, love it.”

  Then he didn’t say which he personally loved.

  And I wanted to know!

  His name tag had “Bill” on it.

  “You’re Bill,” I said, and shook his hand with both hands and held the shake for a long time.

  “Well,” he said, smiling a fake smile, “How long’ve you wanted to know about bees.”

  “Ever since I can remember,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets, lightly touching my testicles with my left hand.

  He said, “Oh.”

  “Yeah since my youth, basically,” I said.

  People began sitting for the class.

  Bill sat with us.

  He and my girlfriend talked—because excited and polite people find and keep each other.

  Bill talked quietly, but with amazing enthusiasm.

  He seemed to be “fascinated” by a lot.

  Many of the things my girlfriend said left him “fascinated.”

  When Bill asked my girlfriend what she did for a living, she said, “I teach tenth grade chemistry.” She said it as if for a moment she didn’t know if she did or not.

  Bill said, “Oh fascinating. That’s cool. I think everyone should know more chemistry.”

  And he meant it.

  My girlfriend said, “Yeah, science is cool.”

  I said, “How much spinach can you make with science.”

  Lately I’d been using “spinach” to refer to money.

  “So much spinach,” she said.

  The tone of her voice suggested she didn’t enjoy my company right then.

  What a shame!

  “So, with science,” I said, “basically, you get that spinach.”

  “My wife has magnificent spinach in her garden,” Bill said. “It really is a lovely thing.”

  I said, “Oh, she got that spinach?”

  The beekeeping instructor began trying to use the microphone and someone said the volume made her ears feel “absolutely awful” so the instructor said he wouldn’t use the microphone but then someone else introduced herself alongside her mother and said her mother couldn’t hear well, and the bee instructor asked the mother if he should use the microphone and she smiled and nodded—not hearing what he’d said—and the daughter said, “Just go without the microphone, it doesn’t matter,” and he stepped away from the microphone and began the lecture.

  *

  Shortly after he began, I considered raising my hand and saying,

  “Yeah, I can kick your ass,” while leaning back in my chair—maybe then look around at others to see what they thought about that.

  Maybe point at someone and raise my eyebrows, “You” getting off my chair, letting it hit the floor loudly, “you think anything about that.”

  And everyone would know then I could kick his/her/anyone’s ass.

  The instructor delivered a long speech about beekeeping and I drew pictures on my complimentary beekeeping packet.

  The instructor seemed very worried the whole time.

  I kept expecting him—after everything he explained—to say,

  “But I mean, who gives a shit, right,” and then look around shrugging and doing this laugh that’s more like sniffing.

  Some of the phrases I heard while drawing pictures on my complimentary beekeeping packet:

  “…which is a very gentle time in a honeybee’s life.”

  “…can anyone speak to that: apple-scab spraying.”

  “…he’s a third-generation Bosnian beekeeper.”

  “…I get stung about once a week, although sometimes I won’t get stung for three or four weeks then I’ll get stung four or five times at once (sniffing laughter).”

  I stopped drawing and pictured him out working with bees—getting stung—saying, “Ow”—getting stung again—saying, “Ow”—getting swarmed—screaming—and his scream is the scream of a person you don’t think matches how he looks.

  *

  One of the people attending the class kept asking questions and/or introducing himself to the conversation.

  He kept referencing having lived in Hawaii.

  I wrote, “He’s from Hawaii,” next to some drawings in my bee packet.

  Then I tapped my girlfriend on the shoulder and tapped the pen against the words.

  She read it and nodded.

  I wrote, “I want to fuck your hot pussy,” and tapped her.

  She read it and said, “Shh,” smiling.

  Then I wrote, “Sorry for being such an asshole sometimes, I care about you,” and tapped her, but she didn’t look.

  Hawaiian guy was still talking.

  Hawaiian guy was really intense and earnest.

  Everyone was really earnest.

  Made me think.

  What was wrong with me.

  Why couldn’t I get excited about something like beekeeping.

  Get really excited.

  Just come to the class today and enjoy it.

  Why couldn’t I live like that.

  Viewing almost everything with excitement/enjoyment.

  Why couldn’t I just enjoy something.

  Why instead did I always envision my own corpse, smileless and rotten.

  Smileless and rotten.

  Just, terrible.

  At the end of our table there was an overweight kid who’d been making faces at me the whole class.

  He held up a picture he drew—of a horse—and crossed his eyes at me.

  I thought about holding up a piece of paper that read, “Fuck you, bitch”—and raising my eyebrows up and down a few times.

  Another person at the class was American Wilderness.

  In the back sat a concerned-looking man wearing an “American Wilderness” sweatshirt, who began to dominate the question-asking.

  His sweatshirt had “American Wilderness” airbrushed on the front—over an airbrushed bear, which was over an airbrushed American flag, which was waving.

  American Wilderness kept asking questions, with a very stern look on his face, his hands gesturing as if opening a combination lock.

