Sam Pink - Hurt Others

A weight that never seems entirely retired.

So you want to try and start liking it.

You need a fucking violin.

After break, you’re in the loading area of the store, breaking down boxes with another stockroom employee, nicknamed Sour Cream.

You’re ripping boxes apart and stacking them in the compactor.

There are three big cages full of boxes for you to break down and compact.

“Shit jo,” Sour Cream says. “I feel like such a bitch. Like, I feel like, just such a soggy-ass bitch on the inside.”

“Awesome,” you say.

Then he starts telling you about how his uncle has done work for a drug cartel in Mexico.

He says his uncle pays people thirty-thousand dollars in cash to drive a truck from Chicago to the border of Mexico.

He says his brother was in jail for going to a guy’s house and knocking on the door and then just firing a shotgun into the house when the door opened.

Then he says, “So what’re you doing tonight, guerrito.”

“Probably just going to go home.”

“And how does that make you feel,” he says.

He says that sometimes after random shit.

You’ll be like, “It’s busy in the store today.”

And he’ll say, “And how does that make you feel.”

A cardboard box cuts a big cut on the side of your finger.

It bleeds dark blood.

“You know what I’m saying though,” he says, ripping a banana box into pieces, “like, just a little bitch deep down, guerro.”

“Yeah a soggy bitch,” you say. “You feel like a soggy bitch.”

“For real. Hey did you see that new trainee. He looks like a little bitch too, jo.”

“No man, no, you’re the bitch,” you say. “I’m going to hold you down while he fucks you and then I’m going to look you in the eyes as you’re getting fucked and I’m going to say, ‘You’re the soggiest bitch.’”

Sour Cream laughs really hard.

He walks away a few steps and leans his forehead on a shelf, as if the laughing is too powerful.

He rubs his eyes and claps once.

“Bogus ass, guerro,” he says, wiping his eyes.

Another stockroom employee walks up, carrying some broken-down boxes.

He’s friends with Sour Cream.

You look at him, but can’t remember his name.

The first name you think is “JuJu The Elder” but that doesn’t seem right.

Whenever they’re scheduled together they stay together the whole day.

“Aw, look at this bitch,” Sour Cream says, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. Then Sour Cream seems to remember something. “Oh wait man, hold on,” he says, holding the other employee in place by the shoulders. “Do the teeth thing, bitch. Like where you put your teeth together, all fucked-up-looking and shit. Do it man, show him. Show El Guerro your, your magic.”

They’re both looking at you.

You feel cornered.

You look at Sour Cream’s friend and say, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want. Think about it.”

“Come on bitch, do it,” Sour Cream says. Then he looks at you and says, “This pussy got some diced-ass teeth man, no joke.”

The other employee bends over laughing, and covers his mouth with his hand.

He’s acting like a seven-year-old girl.

It’s really dramatic.

It’s really embarrassing.

And how does that make you feel.

“Come on, fucking bitch,” Sour Cream says, hitting the other employee’s arm. “Why you always such a faggot, jo. Fucking do it.”

The other employee is still laughing, covering his mouth with his hand.

Then he calms himself and puts his teeth down together, keeping his lips apart so you can fully see the teeth.

His teeth don’t line up correctly.

And he’s barely able to keep from laughing as he’s showing you.

His nostrils twitch open and close and then he starts laughing.

Him and Sour Cream hit each other back and forth.

You say, “Wow those are fucked-up teeth.”

Sour Cream looks at you, with his thumb gesturing towards the other employee. “Shit is so fucked-up right man,” he says, eyes open wide. “Freaky as hell. Fucking freak-teeth, thass what it is. Oh shit. Thass it. Nigga got some freak-teeth.” He laughs loudly at a high pitch and says, “Oh shit, freak teeth.”

“Aw shit,” says Freak Teeth, boxing Sour Cream’s arm.

Sour Cream says, “First time I saw them I’s like, ‘Shit is freaky.’ Like a goblin or something, you know.”

“Freak teeth!” yells Freak Teeth, with his hand up to his mouth like he’s calling out to someone.

They both laugh.

You’re smiling.

Like a goblin.

And for some reason you think about a cardboard cut-out of Sugar Ray Leonard, on fire. And flaming cardboard Sugar Ray Leonard yells, “Freak teeth.”

Sour Cream laughs another high pitched laugh.

He says, “Got those freak teeth from all that dick in your mouth, little bitch. Eating all that dick up like some salad.”

“Your dad’s dick, maricon,” says Freak Teeth, stepping back and guarding his body with his hands.

They’re both laughing.

“Wait, why are you sucking his dad’s dick,” you say to Freak Teeth.

But they’re both laughing and not paying attention.

They hit each other a little more before walking on towards some other work.

As they walk away, you put your hand up to your mouth and yell, “Freak Teeth!”

Sour Cream yells, “Freak Teeth!” over his shoulder and him and Freak Teeth hit each other — walking away with an empty cart between them, going to get more boxes.

More boxes.

On your last break, you sit in the food court area of the store.

There’s an old couple arguing.

They look homeless.

The man has a shopping cart full of garbage.

He’s very skinny and bald, like he has cancer.

You watch him be mean to the woman.

He’s talking in a hushed, but mean way.

He keeps saying, “I told you not to fucking say that word.”

The woman eventually gets up and walks away and the look on her face is very very sad.

The look on her face is like, “Well, ok” and she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

You think about it the rest of your shift and it makes you feel awful, like doing anything feels stupid when someone is as badly hurt as that woman.

You continue thinking about it on the walk home, after work.

You start panicking.

And it transitions to thinking about getting your nose bitten off by someone.

Like, someone biting off all the cartilage and skin.

You can’t stop thinking about it.

The worst part would be the aftermath, just sitting there with a hole in your face, and the air making it hurt and how nothing could be done until you got to the hospital.

So many things I’m not ready for — you think.

When you turn the corner to your apartment building, you see one of the area’s more recognizable crackheads — the guy who wears the big white shirt with a cartoon man on the front, speech-bubble saying “Beer” and then the same cartoon on the back saying, “Sex.”

The crackhead is in the street, talking to what looks like two businessmen going to the airport.

He’s talking fast and using his hands a lot.

The businessmen listen intently as the crackhead says a few things then goes into the middle of the street.

The crackhead starts trying to get a taxi for them, as if he knows the only correct method.

You’ve also seen him sell out-of-date train schedules, or half-used subway cards, or bikes, or whatever else.

Last time you saw him he was selling a deflated football.

He kept yelling, “Go long” and standing back to imitate a throwing motion to other people on the street. He made the Heisman trophy pose a few times too, holding the deflated football.