Sam Pink - Rontel

Would I talk to the victim.

If they said something to me, I feel like I’d definitely respond.

So I’d either have to stand there to make sure the person died or stab them repeatedly to ensure it.

Also, seemed like if I stabbed once then paused, it would be hard to get back into it.

It’d be like sweating in a shirt, then taking the shirt off and putting it back on like, fifteen minutes later.

So yeah.

Repeatedly.

Once seemed cruel.

That would be the worst thing to read: “Man stabbed in throat once, dies in alley over an extended period of time.”

Just get it done — I thought, looking back into the train car.

Finish everything you start.

Finish yourself.

I’ma finish you, Chicago — I thought, feeling pleasure in my testicles from the shaking of the train.

*

At the other end of the train car there was a kid in a mechanized wheelchair device.

He had his thumb in his mouth.

He had a really serious look on his face.

An older woman stood behind him with her hands on the wheelchair.

On the left armrest of the wheelchair device there was a keyboard attached to something.

We made eye contact.

Felt like I was looking at myself.

The misery.

With the hand of the thumb in his mouth, he waved by bending all four fingers down and up and down and up.

The way he did it seemed like it was happening real slow.

Felt so friendly too.

Like we knew each other.

The misery.

I looked at him and tried to silently communicate, “This. Sucks.”

But I couldn’t tell if it worked.

Couldn’t tell if I’d thought, “This. Sucks,” or if the kid in the wheelchair put the thought inside my head.

That would be terrible.

I stared at him and thought — No, you will NOT control me.

He continued sucking his thumb, the thumb that should’ve been over the keyboard controls of his wheelchair.

His dashboard.

Are you my space captain.

When does it end.

And where.

Am I brave enough.

I looked back at the newspaper.

I liked to have a newspaper on the train so no one would talk me.

It wasn’t the only guard against interaction, but definitely the best.

Staring at a newspaper for a long time seemed normal — but staring at any other object on the train for a long period didn’t.

If you just stared at something without words on it, someone would eventually fuck with you.

They’re here to fuck with me — I thought.

The tension of feeling perfectly fine with just staring at anything, versus other people fucking with you.

The tension.

Such bad tension!

Let me show you how a real man endures bad tension.

Been doing that a lot lately, adding, “Let me show you how a real man (does something)” to a lot of my thoughts or conversations.

Like, yesterday my girlfriend went to walk across the street before we had a walk signal and I held her back and said, “Let me show you how a real man obeys traffic law.”

In the newspaper there was one last item in the crime blotter, presented in the form of a giant quote with the story beneath.

The quote was from someone who witnessed a stabbing outside a bar in Rogers Park.

The quote read: “Yeah this guy came up, and was going to give him (the victim) a hug, and then he (attacker) says, ‘Hey what’s up,’ and stabbed him in the back.”

So — someone randomly approached someone else outside a bar and said, “Hey what’s up” then offered a hug, then stabbed the person as the hug was accepted.

My heavens.

I sat there terrified.

Why would anyone accept some random hug.

I’d never accepted a random hug in my life.

And never would!

Actually no.

What the fuck.

Who am I to deny.

I’d take the first one offered by anyone right now — even if I saw the person holding a giant knife behind his/her back.

Even if the person ended up stabbing me, I’d take a deep breath and put my mouth by his or her ear and say, “I knew you’d do this. I knew it, sweetheart. And, well I still thank you for the hug.”

I turned the page.

There was an article about a television show where people competed by losing weight.

I closed the newspaper and put it on the ground.

Welcome to your new home.

*

The train made a stop at Damen Street and the kid in the mechanized wheelchair exited, pushed out by his mother.

Thumb in his mouth still.

He did the same wave — keeping his eyes forward.

Pushed away, waving.

Signaling, “Laaaaater, asshole.”

And I realized that part of my problem was I visibly resembled an adult.

But never became one.

People viewed me as an adult but I was just shit.

I always expected adulthood to happen, to make, like, a popping or dinging sound when it did.

But no.

Newly twenty-nine years old and nowhere near anything different than ever before.

Not even youthful.

Just the same pile, moving around.

Shifting anxieties — moving a pile of lead around to different areas of the same giant bare room.

To then realize I’ve become the pile.

The truth.

All just one time period.

One big now.

No adulthood.

Rapidly moving away from any kind of connection.

I could imagine borders around periods of my life to make it seem like I’d become a different person, but that would just be a failure to see there was no more changing or nearness of change as the person on either side of those imagined borders.

Not sure.

Not important.

Not going to shower today. (Third day in a row, yeah!)

What if I just donated all my organs and everything useful about me right now, even the few good thoughts I’d had.

What if I walked into a hospital and said, “I’m going to kill myself anyway, you want my shit or not, come on”—then wait a second and say, “Come on, talk to me talk to me let’s go.”

I saw myself entering the hospital and confidently walking up to the front desk, resting my elbow on the counter.

“Yeah, come on, let’s see a doctor, sweetheart,” I’d say, regardless of the front desk worker’s gender — and I’d be snapping. “Come on come on.” Then, even if the employee was talking to me, say, “Talk to me here, come on.”

Let me show you how a real man sits on the train and stares, uninterested, briefly able to visualize his body hollowed out of all its operative parts.

*

In a different row of seating an old man sat with the back of his skull against the metal headrest bar, waking up with each bump.

He kept trying to resist sleep but would then fall asleep.

Yes, it’s ok, old man.

Fall asleep.

You’ve earned it.

It’s time to sleep.

Sleep time.

Be calm.

I am with you.

Dream about us holding hands — floating up and up and up and yelling and laughing the whole time.

Dream about me performing surgery on you, salting your beating heart (why not).

The old man kept waking up and going to sleep.

Just sleep.

You’re not missing anything.

I’ll wake you up if something happens.

I’ll tell you when to get off the train.

We won’t forget your stop.

I sat there thinking about which of his bones I could probably break with my bare hands.

I compiled a list.

Arrived at the Wilson Street stop in Uptown Chicago.

And yeah if people had access to my thoughts and feelings, I’d be asked to live on a rock in outer space — one with a long tether to a building in Chicago if any of my friends (just kidding) wanted to come visit.

*

Going through the turnstile, I heard two people by the ticket machine.

One said, “—and really, that’s the bottom line.”