nice of you.”
He got closer.
Still smiling, still staring.
He made me very uncomfortable.
And I championed him for it.
Nice work.
You’re my champion.
He said, “Yeah but when ew come inchoo my do’way at home, I be waiting to hit ew in duh head wit a two by fo” —still smiling, same look on his face.
I laughed, didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then I said, “What. Come on, what’s this mean stuff now.”
He didn’t say anything.
Holding his boardgames, belly hanging out.
He adjusted the boardgames and I noticed how small his fingers were.
Such small fingers.
I forgave him for everything he ever did—even his intention to kill me with a 2x4—because of how small his fingers were.
I (heart image) America.
I paid for the pants and walked out of the store, feeling excited about the pants and not even knowing how well they fit yet, wow ahhhh!
I looked back into the store from the sidewalk.
Could see the cartoony homeless guy looking at clothes.
He looked very interested in a hooded sweatshirt featuring a professional football team’s logo on the front.
Seemed like the hooded sweatshirt was coming with the boardgames.
Then he walked away.
*
I wore the pants for the first month or two straight—even to sleep—without changing.
Only I eventually did have to change them, because I went twice without underwear after not washing myself post-sex.
Always found you can put your pants in that situation twice before needing to change—before you could smell your genitals through the pants.
Could smell my genitals today, sweating through Wrigleyville.
I decided to go back home after not seeing any signs about jobs (and just generally not wanting to talk to anyone).
I’d gone into one place and asked if they needed help and the guy seemed to say yeah and I was like, “I can wash dishes and shit.”
Regretted adding, “and shit.”
And the man asked for my phone number but it didn’t look like he would call me plus there was no way to leave a message on my shitty phone and I was too discouraged to set up a voicemail.
And shit.
Walking through Wrigleyville in the heat, half looking for dishwashing jobs, half just walking.
My brother sent me a message.
Half a minute—gone.
Subtracted.
Twelve and a half minutes remaining.
Death death, the plunge.
Him: “Hey that microwave you mentioned is still here should I grab it.”
Me: “I still work?”
“Yeah.”
“Should we smash that shit.”
Him: “Yeah man.”
Subtract subtract subtract.
Minutes gone.
Into the terrible plunge of death, oh lord.
I envisioned myself falling into a deep pit, as seen from above, with my arms out reaching for the place I always already was.
And my life felt complete, satisfying, and worthwhile.
But only for like, twenty seconds.
Kill you—I thought, addressing Chicago (but more accurately, anywhere I was or would be).
*
When I got home, my brother was sitting on the floor drinking water.
His hair was sticking up and he looked unfocused, petting Rontel.
The microwave was on the floor next to them, no sign on it anymore.
“But,” I said, “does it still work.”
My brother put his water glass down and swallowed loudly.
Staring straight ahead, he made the sign of the cross then slapped Rontel’s ear and said, “Let’s find out.”
Rontel rubbed his face against the microwave.
My brother grabbed Rontel and held him up like a handpuppet.
He put his finger on Rontel’s bottom lip and made the bottom lip go up and down, doing fast laughing sounds like, “Meh meh meh meh.”
*
I carried the microwave, after my brother asked who was going to carry it then quickly said, “Not me.”
In an alley a few blocks away there was an open fence to an apartment building courtyard.
My brother grabbed the microwave from me—yelling, “Yuhhhhhhhhh”—running into the fenced area.
He went up the back staircase.
He was moving fast, considering how he had to hold the microwave in his
He got closer.
Still smiling, still staring.
He made me very uncomfortable.
And I championed him for it.
Nice work.
You’re my champion.
He said, “Yeah but when ew come inchoo my do’way at home, I be waiting to hit ew in duh head wit a two by fo” —still smiling, same look on his face.
I laughed, didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then I said, “What. Come on, what’s this mean stuff now.”
He didn’t say anything.
Holding his boardgames, belly hanging out.
He adjusted the boardgames and I noticed how small his fingers were.
Such small fingers.
I forgave him for everything he ever did—even his intention to kill me with a 2x4—because of how small his fingers were.
I (heart image) America.
I paid for the pants and walked out of the store, feeling excited about the pants and not even knowing how well they fit yet, wow ahhhh!
I looked back into the store from the sidewalk.
Could see the cartoony homeless guy looking at clothes.
He looked very interested in a hooded sweatshirt featuring a professional football team’s logo on the front.
Seemed like the hooded sweatshirt was coming with the boardgames.
Then he walked away.
*
I wore the pants for the first month or two straight—even to sleep—without changing.
Only I eventually did have to change them, because I went twice without underwear after not washing myself post-sex.
Always found you can put your pants in that situation twice before needing to change—before you could smell your genitals through the pants.
Could smell my genitals today, sweating through Wrigleyville.
I decided to go back home after not seeing any signs about jobs (and just generally not wanting to talk to anyone).
I’d gone into one place and asked if they needed help and the guy seemed to say yeah and I was like, “I can wash dishes and shit.”
Regretted adding, “and shit.”
And the man asked for my phone number but it didn’t look like he would call me plus there was no way to leave a message on my shitty phone and I was too discouraged to set up a voicemail.
And shit.
Walking through Wrigleyville in the heat, half looking for dishwashing jobs, half just walking.
My brother sent me a message.
Half a minute—gone.
Subtracted.
Twelve and a half minutes remaining.
Death death, the plunge.
Him: “Hey that microwave you mentioned is still here should I grab it.”
Me: “I still work?”
“Yeah.”
“Should we smash that shit.”
Him: “Yeah man.”
Subtract subtract subtract.
Minutes gone.
Into the terrible plunge of death, oh lord.
I envisioned myself falling into a deep pit, as seen from above, with my arms out reaching for the place I always already was.
And my life felt complete, satisfying, and worthwhile.
But only for like, twenty seconds.
Kill you—I thought, addressing Chicago (but more accurately, anywhere I was or would be).
*
When I got home, my brother was sitting on the floor drinking water.
His hair was sticking up and he looked unfocused, petting Rontel.
The microwave was on the floor next to them, no sign on it anymore.
“But,” I said, “does it still work.”
My brother put his water glass down and swallowed loudly.
Staring straight ahead, he made the sign of the cross then slapped Rontel’s ear and said, “Let’s find out.”
Rontel rubbed his face against the microwave.
My brother grabbed Rontel and held him up like a handpuppet.
He put his finger on Rontel’s bottom lip and made the bottom lip go up and down, doing fast laughing sounds like, “Meh meh meh meh.”
*
I carried the microwave, after my brother asked who was going to carry it then quickly said, “Not me.”
In an alley a few blocks away there was an open fence to an apartment building courtyard.
My brother grabbed the microwave from me—yelling, “Yuhhhhhhhhh”—running into the fenced area.
He went up the back staircase.
He was moving fast, considering how he had to hold the microwave in his
Similar Books
