Sam Pink - The No Hellos Diet

It makes everything he says hum.

“N’I got really sad last night, hm,” he says.

“What happened man.”

“N’I was watching my singing show’m, with my mom, hm. M’There was this freaking four year old girl, hm, and she lost. Yeah me and my mom, uhh, really liked her.”

He’s been telling you about this competitive singing show he watches every week with his mom.

“M’It was just so bad because, m’because everyone got sad for the four year old, and she could sing,” he says. “She had talent up the wazoo, hmm.”

You imagine Theodore playing an instrument called the “wazoo.”

The instrument is like, a box with a long bagpipe-like mouthpiece and a crank you turn.

“M’She could sing so good, and only four freakin years old, hm,” Theodore says, throwing his hand up into the air a little. “But she still lost. And my mom n’was sad too when we were watching it, hm. So bad.”

“I mean, she probably still makes money off singing though,” you say. “Like people will still give her money to sing. And the show was probably a nice experience for her.”

Theodore makes the “ch” sound, stares for a little bit.

He says, “N’I found a whole boatload of flies in a lightbulb by the trash compactor today. N’It was filled with flies, hm.”

“Were there flies up the wazoo.”

He rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically and making the “ch” sound.

He says, “N’Yeah up the wazoo. Those hundred watt bulbs, hm, can hold n’a lot of flies, boy. Jeez, hm.”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. M’See you later man,” he says.

“Bye, Theodore.”

He waves goodbye in a way that looks more like he’s trying to shake something off his hand that’s biting him.

He rolls the garbage cans away.

*

Later on you decide to request a day off.

Not for any reason other than being able to know that that day will be off, no matter what.

To request a day off, you have to use the computer in the breakroom.

It’s a major move because it entails walking past the roomful of people to silently declare a need to use the computer.

It’s like, who the fuck are you to use the computer.

Are you like, some important person who just needs to use the computer that other people might need to use.

What if a woman is waiting to use the computer to request a day off to go to the doctor and find out if her son has terminal cancer.

What if someone is waiting to request a day off to propose marriage.

What if someone is waiting to use the computer to request a day off so he or she can bring a gun dowtown and shoot people.

Things like that.

You pull the chair closer, sitting down at the computer.

The chair makes a loud sound sliding across the tile.

It embarrasses you.

Someone has left an email account open on the computer.

You pick a random email address from their inbox and email this message: “Alright — the gun is in locker F8 at the gym. You know what to do. No way out now.”

You close out the email account and fill out the day off request form.

The form seems very difficult.

No focus, it melts together into a grid, or some horrible graph.

A grid-graph.

A horrible looking grid-graph.

You try to read.

Afraid the whole time.

Something could easily go wrong.

A spelling error.

A neglected box.

A computer virus.

A bomb.

A grid-graph.

A stroke.

A seizure.

Organ failure.

You imagine yourself at an expensive restaurant, saying, “One of each please” to an elegantly dressed waiter after the waiter recites the above list.

The day off form is right in front of your face.

You try to focus.

What if you don’t fill out the form correctly.

You’d think you had, and then not come to work, then get fired, then not have money, then get discouraged and die.

It’d be the exact same thing as right now except you’d have a better reason to get discouraged and die.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

You fill out the form slowly.

The first couple parts are easy.

Sometimes to refocus, you take a very deep breath and hold it in then blow it out.

Behind you, someone in the breakroom helloes another person.

Which begins a conversation.

One says, “Ey girl, is they a such thing as a baby rock. Lawanda said they was but she always lying.”

The other says, “I’on’t know. Fuck I know about rocks.”

“Shee-yid,” you say.

People laugh.

Staring at the computer screen, you repeatedly think—“I’on’t know.”

Feeling distracted.

You see yourself staggering into a hospital emergency room and then collapsing into a nurse’s arms — and when he or she says, “What happened, sir” you weakly whisper back, “I’ve, been, distracted” and grip the nurse’s shirt with a bloody hand.

The last part of the form involves clicking on a series of boxes on the screen that say, “Completed.”

Leaving the breakroom, you project a feeling of relatively-high enjoyment knowing that once back at your apartment tonight, you’ll be able to snip open the blisters on your feet and hands with nailclippers — then drain the blisters and lie down — all without having to worry about contact from anyone.

In total control of your own quarantine.

Rewarding yourself for earning enough money to stay alive.

Reward through quarantine.

Snipping blisters.

The apartment is a waiting room.

It’s nice.

You rent it.

Nurse — I’ve been — distracted.

Covered in blood.

I’on’t know.

Outside the breakroom by the customer bathrooms, you openly reach into your pants to adjust your dick before going back to work so that it won’t bother you when climbing ladders and bending down and whatnot.

A co-worker comes out the women’s bathroom, tucking in her shirt.

You nod upward to each other, once.

She says, “Hey sweetie, you know if the Bulls won today?”

You scratch the back of your head and say, “No, I heard they all died in a plane crash on the way to whatever city they were going to play in.”

She leans back to get the back part of her shirt tucked in and her bellybutton is visible in front as a wide impression behind her red shirt.

Probably could fit three fingers inside her bellybutton — you think.

“Shit,” she says. “All of them died, huh. All of them. Sheesh that’s awful.”

“Yeah, even the pilot and all their pets too because I heard they brought their pets with them in the cargo area of the plane, you know, for luck.”

“Goddamn,” she says. “Un-believable.”

“Yeah it’s sad.”

Then you both take turns asking each other what time your respective shifts will be done, to signal you’d both like to end the conversation.

*

Sometimes going out into the store is unavoidable.

You try to stay in the stockrooms — to avoid customers — but not all the stockrooms are connected.

Sometimes you have to leave them.

And sometimes you meet a man in corduroy pants who wants a new vacuum.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I have a question. I’d like to see if you have this vacuum. It’s this one over here.”

He’s about your age.

His face is cleanly shaven and he has a nice haircut and all the right buttons are buttoned on his shirt.

He’s wearing a collared shirt tucked into corduroy pants, nice shoes, a tie and a belt.

You’re amazed.

You follow him to the back wall where he points to a display model of the vacuum he wants.

You scan the upc code.

“Uh uh,” you say, checking the screen. “We don’t have any more of those.”

And it’s true.

There aren’t any.