Sam Pink - Rontel

In front of the speaker stood a little boy who was barely able to walk.

Singer said, “’At’s my son, eyr-one. Say hi.”

Nobody said hi.

I said hi in my head.

The kid looked two.

He was making unsteady single and double steps in front of the PA speaker, eating a small bag of chips.

The music was so loud but he didn’t seem scared.

He just danced, eating chips.

Then he started bouncing up and down, bending at the knees.

Classic baby style.

I felt like turning to the girl next to me and saying, “Ah, class ic baby style.”

The singer wearing the fisherman’s hat and denim vest finished the song.

He breathed hard into the microphone.

He said, “Woo, Chi-town. We g’in too hot. Ish shit too hot. My hands burnin’ up on this mic hurr. Damn it.”

And he continued to talk in a way that indicated he was delaying.

Then a phone-ringing sound played through the PA speaker.

The singer said, “Oh, ho-don, I’m so so sorry Chicago, I gossa take this.”

He reached down to the ground and picked up an old housephone receiver, cord dangling.

He had a conversation with his “woman” while his son stared off — not dancing anymore — just staring off with his finger in the side of his mouth.

I watched him.

If he drops the chips, the chips are mine — I thought.

Yeah, take the chips if they fall.

Act like you’re going to pick the bag up for him then scurry off like a little bitch, eating the chips in such a way that they fall from your mouth, disgusting.

The singer talked with more excitement.

He said, “Oh baby what was you doing b’fo? I almost hung up on you. Oh — oh you was, you was making a hot beef and uh, bologna sandwich? Oh ok, well, well haha you still coming over t’night? Oh ok good, then make sure you brang me, uh, summa that—” then he yelled, “HOT STUFF.”

Which then segued into a song where the lyrics were, “Looking for some hot stuff baby this evening/Looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight.”

The singer thrust his crotch forward once to each syllable in “HOT STUFF.”

And for a second his kid looked like he was about to cry — finger in mouth, eyes pinching up.

But then this girl a few years older came and danced with him.

And he smiled and danced with her, taking his finger out of his mouth.

Accidentally dropped the chips.

A group of kids all wearing the same high school gym uniforms walked up, cheering.

Other people gathered too.

I moved forward to get a better view.

This kid is so awesome — I thought.

And will one day grow to be a man.

Will one day eat more chips.

The song ended with a lot of chime sounds and then the singer was wiping his head with a bandana, foot up on the PA speaker.

His son continued dancing even though there was no more music.

Just bending up and down at the knees.

People cheered.

One guy had his hand up to his mouth, yelling, “Ooh ooh.” He slapped his leg a little. “Shit,” he said. “Aw shit. Check out dude. Dude crazy.”

Someone else said, “Too cray. He bout ta fall out.”

Everyone was laughing and cheering.

I stood there smiling.

Down the platform a man in a fabric hotdog suit was handing out coupons.

No one talked to him.

Something about the man in the fabric hotdog suit bothered me.

But I didn’t know what.

I thought — Hotdog man, I’ma fucking get you, don’t worry.

“Uh oh,” someone said. “Little dude getting fierce nah.”

The kid’s pace had increased.

Someone turned to me and hit my arm and said, “You seeing this.

This motherfucker — he a mobsta.”

Someone next to him said, “ This dude lethal.”

“Yeah this dude is lethal,” I said, not that loud.

Sometimes I would just repeat things to people as a way to allow the conversation to keep going.

By saying the same thing the person just said, I’d sustain the thought, rather than interrupt it with whatever I had to add, which probably wasn’t anything I wanted to add.

“ Lethal ,” the person said again. “Somebody arrest’zis lil nigga.”

His friends laughed.

The singer said, “You have the right to remain LEEEEEEETHAL.”

Someone from the crowd yelled, “Chi-town LETHal!”

Other people yelled.

The kid put his finger in his mouth again, still dancing.

Someone else said, “Oooh, he tryn some sexy shit now.”

“He’s lethal,” I said again, looking at the ground a little, searching for the chips.

Someone said, “Them little legs is all like jellyfish.”

The singer started another song and people watched his son dance a little longer before trains arrived and everyone boarded.

The guy in the hotdog suit, still there.

He was in a conversation now, holding out a coupon pamphlet.

The person hadn’t taken it.

Yes, hotdog man.

Yes.

Yes, do this.

Do this dirt, my man.

Make them take the pamphlet.

Make them realize they want it.

The train departed, me nodding my head and watching hotdog man through a window.

And right then, I wanted to know that someone in the train was watching me — and could hear me — so I could turn and stare straight forward and say, “Everything is in place for the lunar harvest”—then sit down and continue staring straightforward, smiling.

*

There was a day-old newspaper on the seat next to me.

A small daily paper.

It had stories about what celebrities ate at what Chicago restaurants.

It told people what movies to see and what shows to watch and what books to read and what to do for fun.

It had “where to drink” suggestions that referenced “cool bars/city spots” for the white people in the city who all moved here together after college.

The daily paper also had “debate” articles between staff writers who were trying to be funny/cute.

The debates would be like, “Is it ok to date someone who hates your best friend.”

Or: “What’s the code for roommate bathroom sharing.”

Or: “Are moustaches cool.”

Or: “Hash browns or fruit for breakfast.”

Today I read the crime blotter.

I liked the crime blotter.

The only place in the newspaper where they just stated facts about something that happened without trying to make it fun.

My favorite crime blotter ever was: “Man in Uptown beats upstairs neighbor then drags her to the basement and sets her on fire.”

Today there were four news items in the crime blotter.

One was about a man forcing children into his car and then molesting them in an alley.

The next was about a man raping a child who attended the daycare his wife ran at home.

Next one about a man stabbing his doctor then trying to rape her.

Next one about a man who died in an alley after being stabbed in the throat "repeatedly."

I looked up from the paper and out the window.

Felt like my face was the ugliest melt ever at that point.

Like, the worst.

I felt so stupid-looking.

Always felt ugly and stupid on the train.

Like almost, sagged.

Sagged out.

Sagged out and sorry.

Horrific.

Sorry I’m so saggy, but I’m sagged out and sorry.

Suck my dick — I thought, addressing myself.

The train was underground.

I stared at the tunnel wall, and its lighting.

Thought about stabbing someone in the throat repeatedly.

Is there any way to do it except repeatedly.

Could it really stop after one stab.

I thought about stabbing someone once then just standing there.

Seemed like that would be worse.

What would I do just standing there after the first stab.