Sam Pink - Person

I am cornered.

No I don’t know.

He says, “Hey I need some help.”

I agree by saying nothing.

He puts the cigarette into the glass jar and lids the glass jar and puts it on the ground.

Then he stands rigid.

“Which half of my face looks stupider today,” he says.

He moves just his head side-to-side, once, still standing very rigid.

“Seriously tell me,” he says. “I want to take a picture of myself and give it to my girlfriend. I just feel dumb-looking right now.”

I stand there.

My shirt is almost all-the-way buttoned.

Just like a grown-up.

I touch my chesthair and a pimple beneath somewhere.

This is my destiny.

Everything leading up to right now has destined me for this.

“Just look,” he says. “Just, take your time, and tell me. Which half do you think looks stupider right now. I already decided what I think, but I won’t tell you yet.”

He turns his head side to side to show me both halves of his face.

“I need to know,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I like them both.”

I feel doubt that I will actually go to the interview now, for some reason.

Then I almost retch because I imagine having a stomach full of nail-bitings for some reason.

That seems terrible to me.

Why am I thinking that.

My roommate stands in the doorway turning his head side to side

and I finish buttoning my shirt.

“This side,” he says. “Or this side.”

If I ran into him I could push him down and get out of here.

Ok, so do that.

No, I don’t want to — I’m scared.

Fine, do what you want.

“Both sides look so wonderful,” I say. “I wouldn’t be able to choose. I couldn’t possibly choose. Don’t put me in that position.”

Somewhere someone is teaching me to another person.

And the teacher uses a metaphor involving a garbage truck that has run out of gas halfway to the garbage dump.

And the student nods.

“I just can’t decide,” I say again. “I love everything about you.”

My roommate stops turning his head side to side and looks at the ground.

I look at the ground.

It feels like practice.

Leave your apartment.

Your apartment is bad.

Ok I will.

Ok good.

“I have to leave,” I say.

I leave.

Outside, I experience a bad feeling and I realize it is because I haven’t been outside for a few days so now it’s uncomfortable.

On the way to the Blue Line train, I pass an apartment with a dog in the frontyard area, walking around unchained.

I stop and stare at the dog.

The dog stares back.

We are in love yeah.

It is love.

For some reason I want the dog to attack me.

Yes, please attack me.

Will you attack me dog.

Dog, attack me.

I want you to try to kill me.

I want that.

Don’t be afraid dog.

Just, attack me.

The mail carrier comes around the corner down the block.

I hide behind a bush until she passes, whew!

The word “secret” scrolls through my head in neon letters and I

am happy.

My heart is beating very fast.

When she’s fully gone down the block, I take the mail from the entryway to the apartment building last visited.

I walk the mail to the post office.

At the post office I buy a large envelope and put the mail inside.

I mail this new mail to the address on the original mail haha!

And somewhere, someone is forging a gold medal in honor of how I have lived my life.

I leave the post office and walk to the Van Buren Street Bridge a few blocks away.

The bridge overlooks the expressway, and I stand there and watch the traffic for a while.

Feeling like shit.

I decide not to continue my walk to the interview.

It is not necessary.

Feels good to just quit before trying.

Feels like practice.

No one is out now and I am cold on the bridge watching traffic.

Not sure what month it is but it is cold yeah.

Probably January.

And I’m still one person and I have nothing to do.

No one expects anything of me right now.

It’s weird but really comforting to say that.

And it is hard to decide things.

I want badly to take off my clothes and walk down the street, but I remember the legal requirement of being-clothed.

(And plus I think I would get sick from not having clothes on).

Whew!

I don’t want to get sick and die.

On the walk back I stop and stare at the same dog again.

Now, in various places in the snow where it walks, there are rust-colored piss holes.

Piss holes.

I stare for a long time and I feel discharged.

No I don’t know.

I see a long version of the word “No,” one with many many o’s, scrolling through my ears holes, in one then the out the other and I’m the pilot of it.

Alright.

I’m standing by the front door inside my apartment, putting on my boots.

It is a cold-sunny daytime and I have to leave.

Crucial interview with a grocery store for a bagger position.

My roommate sits on the couch doing something on his laptop computer and I look at a half-filled coffee cup on the livingroom floor while I balance on one leg, left boot going on.

Staring at the halffilled coffee cup keeps me from falling.

Thank you for being there for me, halffilled coffee cup.

I appreciate you, you silly fuck.

Behind me I hear there are mildly loud vacuuming sounds in the hallway outside our apartment.

And I try not to let them scare me into staying inside.

Trying to be brave.

It is important for me to get this job.

It is also very easy for me to get scared and stay inside.

My roommate says, “Hey, you want a candy. It’ll help you get the job or whatever.”

He tosses a piece of candy over.

The candy hits my knee and falls in a shoe by the doorway.

He puts a similar piece of candy into his mouth and threads his fingers behind his head.

He clears his throat and says, “Careful, it has some liquid stuff inside it.”

Then when I put the candy in my mouth, he says, “What flavor is yours.”

Little radios on my tongue report the message to my headhole.

There are beeping sounds and I hear the message.

“It’s grape,” I say.

I stare at the coffee cup and we eat our candy, vacuum sounds in the hallway making me feel tired now, not scared just tired.

It occurs to me to say, ‘I wish they made grape-flavored coffee.’

But I don’t say that.

I don’t say that because I believe he will not understand.

I watch him continue to look at his laptop computer.

And he changes the candy from one side of his mouth to the other.

Then notices I am looking at him.

He moves his head side to side so his ears keep almost touching his shoulders, making a face he must intend to be funny.

He is trying to make me laugh.

Oh.

I look at my roommate.

Just say it.

Say that you’d like it if they made grape-flavored coffee.

Tell him.

No, he will not understand.

He won’t understand you.

Just tell him.

No, the statement will leave your mouth as a small void, hanging in space, growing larger at a very slow rate, until it has consumed everything, me first, willingly.

“See ya,” I’ll say, putting my hands on the rim of the void, taking entrance headfirst.

Just say it.

No, I can’t.

Ok, if you can’t then you can’t.

My roommate says, “Why do they need to do a second interview anyway.”

He takes his laptop computer off his lap and puts it next to him on the couch.

He sits back.

I stare at the halffilled coffee cup.