Sam Pink - Rontel

Me: “Wiskieski, just tell me. We used to be so good man. It was me and you. Just me and ol’ Wisnieski. What now.”

Minutes passed.

Wisnieski: “Who the fuck is this.”

Me: “It’s Wisnieski dude.”

And I lay there in the dark, waiting for Wisnieski to respond.

To tell me we were all right.

But he never did.

No.

Wisnieski.

What happened.

Where did you go.

I’m never going to get to the post-production party — I thought.

I’ll never make it.

Never!

And I spun the shitty phone around on the floor, sweating.

When I looked at the alarm clock, the time changed from 11:52 p.m. to 11:53 p.m.

Somehow it was the worst feeling ever, to watch that happen.

The end of something, but I didn’t know what.

Just, the worst.

*

My brother and I walked to the post office.

He had to mail out something for a minor league baseball team.

A few years ago, he signed up for a minor league baseball team’s mailing list, under the name Clive Jackson.

Clive Jackson.

He wrote that name on a mailing list and the team started mailing him things: reminders about ticket deals, “free (something)” days, and other things.

Each newsletter or flier always had, “Greetings” (which was typed in the same font as the rest of the letter) then, (in a bigger less defined font), “…Clive!”

Today my brother had to mail out a raffle ticket entry for Clive, with the possibility of winning a duffel bag that had the team’s logo on it.

Walking back from the post office — through the hot shitty sidewalks, gang territory, through people, bicyclists, joggers, men selling ice cream off bikes, walkers and standers — we discussed what could be kept inside the duffel bag, if Clive Jackson won it.

Ultimately, we agreed the best use for the duffel bag would be zipping up Rontel in it — only up to his chin so his face was exposed — then cutting out four holes for his limbs, which, being too short, would be supplemented by hydraulic(?) mechanical(?) limbs that he could operate with his mind (after we shave his head again and implant what we agreed would be “electrodes or like—”).

“I like Clive’s chances,” my brother said, wringing his hands as we entered an alley.

People had begun throwing out things in the alleys, preparing for moves.

April and August were the moving months.

“Is it April or August,” I said.

My brother said, “It’s May.”

I imagined Rontel operating his duffel bag mechanical limb suit around the apartment.

Would I like him more, less, or the same.

Seemed like I loved him too much to ever think anything different about him.

I was so in love with him.

I imagined him slowly walking around the apartment in his new bionic(?) suit — his artificial limbs making tszoo tszoo sounds and then he starts bumping into the wall over and over and when I get home I find him asleep in the suit, still bumping against the wall, tszoo tszoo sounds.

My brother said something, but I’d been distracted by a nice flower in someone’s back yard.

Wanted to pick it for my girlfriend.

Then I realized she might be sad I killed it.

Seemed like something she’d get sad about.

Maybe not.

I could just say, “Here, I killed this for you.”

As in, “Of course I would kill something for you.”

As in, “Everything is potentially your gift.”

My brother and I were both sweating.

“ Kill you,” I said, kicking rocks against someone’s garage.

Realized I’d been thinking, “Kill you,” about nothing in particular.

Randomly.

Like I don’t even know if I’m talking to myself or someone’s telling me that or whatever.

Which at first was scary.

Then I realized I did it to preserve myself in some way and it became comfortable.

I kicked some more rocks against a chainlink fence.

Both my hands in fists.

A part of the city skyline was visible over garages and loading docks.

Kill you — I thought.

My brother said, “All I ate today was a bag of jelly beans and some pretzels.”

I said, “ All I Ate Today Was Some Pussy seems like the name of a mix CD someone around here would try to sell you.”

My brother said, “ All I Ate Today Was Pussy, And Also A Bag Of Jellybeans And Some Pretzels. ”

I didn’t say anything.

Felt like I should.

But I didn’t.

He said, “That’s a better name, don’t you think.”

Then he punched a branch that hung over someone’s fence and kicked some rocks.

One of the rocks hit a metal garbage can, which scared a bird out from a bush up into the air.

The fucking business.

*

Back at our building, my brother went upstairs but I saw Enrique in the hallway and he invited me in.

Enrique was my friend from the warehouse where I used to work.

He had an at-all-times transparent sexual interest in me.

He once told me that if I were gay he’d never let a man like me go — a man “who looks and acts like a man.”

Today he said, “Oh god, you look shitty. Ugh, I have air conditioning, come in, come in.”

Inside, his roommate sat at the kitchen table with his legs crossed, looking angry.

His roommate was really funny.

Big Moms.

Big Moms smiled and winked when he saw me.

He worked at the store with us for like, two months, then got fired when a customer called him a “faggot” and he slapped the customer (like slapped the customer down).

We called him “Big Moms” because he was physically big and also he was the meanest person in the world.

The whole world !

Nice to me, but mean to everyone else.

He liked being mean.

I remember him making a girl cry at work once when he raised his hand and looked up towards the ceiling with his face excited, and said, “Bitch, you (pointing at her with his gigantic hand) need to relax, I can smell that vagina through your pants, honey.”

He just liked to be mean.

He also liked to fabricate things.

He said shit like: “Rainwater actually has more minerals and nutrients or whatever than bottled water, and potassium too.”

Or: “If everyone just didn’t buy gasoline for one hour — one hour — all at the same time — then the oil companies would all have to shut down and we’d own those fuckers, you could buy a company for a dollar.”

He would just make claims.

Like: “You do know that every time you buy blueberries, it goes to the fucking Mormons.”

Seemed so weird for him to be angry and serious about something he made up.

At first I didn’t react to whatever he’d say or I’d ask him where he learned whatever he just said.

Then I learned it was better to agree with/encourage him.

Validate him somehow.

Something.

“Yeah you’re right about those fucking oil companies.”

Or: “No, I didn’t know yogurt has the same calcium as dandelions, cool. Looks like it’s dandelions for me! Fuck yogurt!”

Or: “I guess that makes sense, there aren’t many mosquitoes this year because less people are getting the flu and there’s less construction, hm. Interesting.”

Sometimes it was best to just review things he said.

When I walked in today and squatted in the livingroom, Big Moms said, “Hey you” then nodded towards Enrique and said, “What are you doing with the gayest, most Puerto Rican-iest nerd in fucking Chicago.”

Outside of work at the warehouse, Enrique owned a small share of a game store where people gathered to play boardgames and talk about videogames and play live-action games where you act like a wizard or knight or mythical creature.