Sam Pink - Rontel

“Oh fuck off ,” Enrique said. Then he leaned against the counter by the kitchen sink and said, “Ugh, I shouldn’t have shown your friend I could put my legs behind my head last night. It’s already like throwing a penny down the wishing well down there.”

Big Moms smiled and said, “I heard.”

I said, “I don’t show people I can do that until the sixth time I see them. That’s when I pull them aside and say, ‘Hey just so you know I can do this,’ then put both my legs behind my head.”

“Oh shit ,” Enrique said, slapping his face. “Forgot I got a Gaymers meeting tonight.”

Gaymers: A club for gay men who liked playing boardgames.

Enrique told me since he was considered a more attractive gay gamer than most — he was called a “unicorn.”

When he told me that, I said, “Well I’m very happy to be friends with a unicorn.”

He said, “I don’t even want to go, I just want to sit here and eat an entire pizza and feel like fucking shit.”

“Speaking of anal,” Big Moms said, smiling at me. “Whaaaaaat about (girl who worked at store with us)?”

Enrique leaned forward off the counter and said, “What about her.”

Big Moms then communicated a rumor he’d heard from someone who worked at the store that I’d had anal sex with (girl who worked at store).

Enrique made a shocked face.

“That’s true,” I said.

Enrique yelled, “Aw,” then said, “You dirty bitch. You’re a dirty no good sucia , bitch.”

He always got jealous.

“She asked,” I said.

“Did you use lube or spit,” he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling.

I said, “Lube one time, then after that, nothing,” and I assumed a louder, more aggressive tone and rubbed my hands and said, “I’d just put it in front first to get slicked, see.”

“Spit is for love,” Enrique said, making a face and staring off.

Big Moms said, “So, how about your new girl.”

“What do you mean,” I said. “I don’t think it will happen with her.”

He said, “Has she ever played with herself in that area, like used a dildo on herself?”

“Or three to five fingers,” Enrique said, scratching his shin with the heel of his foot.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think it’s happening. One thing though,” I said, pointing at both of them as I stood up, “I’m not going to rest until I get you no-good homos out of my goddamn building.”

Big Moms said, “Honey, the ‘mos own this part of town — sorry.”

And he pointed up into the air, looking up at the ceiling and rotating his head.

Big Moms.

I love you, you stupid ass.

I sang a few lines of a song I made up that had the lyrics, “…like a penny down a wishing well,” and Enrique and Big Moms were already humming backup as I went to leave.

Enrique said, “Wait, help me order a pizza so I can eat the whole thing and feel like shit. I can’t do this shit.” He sat down by the computer, clicked on a number of things and typed random keys and made noise by hitting things. “How the fuck do you do this.”

I went over to help him.

He was on an internet page for a pizza place.

“You want me to help you,” I said.

“He wants help,” Big Moms said, smiling at me and winking.

“You shithead,” I said to him. “ Kill you.”

He smiled and raised his eyebrows once.

“Just help me,” Enrique said, touching my arm. He sniffed at me and said, “Hmm, you tried to use cologne to cover up body odor.”

“Sorry.”

He quickly said, “No, it works for you.”

He rubbed my face a little.

“ And you shaved,” he said. “What the fuck.”

I looked at the internet page again and helped Enrique order a pizza.

To order, you had to click on icons of ingredients then move the icons over a steel grater, for them to sprinkle over the pizza icon below.

Enrique pointed at ingredients and I clicked them and brought them over the grater.

Every ingredient, clicked and brought over the grater.

Pieces spraying.

At the top of the webpage there was a picture of the owner’s face.

I said, “We should be able to click on his face and drag it over the grater.”

“Stop,” Enrique said, grabbing my arm again. Then he said, “Ok that’s good I guess.”

I finished the order, imagining the owner’s face dragged over the grater, screaming as pieces of his face sprayed the pizza and the screaming was the “ohhhhhh” kind not the “ahhhhh” kind.

“All right later,” I said.

Big Moms said, “Later masturbator”—winking at me and smiling.

“You no-good homo,” I said.

Enrique crossed his arms and did a wave from one hip to the other, saying, “Buh.”

I left.

Decided to go get a sandwich.

In the hallway, I took out my phone and sent my brother the message: “Remind me to explain ‘neck sizzles’ to you.”

Neck sizzles were something I’d recently done to Rontel.

You just twist the hair on his neck over and over while he falls asleep.

My brother didn’t respond until I was almost at the sandwich place.

He sent: “Just saw a video of a baseball pitcher dying when the batter hit the ball right back into his face.”

*

I got a sandwich at this place near my apartment.

I didn’t like the food there, but felt very hungry and dizzy.

I went in and ordered.

The man put together my sandwich as I directed.

I pointed at the things I wanted.

“That bread, please,” I said, pointing towards some bread behind a glass blocker.

It was very intimate.

An intimate process.

A mutual trust.

A marriage.

In which he agreed to gently make my sandwich as I directed.

No, commanded.

The manager started yelling at the customer behind me in line.

“ Vutt kind bread, vutt-kind-bread ,” he yelled.

The customer looked hurt and scared.

Felt like turning to her and saying, “More like, ‘what un-kind bread,’ eh?’”

And I thought that twice as I was looking at her.

And she noticed me right before I looked away — so it seemed like I was trying to look at her then not get seen.

Just felt terrible, yuh.

The employee making my sandwich said, “Vutt else for you, man dude.”

He smiled, gently sliding my sandwich across a cutting board.

The tips of his latex gloves hung off a little.

His latex gloves looked so elegant.

And yes, I was happy to be with him, working together.

I began to use different words for including each ingredient.

I said, “Some onions on there, please.”

He said, “Onions, yes yes.”

Then, “And, hit me with some tomato.”

He said, “Tomato”—gently applying tomato slices with his elegant latex gloves.

“Then slap on some cucumber.”

“Cucumber, yes,” he said.

A dance song played over the PA.

“Gas it up with some spinach.”

“Spinach, yes.”

“Yes,” I said.

There was another employee next to him, making someone else’s sandwich.

The tips of her latex gloves had shriveled.

I said, “Oh man, you got them sizzle tips”—pointing at her gloves by tapping the glass blocker.

It felt weird to have initiated a conversation.

Paralyzed me for a moment.

Weak.

She smiled.

She raised her eyebrows and said, “Vutt.”

I pointed at her gloves.

“Your gloves,” I said. “That’s from bacon, right. You made bacon and then it burnt the tips of your gloves. That would happen to me when I worked at a sandwich place. ‘Sizzle tips.’”

She smiled and looked at the gloves and nodded. “Oh, j’yes.”