Sam Pink - The No Hellos Diet

Then he starts talking to you about female co-workers, and what he would or would-not “do to them.”

While he’s talking about what he would do to the females in the store, you entertain yourself by thinking about running out into the store screaming, exaggerating the cords in your neck as you scream — hands at sides, all fingers curled.

Sour Cream says, “Hey man would you let Janisha straddle your face and shit, like backwards and shit and rub her ass all over your face.”

You think about it.

The part about “letting” is confusing.

Plus 90 % of the people he’s mentioning aren’t familiar.

You say, “I’d have to like, be in the situation to know. It’s hard for me to say.”

Sometimes instead of sexual things, he suggests situations with two unfortunate choices, to see which one you’d pick.

Like: “Alright man, would you rather drink piss — like, right out the dick — or, get raped in the ass with a screwdriver. I’d drink the piss.”

He likes to talk about things so that he’ll have a chance to give his own answers and the reasons behind the answers.

Seems to like mentioning dicks too.

Like whenever you tell him you just swept or threw out garbage or whatever, he’ll say, “That’s big-dick shit right there, man. We some big-dick hustlers”—and then he’ll hold up his forearm and you hit forearms together.

Sour Cream has the skyline of Chicago tattooed on his forearm, with “Chicago” written beneath in cursive.

“Alright what about Charlotte, bro,” he says, nodding upwards once. “Would you fuck Charlotte for a million dollars, bro.”

Charlotte works the fitting rooms.

She was born a man but surgically became a woman.

That’s why he’s asking you.

This, like, means something to him.

He’s evaluating you.

Looking for a good opportunity to call you gay/faggot/bitch/pussy.

“Charlotte, man,” he says, “And you have to fuck her until you jizz an’shit.”

You scan a package of underwear and put it on a shelf in the stockroom.

“I have to jizz and shit,” you ask. “What are the terms here.”

“You have to nut, jo. A million dollars though man, come on,” he says. “It’s crazy huh. Too gross. I don’t even know. I don’t even know, jo. Can’t even say.”

“Let me make one thing clear, man,” you say. “I’m going to destroy the United States, ok. Fucking destroy it. Did you hear me. The whole thing. Every state, every person, every dog, cat, and dream. Listen to what I’m saying, now. This is important. It’s time to start over from nothing.”

“Ell yeah, son,” he says, snapping his fingers once. He hits your arm with the back of his hand. “That’s big-dick shit, son. That’s some big-dick shit right there, guerro.”

“The final destruction is still to come. You’re either in my army or dead.”

He nods upward and says, “Who the big-dick hustlers. Let’s just clear this shit up right now, guerro.”

“We are.”

“That’s it,” he says.

He holds out his hand.

You slap it, move into a shake, then pull each other in for a small hug — patting each other’s backs before continuing to stock packages of underwear.

The laser guns make beeping sounds through the quiet.

Every time the laser touches a barcode, the gun beeps twice.

Beep-beep.

You barely notice it anymore.

But it used to sound like mocking-laughter.

Beep-beep = Ha ha.

You used to be worried the beeps were a way for the company to implant messages in your head to control your behavior — but then realized you’d never know because that very thought could’ve been put in your head by the company.

Fear.

“Big-dick hustlers,” Sour Cream says, filling up a shelf with packages of underwear.

You want to ask Sour Cream if he thinks there are messages in the beeps, but he might be put here to spy on you.

He could be one of them.

Nice try, you fucking spy — you think.

You think about a map of the U.S.A., a fist punching through it from behind.

Sour Cream lasers a package.

Beep-beep.

“Some big-dick shit,” he says, scanning and stocking another box. “Must be big-dick shit all day today, I’on’t know. S’crazy.”

You shoot the laser at his eyes a few times but keep missing.

The laser crosses his face in a straight line, on and off.

“Quit it bitch,” he says.

He checks messages on his phone, holding it next to the laser gun to make it seem to the security cameras like he’s working.

He sings, “Big-dick hustlas — it’s who we are, son — we fucking awe-some.”

Then he does a dance where he holds his arms a certain way and then just bobs up and down.

Good singing voice — you think. Good dancing too.

You say, “Hey man, are you ever worried about getting bit by a spider while you’re stocking bananas in the produce cooler. That could happen. Have you thought about that at all, or no. Like a spider from South America could be in the bananas and fall asleep or get paralyzed by the cool temperatures on the way to the store and then come to life and bite you and you’d die. Stocking bananas for minimum wage, you’d get bitten by a spider and fucking die. Is that what you want.”

Sour Cream scans a package and stacks it.

“Damn, jo,” he says. “I’m worried about it now, little bitch. That’s scary as hell, man. I hate spiders. Why you think about that type of shit, El Guerro.”

He starts scratching at his chest, laughing.

Laughing, but clearly worried now.

Worried about the spider.

Your plan is working.

Always be worried about the sleeping spider — you think. But how long will the spider sleep. Ah, yes.

Sour Cream scratches at his chest.

He says, “Damn son, I been eating a lot of peanut butter and shit, and it’s making me get these big-ass pimples on my chest. Shit hurts. I can’t pop that shit either.” Then he affects an overly Caucasian voice and says, “It’s excruciating. I think I just need an organic chai tea and my slippers.”

You both laugh.

“Can I borrow your keys,” you say. “I have to go do the garbage before lunch.”

“Yeah,” he says. He throws the keys. “Oh, hey man, check this out.”

He presses some buttons on his phone and shows you a picture of a girl.

The girl looks really young.

She’s smiling and making a face that other people have probably told her is cute.

“Had this bitch suck my dick three times last night,” he says.

Looking at the picture, you say, “I’ll sweep later too, I don’t mind. After I do garbage I mean.”

He nods, pocketing his phone.

“That’s right, babygirl,” he says. “’Cause you a big-dick hustler.”

“Thanks man.”

You walk away, feeling self-conscious about your butt.

Earlier, Sour Cream complimented you.

He said, “No homo shit, but — you work out man? You exercise? You look nice and fit, you know” and then said other things to make sure you understood it in an objective way.

Walking to the garbage area, you hit the keys against your leg and imagine a mummy walking out from behind an aisle then coming towards Sour Cream with its arms out.

And in a dusty and decayed voice, the mummy says, “I’m gay”—and Sour Cream dies in terrified silence as he’s strangled to death by the gay mummy.

*

After doing the garbage and going on lunch, you pass time in the main office staring at a list of the month’s birthdays.

Shit, it’s Daisy’s birthday tomorrow.

Who’s Daisy.

Daisy is a nice name.

You consider changing your name to Daisy.

You take the escalator upstairs and go to a remote bathroom unknown to most non-stockroom employees.