Sam Pink - The Self-Esteem Holocaust Comes Home

They are quiet for the remainder of the haircut. After, they leave the bathroom and go to Satan’s room, adjoining. Khhkr looks at herself in the window as a mirror. Behind her, Satan wipes the hair off the scissors, onto the ground.

KHHKR: I like my haircut. Thank you very much. I wouldn’t have been able to do this myself.

SATAN: Good. You’re welcome [looks up at her] You look like a little boy.

Satan rubs the hair into the carpet threads with his toes, still shaking the scissors off.

KHHKR: [looks at him in window mirror] We always have fun together.

Satan sets the scissors on the floor. Then he lies down on a pile of clothing he uses for a bed, in the corner of the small room.

SATAN: When you are not here I sleep on the couch downstairs. And I like to keep the television on. I can feel it against my neck when I turn my back. It feels good. I wake up when it’s still dark out and sit on the tile floor in front of my tv, flicking the channels and pretty much just looking at things.

KHHKR: [makes a kissy face to herself] I am a failure and so are you.

SATAN: You look pretty though. Yeah. You do.

Khhkr goes to walk over to him but she steps on the scissors. The scissors cut her foot deep. She hisses. The ball of her left foot drips blood, and she holds it up knee-high for inspection. Satan takes her to the shower and cleans her foot off with cupped-handfuls, using the other hand to balance her at the hip.

KHHKR: [hands on the showerwall] Is it good?

SATAN: [shuts faucet] It’s good yeah.

He dries her foot off with his shirt and puts a bandaid over the cut.

KHHKR: [turning her head] What’s that on the bandaid?

SATAN: It’s a duck giving a thumb’s up.

Khhkr turns her head to the showerwall again.

KHHKR: [flatly] Does the duck look happy?

SATAN: Yes [massaging her foot] Yes I feel that this duck is happy. To be touching your blood, this duck is happy. Thumbs up.

KHHKR: [puts foot down carefully] Ok.

They go to bed. Khhkr falls asleep. Satan does not. He spends the first few minutes of the night sticking his tongue in and out at her. In between he quietly repeats, “This should hurt your feelings.” But he never seems convinced it actually hurts her feelings. Keeps checking her face. Different angles. He takes the top blanket and goes downstairs to the kitchen. The kitchen is dark. Satan leans his elbows on the counter and looks outside. The moon is a toenail clipping in the sky.

SATAN: This kitchen is small and it is cold. Very cold. And I don’t want to be here. That is all I need to know about this kitchen.

He sits on his couch in the next room. Stares at the television on the floor, not turned on.

SATAN: Maybe the roof will fall on me and kill me.

He looks up at the ceiling. He sits there waiting. Then he gets up and kneels on the tile. He turns the tv on and changes the channels, listless, finally landing on a high school basketball game. Each time the One Too-Loud Broadcaster says something, the Other Too-Loud Broadcaster says, “What?” Then there is static. Eventually, the first one says, “Jesus, nothing Jerry — forget it.” Satan changes to the news. He imagines himself as the cloud he sees on the weather forecast, the one the meteorologist shows looming over the Midwest, wearing sunglasses and a smile. He imagines himself roaming low over the states, decimating everything. Trees uproot and fly into livingrooms, killing entire families, their dogs, destroying pictures, furniture, work-out equipment, and whatever else. Fathers outside with their sons, together they feel the opening drafts. “What is it father?” And with a stern look to the sky, the father says, “Nothing son — Goddamn it — it’s nothing.” Right before coalescing with other clouds wearing sunglasses. Smiling through the onslaught. Blowing entire states off the map like shingles, into the ocean without hesitation.

SATAN: [yawning, watery-eyed] Days are the worst thing ever made.

He goes to the refrigerator and opens it and looks at the brownies at the back of the fridge.

SATAN: There is no way I can throw them out. They’re too pretty. Really though [hesitates, then shuts door]

He goes outside and stands on the sidewalk with the blanket wrapped around him, over his head. And he holds the blanket closed underneath his chin. It is freezing out. There’s a sock near the gate of the apartment complex fence, frosted and stiffened to the ground.

SATAN: See you in the spring you lost sock. Who lost you, sock? You are lost. No one will want you again. Goodbye. See you in the spring, lost sock. I have nothing else to say. Lost sock, I can’t help you. I’ll see you later.

There are no construction workers in sight.

A small kitchen connected to a livingroom. In the livingroom there’s a couch, tv and washer/dryer along the wall. Ezzard sits on the couch. Fanon stands with his elbows on the counter in the kitchen, looking into the livingroom. They both have trouble with balance, and fall at random. The television on, sound off. There is a video on the news, captured by a bank security camera. On the video, a man walks down the sidewalk. The caption on the bottom of the screen says, “Down Syndrome Man Killed On Street.”

EZZARD: [still looking at tv] Wait is ‘Down Syndrome Man’ how they’re referring to someone or is that an action figure I don’t know about? [falls off couch, hits head on wall, gets back up] Fuck.

FANON: [holding counter to keep from falling] Huh? [ignores] Hey I’m supposed to ask you something. My friend’s looking to sell something. I’m supposed to ask you [almost falls] He’s got a full deer spine, like all the vertebra or whatever. Do you know anyone who would want it? [pause, swaying] Would you?

In the video a white circle highlights another man, approaching Down Syndrome Man in a quiet run.

EZZARD: [watching video] Why would I want that?

Fanon holds onto the counter to keep from falling.

FANON: Why? [pause, arms shaking on counter] Uh you could, put a string through all the pieces and, hang it. You could keep evil away. I don’t know [changes tone] I have poptarts too — they’re old — but you want one, man?

On the news video, a man approaches Down Syndrome Man and swings a bat, hitting Down Syndrome Man in the head. The collision sends him to the sidewalk, face forward fast. And a black pool expands from his head. The security video loops back to the start. Ezzard watches, trying not to fall off the couch again.

EZZARD: [touching face with both hands] The way he hit the ground had to have scraped off part of his face. His face is gone for sure. Or at least part of it.

FANON: What?

EZZARD: [didn’t hear] What will they do with that man’s face? Did they get it out of the sidewalk? It has to be gone. What happened? Why am I watching this?

Fanon falls to the floor and hits his head on the tile. He shakes on the tile.

FANON: [getting up] Hey man. So you know anybody that’d want that deer spine. Also, did you want that poptart or no? You didn’t answer that either. And I kind of want it. So.

The video on the news ends, loops back to the beginning. There is the bat, the fall, and again Down Syndrome Man’s head blooming a black pool against the sidewalk.

EZZARD: [staring at black pool] No, I don’t think so. I don’t want them.

FANON: [lights cigarette] No you don’t think you want the poptart, or no about the deer spine? We’re not communicating effectively. I’m not blaming you, but I feel like my life is worth less than usual right now [leans over the counter, coughing — puts head on his forearms and coughs, his finger up — then he squints through the kitchen light, trying to stay standing] Damn, he nailed that retard.