  I imagined him eating a cookie—only he wasn’t wearing the American Wilderness sweatshirt, he was shirtless. And cookie crumbs fell into his dense chest hair, dissolving.

  Almost every question he asked was—according to the bee instructor—“Going to be addressed later.”

  *

  When all the questions were done, the bee instructor showed some slides of poorly maintained bee boxes.

  He showed slides of all the ways someone can ruin a beehive.

  The last slides were bee boxes destroyed on purpose.

  He said, “And—I guess—here’s some random vandalism from teenagers.”

  Everyone said, “Ohh,” and seemed upset.

  I thought—These…these are my bees.

  *

  On break, Bill told us he’d already ordered his bees.

  The bees had to be ordered from somewhere.

  Bill said, “They told me to call the post office to let them know they’re coming.”

  He was talking to my girlfriend, but I said, “That’s a scary thing to call someone and tell them. ‘My bees are coming.’”

  He looked at me for maybe six seconds and said, “Right yeah.”

  My girlfriend said, “That’s exciting, that they’re already on their way. I’m jealous.”

  Bill said, “Oh I know, I’m just falling in love with bees.”

  And he really was falling in love with bees.

  My girlfriend was too.

  They were two people who loved everything.

  And excited and polite people who love everything find and keep each other.

  *

  When break ended, the instructor went around the room and asked each person to introduce him/herself then state his/her reason for taking the class.

  Bill had his legs crossed, hands clas
ped with fingers together around the knees.

  He said, “Well, I’m Bill and I guess I’m just—and I was telling these guys earlier—I’m really just, falling in love with bees to be honest.”

  Everyone said, “Ah,” or, “Uh huh,” or, “(agree in some way).”

  Another person introduced himself and said he too had always been fascinated by beekeeping.

  Then he referenced living in Hawaii numerous times in astounding succession.

  Hawaii Man again.

  When it was my turn, I said, “I’m here because my girlfriend asked me to come with her and said she’d pay, and also because I want to control nature.”

  The overweight kid at the end of the table said, “Control nature!?” really loud and crossed his eyes then held up a game of tic-tac-toe he’d drawn on his bee packet.

  When it was his turn to introduce himself, he got real nervous and said, “Um yes, hello, I’m Eli. I like bees uh, because um, because they’re my favorite thing to love because I like them and I’m an artist.”

  Then the next person began her introduction.

  Eli made a face at me, biting a muffin he’d acquired during break.

  Fuck you, bitch.

  *

  After the beekeeping class my girlfriend and I went to a secondhand store in Humboldt Park.

  She wanted to buy clothes and make them into different clothes.

  She walked around looking at clothes and I walked around feeling like I wanted to hit my head against something and hurt myself.

  My skin warmed up and felt hardened.

  Felt like I couldn’t comfortably be inside any building.

  Wanted to leave.

  From behind a rack of clothing, someone said, “I’m sayin’, all they shorts is fuck-TUP, Darryl.”

  Then Darryl said, “You sayin’ they all bogus. Well I’on’t want none then. Fuck this.”

  In the main aisle, a kid stood in a shopping cart.

  We stared at each other.

  Will he fall.

  Face smashed on the floor.

  Me standing there.

  Inevitably someone would walk up and see me standing there with the kid lying facedown on the floor, blood coming out around his head.

  What would be the normal thing to do in that situation.

  Do you say “hi” to the first person who finds you or do you just shrug or do you start to help or what.

  My girlfriend stood at the end of an aisle in front of a small cracked mirror, holding some clothes up against her.

  “What about this,” she said. “I kind of like it.”

  I focused on breathing.

  I purposely didn’t look at anyone.

  Just me calmly and openly accepting my role in this equation.

  Which always equaled a loosely defined sum.

  Which always equaled just slightly more than itself.

  “It’s nice, I like it,” I said, touching my finger to the shirt she held.

  “I love it more than anything in my life.”

  “Even me,” she said.

  I looked at the shirt then back at her face.

  Neither of us said anything as she continued to hold the shirt up against herself.

  She said, “I think I like it, yeah.”

  And I moved some shirts along a rack in front of me.

  There was one with Osama Bin Laden’s face on the front, a big red X through it.

  Underneath his picture it said, “America doesn’t back down.”

  And, in reference to nothing, I thought—I’ll never back down, motherfucker.

  Didn’t matter what because I’d NEVER back down.

  And that felt good.

  My girlfriend held the same piece of clothing, doing this odd series of poses with it, almost like a dance.

  I looked up and saw a sign hanging from the ceiling.

  It had two columns, indicating the location of things.

  It listed things like “Men” and “Boys,” and “Girls.”

  One of the things listed was “Hot Styles.”

  I wanted to walk up to an employee and say, “Excuse me, could you tell me where the hot styles are. Oh, nevermind, there they are.”

  Why would anyone want anything other than hot styles.

  Who would see that there are hot styles, and then not just immediately go there.

