Sam Pink - Hurt Others

His eyes and mouth and his expression too — everything in two places on his skull, whirring fast enough to glow.

He looked like a skeleton.

And so did I probably.

And almost everything else could be explained as an intersection between myself and something else, as a skeleton.

I scratched my shins with long loops of my thumbnail.

I moved closer to the screen and inspected the bones of his face and those around his mouth.

Each bone held tight.

But if asked why, they might not have anything interesting to say.

They might just intersect.

The screen buzzed quietly.

And I made a promise to myself.

I promised myself that, after last night’s rain dried off the grass, I’d mow the lawn.

I’d take my time, with Carmen’s shitty push-mower.

I’d get the push-mower out of the garage.

I’d grip the handles hard, pushing, sweating, taking my time to make the grass look nice.

I wouldn’t take any time to clear the fallen branches, I would just push the mower over everything, reducing everything — even if it’s a person sleeping on the grass — even three-hundred people sleeping — even everyone ever.

My feet inside whosever shoes I borrowed, greened, smelling vegetably, hot and sweating badly inside the shoes, without socks.

I’d allow myself no more or less than three breaks, to drink hose water and/or just sit on one of the three front steps, staring at the street.

And after I was satisfied with the way the grass looked, I’d clean off the blades of the push-mower — first with my shoe, then maybe a rag I find in the garage or if I have to, my shirt.

Putting away the mower in the garage, I’d take several deep breaths to enjoy the gas and oil fumes.

Then I’d get a broom if there was one, or borrow one from the guy who’s always sitting in a chair in his garage, four or five doors down.

He’d mention the Chicago Cubs, because they’d be broadcasted over a small plastic radio behind us in the garage.

And I’d broom the clippings off the sidewalk, back into the lawn, where they’d maybe get raked over the grass again, distributed nicely.

Maybe then I’d hose off the sidewalk, drink some of the hose water and put some on my face and back of neck and sweat and feel good and sit on the front steps eating a bunch of those things that are like, frozen juice inside a plastic sleeve, where you push it up through the sleeve to bite it and always wait until the end when you can drink the fully melted juice and it’s so awesome, it’s so worth it.

And then probably the kids who live down the block would come over.

And I’d let them stand around and talk to me because I know at their house they get beat because at night it’s audible from down the block.

They’d stand around asking questions to keep me occupied while one or two of the others tried to get into the house or fought each other, or attempted to get me to buy lighters for them.

And every time I’d decline doing something bad for them, the kid who was like, maybe three or four (the most evil one) would say, “Tumm on, man. Peez. Peez man.”

Carmen walked back into the room and unpaused the movie.

We watched the movie and it was boring but I felt good on account of it being summer.

“The Midwest is beautiful during the summer,” I said, opening up the map of Illinois from Carmen’s bookshelf.

Carmen was on his back, lying in bed.

Without turning, he said, “It’s the fucking greatest.”

Eventually, we damaged so much stuff in the house, we all had to move out.

A couple weeks before we moved out, I was out walking around, looking through the garbage.

This was around the time people from the college started to move out of apartments and find new ones, throwing out shit that was still ok to use.

In one of the alleys I passed, someone had thrown out a chair.

The chair looked nice.

I went to look at it.

While I was looking at it, there was a yell from down the block, and then the sound of something moving.

Out from between some garages, a teenaged person came at me in a jogging trip.

He was yelling.

He had on an old, dirty Chicago Bulls wintercoat even though it was like ninety degrees out.

He came up to me and stood there, breathing hard and smelling like piss.

Old piss.

Under one arm he held a brown paperbag.

He put it on the ground.

The brown paperbag was wet and crumpled.

He also held a bulge in his coat as his breathing calmed from the run.

He wore Velcro boots on the wrong feet, and all over his face there was bad acne.

It was a boy from the abusive family down the block.

“Muh. Motooz,” he said. “Motooz.”

Sounded like, “Motooz.”

I couldn’t tell.

Yolky stains covered his black sweatpants and it looked like there was something retarded about him.

I couldn’t tell.

I stayed where I was, just standing.

Transferring weight between his Velcro boots, he said, “Motooz,” over and over.

“Muh, motooz.”

Over and over, pointing to himself.

Smelling like piss.

“Motooz. Motooz.”

“Motion,” I said. Actually, I was asking.

“Mo-tis,” he said slowly, pointing to his chest. “Ah Mo-tzis.”

I couldn’t understand him.

“Moat-ziss,” he said.

“Moses,” I said. Actually, I was asking.

He nodded and smiled.

“Ah Motooz,” he said.

One of the pimples on his chin looked very swollen and painful.

It was yellow and full.

Birds lined the telephone wire.

“Motooz. Twigk,” he said. “Motooz twick.”

He reached for his pocket.

“Twigk,” he said.

“Trick,” I said. Actually, I was asking.

He nodded and smiled.

“Z, uh twigk,” he said, licking at the bad chapping around his mouth.

And I thought about Michael Jordan.

Thought about a transparent projection of Michael Jordan, and the projection went into my body and I absorbed it.

“Twick-uh,” the teenager said. “Z twick.”

He unzipped his coat.

Out from his coat fell some small beige bodies, into his hands.

Baby rabbits.

Their eyes were still swollen closed.

They moved around in his chapped hands and he yelled, smiling.

A bad smell came from the Chicago Bulls coat again and I thought, “Michael Jordan” and saw Michael Jordan’s face inside my head, smiling at me and saying, “Die, Die, Die” and all his NBA championship rings were floating over his head.

“Nice bunnies,” I said.

He pulled back.

There was a thick moment of distrust between us.

Holding the rabbits, he stared at me.

I thought — Michael Jordan is a baby rabbit.

“Motooz,” the teenager said.

He seemed confused and upset, trying to control the baby rabbits.

Then the wet paperbag on the ground moved a little.

It felt to me like the situation had already happened and I was being sent back to review what I’d missed, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d missed.

“Motooz,” the teenager said again, kneeling.

He was trying to keep my attention.

He set down the baby rabbits on the edge of the alley.

The baby rabbits were on their backs, moving in place, and trying to get on their feet.

I wanted to be in one of their bellies sleeping.

But I wasn’t.

The paperbag moved again, just a little.

“Twick, twick,” the teenager said, kind of nervous.

He undid the twisted paperbag, and took out a huge toad.

The toad was dark green and puckered — kind of moldy looking.

Looked heavy in his hand.

“Twick, twig,” he said. “Motooz, twigk-uh.”

He was getting upset.