Sam Pink - Rontel

Then I wrote, “Sorry for being such an asshole sometimes, I care about you,” and tapped her, but she didn’t look.

Hawaiian guy was still talking.

Hawaiian guy was really intense and earnest.

Everyone was really earnest.

Made me think.

What was wrong with me.

Why couldn’t I get excited about something like beekeeping.

Get really excited.

Just come to the class today and enjoy it.

Why couldn’t I live like that.

Viewing almost everything with excitement/enjoyment.

Why couldn’t I just enjoy something.

Why instead did I always envision my own corpse, smileless and rotten.

Smileless and rotten.

Just, terrible.

At the end of our table there was an overweight kid who’d been making faces at me the whole class.

He held up a picture he drew — of a horse — and crossed his eyes at me.

I thought about holding up a piece of paper that read, “Fuck you, bitch”—and raising my eyebrows up and down a few times.

Another person at the class was American Wilderness.

In the back sat a concerned-looking man wearing an “American Wilderness” sweatshirt, who began to dominate the question-asking.

His sweatshirt had “American Wilderness” airbrushed on the front — over an airbrushed bear, which was over an airbrushed American flag, which was waving.

American Wilderness kept asking questions, with a very stern look on his face, his hands gesturing as if opening a combination lock.

I imagined him eating a cookie — only he wasn’t wearing the American Wilderness sweatshirt, he was shirtless. And cookie crumbs fell into his dense chest hair, dissolving.

Almost every question he asked was — according to the bee instructor—“Going to be addressed later.”

*

When all the questions were done, the bee instructor showed some slides of poorly maintained bee boxes.

He showed slides of all the ways someone can ruin a beehive.

The last slides were bee boxes destroyed on purpose.

He said, “And — I guess — here’s some random vandalism from teenagers.”

Everyone said, “Ohh,” and seemed upset.

I thought — These…these are my bees.

*

On break, Bill told us he’d already ordered his bees.

The bees had to be ordered from somewhere.

Bill said, “They told me to call the post office to let them know they’re coming.”

He was talking to my girlfriend, but I said, “That’s a scary thing to call someone and tell them. ‘My bees are coming.’”

He looked at me for maybe six seconds and said, “Right yeah.”

My girlfriend said, “That’s exciting, that they’re already on their way. I’m jealous.”

Bill said, “Oh I know, I’m just falling in love with bees.”

And he really was falling in love with bees.

My girlfriend was too.

They were two people who loved everything.

And excited and polite people who love everything find and keep each other.

*

When break ended, the instructor went around the room and asked each person to introduce him/herself then state his/her reason for taking the class.

Bill had his legs crossed, hands clasped with fingers together around the knees.

He said, “Well, I’m Bill and I guess I’m just — and I was telling these guys earlier — I’m really just, falling in love with bees to be honest.”

Everyone said, “Ah,” or, “Uh huh,” or, “(agree in some way).”

Another person introduced himself and said he too had always been fascinated by beekeeping.

Then he referenced living in Hawaii numerous times in astounding succession.

Hawaii Man again.

When it was my turn, I said, “I’m here because my girlfriend asked me to come with her and said she’d pay, and also because I want to control nature.”

The overweight kid at the end of the table said, “Control nature!?” really loud and crossed his eyes then held up a game of tic-tac-toe he’d drawn on his bee packet.

When it was his turn to introduce himself, he got real nervous and said, “Um yes, hello, I’m Eli. I like bees uh, because um, because they’re my favorite thing to love because I like them and I’m an artist.”

Then the next person began her introduction.

Eli made a face at me, biting a muffin he’d acquired during break.

Fuck you, bitch.

*

After the beekeeping class my girlfriend and I went to a secondhand store in Humboldt Park.

She wanted to buy clothes and make them into different clothes.

She walked around looking at clothes and I walked around feeling like I wanted to hit my head against something and hurt myself.

My skin warmed up and felt hardened.

Felt like I couldn’t comfortably be inside any building.

Wanted to leave.

From behind a rack of clothing, someone said, “I’m sayin’, all they shorts is fuck-TUP, Darryl.”

Then Darryl said, “You sayin’ they all bogus. Well I’on’t want none then. Fuck this.”

In the main aisle, a kid stood in a shopping cart.

We stared at each other.

Will he fall.

Face smashed on the floor.

Me standing there.

Inevitably someone would walk up and see me standing there with the kid lying facedown on the floor, blood coming out around his head.

What would be the normal thing to do in that situation.

Do you say “hi” to the first person who finds you or do you just shrug or do you start to help or what.

My girlfriend stood at the end of an aisle in front of a small cracked mirror, holding some clothes up against her.

“What about this,” she said. “I kind of like it.”

I focused on breathing.

I purposely didn’t look at anyone.

Just me calmly and openly accepting my role in this equation.

Which always equaled a loosely defined sum.

Which always equaled just slightly more than itself.

“It’s nice, I like it,” I said, touching my finger to the shirt she held.

“I love it more than anything in my life.”

“Even me,” she said.

I looked at the shirt then back at her face.

Neither of us said anything as she continued to hold the shirt up against herself.

She said, “I think I like it, yeah.”

And I moved some shirts along a rack in front of me.

There was one with Osama Bin Laden’s face on the front, a big red X through it.

Underneath his picture it said, “America doesn’t back down.”

And, in reference to nothing, I thought — I’ll never back down, motherfucker.

Didn’t matter what because I’d NEVER back down.

And that felt good.

My girlfriend held the same piece of clothing, doing this odd series of poses with it, almost like a dance.

I looked up and saw a sign hanging from the ceiling.

It had two columns, indicating the location of things.

It listed things like “Men” and “Boys,” and “Girls.”

One of the things listed was “Hot Styles.”

I wanted to walk up to an employee and say, “Excuse me, could you tell me where the hot styles are. Oh, nevermind, there they are.”

Why would anyone want anything other than hot styles.

Who would see that there are hot styles, and then not just immediately go there.

I envisioned a sign I’d make for the store.

And the sign was bigger.

And it only had “HOT STYLES” written on it in big letters.

And there were arrows all around it, pointing out at all areas in the store.

I stood behind my girlfriend, staring at myself in the mirror.

I repeatedly thought — Hot styles/these are hot styles here — until I felt calm.

Girlfriend said, “How about this one — no?”

I said, “These are some hot styles.”

“The hottest styles,” she said.