by Sam Pink
And he continued to talk in a way that indicated he was delaying.
Then a phone-ringing sound played through the PA speaker.
The singer said, “Oh, ho-don, I’m so so sorry Chicago, I gossa take this.”
He reached down to the ground and picked up an old housephone receiver, cord dangling.
He had a conversation with his “woman” while his son stared off—not dancing anymore—just staring off with his finger in the side of his mouth.
I watched him.
If he drops the chips, the chips are mine—I thought.
Yeah, take the chips if they fall.
Act like you’re going to pick the bag up for him then scurry off like a little bitch, eating the chips in such a way that they fall from your mouth, disgusting.
The singer talked with more excitement.
He said, “Oh baby what was you doing b’fo? I almost hung up on you. Oh—oh you was, you was making a hot beef and uh, bologna sandwich? Oh ok, well, well haha you still coming over t’night? Oh ok good, then make sure you brang me, uh, summa that—” then he yelled, “HOT STUFF.”
Which then segued into a song where the lyrics were, “Looking for some hot stuff baby this evening/Looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight.”
The singer thrust his crotch forward once to each syllable in “HOT STUFF.”
And for a second his kid looked like he was about to cry—finger in mouth, eyes pinching up.
But then this girl a few years older came and danced with him.
And he smiled and danced with her, taking his finger out of his mouth.
Accidentally dropped the chips.
A group of kids all wearing the same high school gym uniforms walked up, cheering.
Other people gathered too.
I moved forward to get a better view.
This kid is so awesome—I thought.
And will one day grow to be a man.
Will one day eat more chips.
The song ended with a lot of chime sounds and then the singer was wiping his head with a bandana, foot up on the PA speaker.
His son continued dancing even though there was no more music.
Just bending up and down at the knees.
People cheered.
One guy had his hand up to his mouth, yelling, “Ooh ooh.” He slapped his leg a little. “Shit,” he said. “Aw shit. Check out dude. Dude crazy.”
Someone else said, “Too cray. He bout ta fall out.”
Everyone was laughing and cheering.
I stood there smiling.
Down the platform a man in a fabric hotdog suit was handing out coupons.
No one talked to him.
Something about the man in the fabric hotdog suit bothered me.
But I didn’t know what.
I thought—Hotdog man, I’ma fucking get you, don’t worry.
“Uh oh,” someone said. “Little dude getting fierce nah.”
The kid’s pace had increased.
Someone turned to me and hit my arm and said, “You seeing this.
This motherfucker—he a mobsta.”
Someone next to him said, “This dude lethal.”
“Yeah this dude is lethal,” I said, not that loud.
Sometimes I would just repeat things to people as a way to allow the conversation to keep going.
By saying the same thing the person just said, I’d sustain the thought, rather than interrupt it with whatever I had to add, which probably wasn’t anything I wanted to add.
“Lethal,” the person said again. “Somebody arrest’zis lil nigga.”
His friends laughed.
The singer said, “You have the right to remain LEEEEEEETHAL.”
Someone from the crowd yelled, “Chi-town LETHal!”
Other people yelled.
The kid put his finger in his mouth again, still dancing.
Someone else said, “Oooh, he tryn some sexy shit now.”
“He’s lethal,” I said again, looking at the ground a little, searching for the chips.
Someone said, “Them little legs is all like jellyfish.”
The singer started another song and people watched his son dance a little longer before trains arrived and everyone boarded.
The guy in the hotdog suit, still there.
He was in a conversation now, holding out a coupon pamphlet.
The person hadn’t taken it.
Yes, hotdog man.
Yes.
Yes, do this.
Do this dirt, my man.
Make them take the pamphlet.
Make them realize they want it.
The train departed, me nodding my head and watching hotdog man through a window.
And right then, I wanted to know that someone in the train was watching me—and could hear me—so I could turn and stare straight forward and say, “Everything is in place for the lunar harvest”—then sit down and continue staring straightforward, smiling.
