Sam Pink - Hurt Others

Today I worked a nine hour, midday shift.

I spent the whole day taking down and restocking an entire beverage aisle.

After work I bought two bananas and some water and went out front, by the Clark bus stop.

A bus pulled up and a co-worker exited.

She nodded to me and had a cigarette, standing outside with me before her shift.

“I’m going to be frickin late,” she said, rolling her eyes like it was someone else’s fault.

There was some name tattooed in cursive on her neck.

And she always called me “Yogurt Man” because I bought yogurt to eat on break.

That was all I knew about her.

I also knew that I wanted to hug her around the waist and put my head on her breasts in a gentle, innocent way.

Without sexual intentions.

“Did you hear Marquita got shot,” she said.

“Who’s Marquita,” I said.

“Marquita, the cashier,” she said. “She works here. She got shot in the face yesterday, right around here.”

“Ow,” I said.

I finished one of the bananas and whipped the peel at the metal garbage can, slapping the rim and going in.

She laughed and said, “Yeah, ow.”

I said, “Ow, someone shot me in the face, help!”

I cracked the end of the other banana open and started peeling.

She idly said, “Ow”—looking out at the street and blowing out smoke.

And it was quiet except for the collage of traffic, and some wind, and a plane nearing to land at Midway Airport — all somewhat dulled by my ringing ears.

I felt insane standing there.

Watching my co-worker smoke her cigarette.

Marquita got shot in the face.

Who shot Marquita.

I thought about a television show and/or novel called, “Code: Marquita.”

My co-worker started coughing, and a big vein surfaced underneath the cursive tattoo on her neck.

“Oh hey,” she said, coughing less. “Do you know what day it is, hun.”

“What day it is.”

“Yeah, what’s the date,” she said. “Like, the number, I mean.”

Then she coughed a single cough with her mouth open, her tongue curled along the bottom of her mouth.

The cough shotgunned into my face through her curled tongue.

Boom — the smell of her perfume, and the cigarette, and her cough — all of it shotgunned into my face.

A stream of germs, smoke, and perfume particles hitting me.

Boom, in slow motion, the cough rips my head apart.

“Yeah reason I was asking about the date,” she said, “Is I don’t know if I still have enough time to ask for this day off coming up. You have to submit a request like, what, what is it, what two weeks in advance.”

“Nineteen days,” I said.

“Great,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “Yeah so what’s the date, hun.”

“The first thing I thought when asked the date was, ‘249 Million’ for some reason. Is that right. Is it 249 million already.”

She said, “I wanted to ask for a day off. I’m going to this Christmas concert where they play Christmas songs with guitars and drums and synthesizers and shit. Should be awesome. I’m taking frickin boring-ass Ray though. Gonna get my tits sucked on, hopefully.”

“Sucking on tits,” I said, confused about why she used the name ‘Ray’ assuming I already know him, and also confused about why she thought Christmas time was that close.

“Yes sir,” she said.

She stared at the street.

She scratched the cursive lettered tattoo on her neck and coughed again, just once, through the curled tongue.

“I actually don’t know the date,” I said.

“I don’t either,” she said. “Thought you might. Shit. I just look at the boxes at the work schedule and know how many boxes I have left before I have to go back. I never actually know the name of the day it is, or the number.”

“Me neither,” I said, feeling distinctly stupid-as-hell.

“That’s how you know you’re truly losing,” she said, laughing to herself a little. “When you can’t figure out the frickin date.”

She coughed.

I said, “Oh wait, the date is: the 14 thof Time To Get My Tits Sucked On.”

We laughed together a little bit.

My laugh sounded really fake to me.

Her laugh sounded fake to me too.

Her smile looked pretty though.

Mine, I never liked.

“Let’s rock this shit,” she said, taking a last pull on her cigarette.

“I’m done actually,” I said.

“Well fuck you then,” she said, smiling.

She put her cigarette out on the pole for the bus stop sign.

The cigarette smeared.

Some embers hit a movie ad on the bus stop bench area.

The movie ad showed a man up close, smiling, with a woman kissing his cheek.

“Alright, I’m late,” she said. “Bye sweetie.”

She turned towards the store.

“Wait, let’s get a hug,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Come here,” I said, with my arms out.

She said, “Yeah, alright.”

We hugged.

I had to bend down a little to properly hug her.

My right ear touched her right ear.

We let go of each other and she walked towards the store.

The front door opened out towards her and almost hit her.

She sidestepped it, coughing into her hand, her other arm holding down her purse.

Some people came out and she waited before going into the store through the door that had opened outward.

Plus, minus.

I walked in the direction of my apartment.

A bus departed from its stop going in the same direction alongside me.

A man sitting towards the back made eye contact until we were out of range.

And it occurred to me that maybe if I had a regular thing I did each day, like reading the newspaper, or going swimming, or a crossword puzzle, maybe then I’d feel rewarded.

Maybe then I’d be someone who consistently knew the date.

After about two months at the grocery store, I felt too depressed one day to go to work so I didn’t go.

And I didn’t call in.

I thought about calling and lying.

But that felt stupid. I thought about calling and saying I just didn’t want to go in. But that would’ve gotten me in more trouble than lying.

So I didn’t call at all.

The next day when I went in to work, my boss Charles said, “What are you doing here.”

I said, “I’m scheduled today.”

He said, “Nah I had to replace you. You don’t come in, you don’t call. Come on.”

He looked scared.

I looked at him and said, “Yeah, alright. I have no excuse. Thanks for the job.”

I walked out.

I went down the block and sat on the sidewalk.

It was still hot out.

It felt amazing not to have a job.

For a second, I felt confused about who I’d been at any point before this.

And I focused on the feeling.

It thrilled me.

It made me realize I’m an individual, but not because I’m special, or unique or any other empty idea, but because I could never share my thrills and disappointments.

It was all mine, but in a way that wasn’t by choice.

I could walk up to someone on the street, and I’d be containing this amazing feeling, without them noticing it.

I could be jobless and ecstatic, and walk up to someone and they’d think I was just another person.

I could look that person in the eyes and they’d notice nothing.

I could say, “Look at me, what do you see.”

And they wouldn’t see it.

But I’d still be feeling it.

And it’d be mine.

Outside, sitting on the sidewalk, I had thoughts that I left vague, undeveloped and unguided.

Like: “Somebody get these motherfuckers out of here.”

Or: “It’s time to kill these motherfuckers.”

On the walk home, the wind off Lake Michigan blew hard against my head and face.