Sam Pink - The No Hellos Diet

Her and Lawanda trade money and cigarettes.

In the movie, other things are happening.

It’s hard to tell what’s computer-generated and what’s not.

Everything seems computer-generated, including the people.

Fuck it.

You rub your eyes in a deeply satisfying way and lean back, stretching over the chair.

Your spine cracks and you yawn.

Chavon is doing the same thing.

You notice each other and laugh, mid-yawn.

Chavon claps her hands once and points.

“That feel good as hell right now don’t it,” she says.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “I love stretching this way.”

She laughs loudly. “Me too. Shit.”

Then you stretch your arm a different way as if it’s a regular stretch you do — only you’ve never done it, and it hurts.

You give yourself thirty more minutes for your fifteen-minute break, drawing lines across the papertowel as close and straight as can be drawn.

Each on top of the other.

It looks nice.

*

At the end of the shift you have to return your equipment keys to a security guard.

He’s sitting on a stool up by the front, watching a computer display of various cameras in the store.

He’s combing his hair back with a small black comb.

You don’t remember his name.

You hand him the keys and smell your hand.

“Which ones are these,” he says, looking at the computer screen.

“Backroom #3,” you say, smiling for some reason.

You can’t control it.

It overpowers you.

Involuntary smiling.

“Thanks,” he says, and puts the keys in his chest pocket. “Rock on, cowboy.”

You notice yourself as a blur on his badge, as he goes back to combing his hair with the small black plastic comb.

You wish you had the exact same comb, right now.

You’d take it out and make the same motion with it whenever he does, making direct eye contact.

“Hey man,” he says, “This is going to sound weird, but when you’re in the back there, do you ever think about your arm getting ripped off by that box smasher thing.”

You look him in the eyes and nod.

“Yeah, every day,” you say.

He exhales through his nose quickly. “Man I’ve thought about it too,” he says, combing the back of his head.

He keeps the non-combing hand above the comb as he combs.

A good method — you think. A great method.

He says, “Every time I’m fucking back there, and I hear that squealing sound, I just know I’d get my arm caught in there eventually, then just have to stand there and take it.” He pauses, staring. He makes a face and touches his shoulder. “Fuck man — that slow ripping.”

You don’t answer.

Something will happen.

Something will change what’s happening.

The doors to the store open.

Customers and cold air come in.

A group of girls comes in, laughing and talking.

The security guard and you both turn and look at the same time.

He says, “Oh damn kid. I’d fuck all of them”—motioning with the tip of the black plastic comb towards the girls.

“Would if what,” you say — looking at the girls, wondering if they’re going to use a shopping cart or not.

“I don’t know,” he says, “but—” He laughs through his nose again and says, “But, shit man.”

“Butt-Shit Man.”

“Butt-Shit Man forever,” he says, nodding.

Both his lips are bent inward.

His fat chin.

His combed-back hair.

He’s beautiful.

Your life, beautiful because of him.

Admit to yourself you want his action figure.

Admit you want to play with it while taking a bath, like just hold it down under the water for a long time.

Or no you don’t have a bath, so in the shower you’d hold the action figure against your dick, letting the water hit you.

The security guard puts the keys in a drawer beneath the computer.

He says, “Ha, we had to throw this guy out today because he was walking around and pinching people’s asses. They were full-pinches too.”

He demonstrates one on your arm without consent.

“Like that,” he says.

The pinch hurts.

You make no face.

“Like that,” you say.

Then, holding the pinched area, you explain to him the three or four main reasons you don’t like baseball.

You say, “Alright have a nice night.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Which seems just-right.

Completed.

*

In the locker area, you get your coat and keys, and the apple you didn’t eat at lunch.

A girl next to you is about to start the overnight shift.

She opens a locker and puts her stuff away.

“Fuck,” she says, “I’d rather be anywhere than here right now. Just”—closes her eyes—“anywhere but here. Fuck this place, seriously.”

She puts her phone and keys into a locker and uses chapstick on her mouth.

“What about in the middle of a forest fire,” you say. “With a mouthful of burning pine needles. How about there. Just burning to death in a huge forest like that, with no one to help you.”

She moves her head back and raises her eyebrows. “Shit I’d rather be sipping Kool Aid with Satan His-self in Hell, than be here right now.”

“I can fit my whole coat into this small locker,” you say, forcing the coat back into the locker then closing the locker for proof.

“Nice work,” she says.

When other employees complain about being at work, you know they’re just trying to create some common emotion.

But you also know it doesn’t matter.

It’s impossible to care about being at work.

Because you never have anything to do, so it’s impossible to get upset about not being able to do it.

It’d be fake.

*

Back out front of your apartment, you stand by the bus stop and eat your apple.

A police SUV circles the block.

A few nights ago someone got shot in the alley behind your apartment building, so there are more police out.

You think about how police control — thought out to its conclusion — would require an infinite amount of people watching over the people watching over others who may not even be able to be watched over on account of having to watch over someone else.

You put the apple core in the metal garbagecan by the bus stop.

You ring the buzzer for your apartment, just to test if anyone is inside waiting to attack.

Inside your apartment, you look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your bathroom door.

Deciding your hair is at a “Level 6” greasiness.

Deciding that “Level 6” is characterized by not only appearing wet, but almost “oozed.”

“Oozed,” you say, touching your greasy hair.

You consider calling off work tomorrow.

I’m just too oozed, I can’t come in, sorry.

The thought of calling off work is like the thought of suicide, just nice to think about.

“You, my friend, are a handsome man,” you say, making direct eye contact with yourself in the mirror.

Feeling acutely bothered by the tag of your shirt.

Feeling like you’re already happening.

No work today.

You go to the currency exchange to cash a recent paycheck.

400 united fucking states dollars.

You’re next in line.

In front of you there’s a homeless woman wearing a backpack.

She’s at one of the windows with an employee.

The employee keeps saying, “I need a form.”

And the homeless woman wearing the backpack keeps responding with one or two short shrieks.

She keeps communicating that way to the employee, shrieking and holding her hands up.

Everyone in the currency exchange is ignoring her.

You’re looking right at the back of her head.