*
There was a day-old newspaper on the seat next to me.
A small daily paper.
It had stories about what celebrities ate at what Chicago restaurants.
It told people what movies to see and what shows to watch and what books to read and what to do for fun.
It had “where to drink” suggestions that referenced “cool bars/city spots” for the white people in the city who all moved here together after college.
The daily paper also had “debate” articles between staff writers who were trying to be funny/cute.
The debates would be like, “Is it ok to date someone who hates your best friend.”
Or: “What’s the code for roommate bathroom sharing.”
Or: “Are moustaches cool.”
Or: “Hash browns or fruit for breakfast.”
Today I read the crime blotter.
I liked the crime blotter.
The only place in the newspaper where they just stated facts about something that happened without trying to make it fun.
My favorite crime blotter ever was: “Man in Uptown beats upstairs neighbor then drags her to the basement and sets her on fire.”
Today there were four news items in the crime blotter.
One was about a man forcing children into his car and then molesting them in an alley.
The next was about a man raping a child who attended the daycare his wife ran at home.
Next one about a man stabbing his doctor then trying to rape her.
Next one about a man who died in an alley after being stabbed in the throat "repeatedly."
I looked up from the paper and out the window.
Felt like my face was the ugliest melt ever at that point.
Like, the worst.
I felt so stupid-looking.
Always felt ugly and stupid on the train.
Like almost, sagged.
Sagged out.
Sagged out and sorry.
Horrific.
Sorry I’m so saggy, but I’m sagged out and sorry.
Suck my dick—I thought, addressing myself.
The train was underground.
I stared at the tunnel wall, and its lighting.
Thought about stabbing someone in the throat repeatedly.
Is there any way to do it except repeatedly.
Could it really stop after one stab.
I thought about stabbing someone once then just standing there.
Seemed like that would be worse.
What would I do just standing there after the first stab.
Would I talk to the victim.
If they said something to me, I feel like I’d definitely respond.
So I’d either have to stand there to make sure the person died or stab them repeatedly to ensure it.
Also, seemed like if I stabbed once then paused, it would be hard to get back into it.
It’d be like sweating in a shirt, then taking the shirt off and putting it back on like, fifteen minutes later.
So yeah.
Repeatedly.
Once seemed cruel.
That would be the worst thing to read: “Man stabbed in throat once, dies in alley over an extended period of time.”
Just get it done—I thought, looking back into the train car.
Finish everything you start.
Finish yourself.
I’ma finish you, Chicago—I thought, feeling pleasure in my testicles from the shaking of the train.
*
At the other end of the train car there was a kid in a mechanized wheelchair device.
He had his thumb in his mouth.
He had a really serious look on his face.
An older woman stood behind him with her hands on the wheelchair.
On the left armrest of the wheelchair device there was a keyboard attached to something.
We made eye contact.
Felt like I was looking at myself.
The misery.
With the hand of the thumb in his mouth, he waved by bending all four fingers down and up and down and up.
The way he did it seemed like it was happening real slow.
Felt so friendly too.
Like we knew each other.
The misery.
I looked at him and tried to silently communicate, “This. Sucks.”
But I couldn’t tell if it worked.
Couldn’t tell if I’d thought, “This. Sucks,” or if the kid in the wheelchair put the thought inside my head.
That would be terrible.
I stared at him and thought—No, you will NOT control me.
He continued sucking his thumb, the thumb that should’ve been over the keyboard controls of his wheelchair.
His dashboard.
Are you my space captain.
When does it end.
And where.
Am I brave enough.
I looked back at the newspaper.
I liked to have a newspaper on the train so no one would talk me.
It wasn’t the only guard against interaction, but definitely the best.
Staring at a newspaper for a long time seemed normal—but staring at any other object on the train for a long period didn’t.
If you just stared at something without words on it, someone would eventually fuck with you.
