Sam Pink - Hurt Others

Later, my trainer showed me the freezer, where they kept supplies.

It was in the back of the store, in a basement-like area you accessed through a very narrow hallway.

The freezer stockroom was ten degrees below zero, and its engines were loud.

I later made a habit of going in the freezer stockroom and making a noise with my throat that exactly reproduced the tone of the engines.

I’d stand there and do the exact same tone of humming.

Making the same sound as the freezer.

I liked to do that.

Every time I did it, it seemed like that layer of humming stayed in my head.

Getting louder every time.

Yes and I’d stand there in the freezer, knowing that one day when I went into the freezer to get something I’d come back out but no one would be in the store or anywhere else I looked.

Just humming.

And having given myself repeated reminders about how this feels, it wouldn’t surprise me.

And that’s comfortable, to never be surprised.

To come into command of something already happening a certain way, and not be surprised.

Harmlessly in command by just not needing solutions.

That’s comfort.

Letting myself become something that’s already happening a certain way.

Humming along with the freezer.

The pay was seven dollars and thirty five cents and I spent most of it on food at work.

One of my first nights there, a really drunk woman came in and bought a bunch of things, and then asked me to carry it home for her.

I looked at Charles, the manager, and he said to do it, so I did it.

I carried the bags a few blocks to her apartment building, and we went up twenty some floors.

She opened up her apartment door and I went in and put the bags on the ground, while she went into her room — right down the hall — and lay face down on her bed.

There was a picture of some guy on the wall by the doorway, and I found myself staring at myself in it.

I’d focus then unfocus, letting my face and the guy’s face blend.

On the walk back to work, I sat on a curb by a sprinkler going off, and stayed for ten minutes, trying to stop sweating.

A prostitute walked down the sidewalk and when she (?) passed by, we smiled and waved to each other.

The job was fine.

I just did what I was told.

I went to work and bagged groceries.

After working there for a month, the manager said he liked me and moved me to the deli, where I got paid thirty five cents more.

I sliced meat and cheese on a deli slicer and cleaned.

I had to disassemble the meat slicer, and the cheese slicer every night, and clean every part of them.

One of the main guys at the deli cut the top of his thumb off right after I started in the deli.

His thumb bled a lot and he kept saying, “Oh shit oh shit” almost quietly.

Working in the deli was ok.

It made me smell weird.

I had to wear a hairnet.

Plus the bathroom in the breakroom sucked for shitting because it was always cold for some reason and the door didn’t lock.

And for whatever reason, around that time, my dick looked a lot bigger than it usually was.

Charles was the manager.

I felt bad for him for some reason, so I liked him.

One time he paged me over the p.a.

I went to his office and he asked me to clean up outside.

He was staring at an invoice of some kind, in quiet terror.

“Ey can you sweep ah-side, out front,” he said.

He didn’t look up from the paper.

I said, “Yeah, I’ll go do it now.”

Then he turned to me like I’d just entered the room. “Ey,” he said, “I wanted to ax you—” he reached under his desk and opened a mini-fridge. He pulled out a small plastic bag and extended it to me. “You want this roast beef?” He shook the bag. “I bought it the other day and the expiration date is tomorrow. There’s like half a pound left but I been eating it f’the last week. Can’t eat no more. I’m afraid I’ma have a stroke because of it or something.” He jabbed it at me. “Here. You want it?”

“Sure,” I said and grabbed the roast beef. I looked at it then back to him. “Thanks. Thanks for the roast beef.”

“No problem. Sweep under the ice machine too, please.”

He smiled and winked and clicked his teeth.

Then he returned to staring at the invoice.

There was a juice-box on his desk, fruit punch.

The roast beef felt heavy in my hand.

Out front I set the broom down and sat on the curb.

Somebody drove by and yelled “Cocksucker” and I watched the car get smaller.

I swept, pushing dead leaves into the street.

There was a huge puddle along the curb.

Inside it was a broken pencil, bobbing.

It floated past.

I threw the roast beef into the street and a car ran it over.

I was still young.

My shifts were mostly at night, up until the closing of the store at midnight.

At night, the overnight cleaning crew would come in.

There was this old man named Gilberto.

He worked for the cleaning company hired by the store.

He was like, in his 60’s, and he worked over eighty hours a week.

He’d work a twelve hour shift, go home and take a three hour nap and come back.

Sometimes I couldn’t understand him with his accent, but Gilberto was fucking awesome.

We always acknowledged each other the first time on any particular day.

I’d always say, “Hey man” while doing a single, precise upward-nod.

That was my thing.

Every time.

And he’d say, “Mijo.”

I’d developed several relationships like that with people at work.

Just a single performance.

A single nod while saying, “Hey.”

And then slowly I noticed I started using “Hey” more in a way that sounded like “Ey.”

Slowly, it became more and more like “Ey.”

I’d become an “Ey” guy.

And Gilberto knew it.

And he loved it.

Today after our regular greeting, he motioned me over, and we talked for a little while next to the floor waxer.

We had a conversation.

He leaned on the floor waxer.

“Lot of pretty girls here shopping huh,” he said, speaking carefully. He made a circling motion with his finger, “Everywhere, they come in today.”

I nodded.

He was right.

In fact, just earlier, I had had the thought, “Sea of tits.”

He smiled and said, “I always been ugly though.” He looked at the floor waxer. “I always been ah ugly.”

There was silence.

Neither of us did anything to interrupt it.

The silence spread between us, became boss.

“I always been ah ugly though, so, doesn’t matter,” he said. “But they a lot of pretty girls today, hah mijo?”

“Yeah man,” I said. “You’re totally right.”

“Sorry,” he said, pointing to his mouth.

“No I understand what you’re saying.”

More silence.

Gilberto.

He kept smiling and nodding.

I did too.

His teeth looked triangular.

What some might call shark teeth.

His shark teeth were too powerful for me so I looked away, at the logo on his shirt.

The logo was a vacuum cleaner, winking.

A winking vacuum.

For a second I thought I had to wink back.

I almost winked back.

“I always been ugly though,” he said again, splaying his fingers and motioning them about his face. “My face — always ugly thing. S’okay though.”

I didn’t say anything.

The shark teeth.

“Ugly all the time,” he said, shrugging. “S’okay though.”

“Nah, it’s ok man — don’t worry. No problem. I mean—”

“My daughter look pretty, though,” he said, pointing at me and smiling.

“Oh nice.”

We smiled at each other for a little bit more before I walked away to do whatever work I had to do.