  I envisioned a sign I’d make for the store.

  And the sign was bigger.

  And it only had “HOT STYLES” written on it in big letters.

  And there were arrows all around it, pointing out at all areas in the store.

  I stood behind my girlfriend, staring at myself in the mirror.

  I repeatedly thought—Hot styles/these are hot styles here—until I felt calm.

  Girlfriend said, “How about this one—no?”

  I said, “These are some hot styles.”

  “The hottest styles,” she said.

  I said, “I’m looking around and it’s just, all hot styles.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  She kept repeating this cycle of poses in front of the mirror.

  I said, “I want you to call me ‘Hot Styles’ from now on. Call me that or I won’t answer, ok.”

  The kid who was standing in the shopping cart rolled by, his mom pushing.

  Still standing, staring at me like I was hot styles.

  *

  My girlfriend looked through the aisles of plastic and glass objects and I walked around.

  A man came up to me from one of the clothing aisles.

  He had on Velcro shoes, sweatpants, and a huge white t-shirt.

  His hair was long and greasy and he wore swimming goggles.

  Kept doing this series of mouth tics.

  Twitches.

  He’d draw his lips inward, then extend them, making his mouth into an o, and then say, “Ohp.”

  He did that eight or nine times before he said actual words.

  Eventually he asked me about winter coats.

  It was so hot outside—and had been, and would be—that people were dying.

  But I helped him look for winter coats.

  There were none.

  “No more winter coats,” I said.

  He kept saying, “Ohp,” over and over, a little more nervous/upset now.

  I tried to explain.

  Tried to tell him.

  He just looked sad, repeating, “Ohp,” over and over.

  Soon as I started backing away, he said, “Ow.”

  Started saying, “Ow,” and just stood there between aisles.

  And it seemed like he understood everything—or if not everything, then at least some amount of things that a person like myself might easily confuse for everything.

  Amen.

  Amen, brotha.

  Hot styles.

  Triumph.

  Triumph of the hot styles.

  Hottest style wins.

  This is the beginning—I thought.

  This is the beginning of a new period in my life.

  One where I solved problems as they happen.

  Where nothing happenes.

  I joined my girlfriend in line waiting to pay.

  I openly grabbed her ass and said, “Hot styles.”

  People at the next cash register were talking.

  One described to the other a commercial she liked and what happens in the commercial and have you seen it?

  *

  My girlfriend took me to get pie, because at the secondhand store I made a comment about not getting any pie at the bee class and she thought I was genuinely upset and I didn’t try to change her mind.

  We went to her “favorite pie place.”

  We walked from the secondhand store.

  She turned to me after a considerable silence and said, “Hey, did you smell that one guy back there.”

  “The homeless guy,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah why,” I said.

  “He smelled so bad.”
>
  “He’s fucking homeless, of course he smells.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “What’s the point of saying something like that,” I said. “Why would you even fucking say that.”

  She didn’t answer.

  We continued walking.

  No conversation.

  A few blocks later, someone behind us yelled, “Kevin,” repeatedly.

  I started to think he thought I was Kevin, and he was trying to get me to turn around.

  What if I really am Kevin—I thought, and just never knew it.

  But I forced myself to not turn around.

  If I turned around to confirm who he was yelling at, he might continue to think I was Kevin.

  And if he thought I was Kevin, I’d have to answer for not turning around initially.

  I’d have to answer for forgetting my own name.

  *

  By a small four-way intersection, there was a group of teenaged kids.

  One of them blew on a kazoo loudly.

  As we neared, he stopped.

  I was worried he was going to blow the kazoo right as I walked by—startling me for everyone to laugh at.

  Everyone fuck off, I’m not Kevin, and I don’t want to be frightened.

  A crackhead with only her two brown front teeth walked by us quickly, yelling, “Need a dolla fo’hotdog.”

  She seemed to be yelling to anyone—like, as a precaution against not asking someone who would if asked.

  I silently tried to manipulate my girlfriend into buying me a hotdog, in addition to the pie, and my method was looking at her and squinting my eyes.

  *

  We sat across from each other at the pie place.

  Our table looked out at Milwaukee Avenue.

  My girlfriend read through a weekly Chicago newspaper, making comments about every bar/restaurant listed.

  “Ohhh we should go here,” she said, pointing at some picture of a plate of food with an address and review beneath.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t like going places. No places for me. Never again after this.”

  “Ohhhh, this place,” she said, looking up at me. “This place has the BEHHHST fucking green beans.”

  “Best green beans, muffucker,” I said. “You wannem, well, here they are, muffucker, my greenest beans.”

  I decided to just repeat everything she said.

  Because we weren’t having a conversation.

  She was just referencing things she bought or wanted to buy.

  Most of our interactions were like that—her describing something she bought or wanted to buy.

  So I’d just repeat what she said and add “muffucker” to make it seem like I was encouraging her, make it seem like I was in a good mood.