They’re here to fuck with me—I thought.
The tension of feeling perfectly fine with just staring at anything, versus other people fucking with you.
The tension.
Such bad tension!
Let me show you how a real man endures bad tension.
Been doing that a lot lately, adding, “Let me show you how a real man (does something)” to a lot of my thoughts or conversations.
Like, yesterday my girlfriend went to walk across the street before we had a walk signal and I held her back and said, “Let me show you how a real man obeys traffic law.”
In the newspaper there was one last item in the crime blotter, presented in the form of a giant quote with the story beneath.
The quote was from someone who witnessed a stabbing outside a bar in Rogers Park.
The quote read: “Yeah this guy came up, and was going to give him (the victim) a hug, and then he (attacker) says, ‘Hey what’s up,’ and stabbed him in the back.”
So—someone randomly approached someone else outside a bar and said, “Hey what’s up” then offered a hug, then stabbed the person as the hug was accepted.
My heavens.
I sat there terrified.
Why would anyone accept some random hug.
I’d never accepted a random hug in my life.
And never would!
Actually no.
What the fuck.
Who am I to deny.
I’d take the first one offered by anyone right now—even if I saw the person holding a giant knife behind his/her back.
Even if the person ended up stabbing me, I’d take a deep breath and put my mouth by his or her ear and say, “I knew you’d do this. I knew it, sweetheart. And, well I still thank you for the hug.”
I turned the page.
There was an article about a television show where people competed by losing weight.
I closed the newspaper and put it on the ground.
Welcome to your new home.
*
The train made a stop at Damen Street and the kid in the mechanized wheelchair exited, pushed out by his mother.
Thumb in his mouth still.
He did the same wave—keeping his eyes forward.
Pushed away, waving.
Signaling, “Laaaaater, asshole.”
And I realized that part of my problem was I visibly resembled an adult.
But never became one.
People viewed me as an adult but I was just shit.
I always expected adulthood to happen, to make, like, a popping or dinging sound when it did.
But no.
Newly twenty-nine years old and nowhere near anything different than ever before.
Not even youthful.
Just the same pile, moving around.
Shifting anxieties—moving a pile of lead around to different areas of the same giant bare room.
To then realize I’ve become the pile.
The truth.
All just one time period.
One big now.
No adulthood.
Rapidly moving away from any kind of connection.
I could imagine borders around periods of my life to make it seem like I’d become a different person, but that would just be a failure to see there was no more changing or nearness of change as the person on either side of those imagined borders.
Not sure.
Not important.
Not going to shower today. (Third day in a row, yeah!)
What if I just donated all my organs and everything useful about me right now, even the few good thoughts I’d had.
What if I walked into a hospital and said, “I’m going to kill myself anyway, you want my shit or not, come on”—then wait a second and say, “Come on, talk to me talk to me let’s go.”
I saw myself entering the hospital and confidently walking up to the front desk, resting my elbow on the counter.
“Yeah, come on, let’s see a doctor, sweetheart,” I’d say, regardless of the front desk worker’s gender—and I’d be snapping. “Come on come on.” Then, even if the employee was talking to me, say, “Talk to me here, come on.”
Let me show you how a real man sits on the train and stares, uninterested, briefly able to visualize his body hollowed out of all its operative parts.
*
In a different row of seating an old man sat with the back of his skull against the metal headrest bar, waking up with each bump.
He kept trying to resist sleep but would then fall asleep.
Yes, it’s ok, old man.
Fall asleep.
You’ve earned it.
It’s time to sleep.
Sleep time.
Be calm.
I am with you.
Dream about us holding hands—floating up and up and up and yelling and laughing the whole time.
Dream about me performing surgery on you, salting your beating heart (why not).
The old man kept waking up and going to sleep.
Just sleep.
You’re not missing anything.
I’ll wake you up if something happens.
I’ll tell you when to get off the train.
We won’t forget your stop.
I sat there thinking about which of his bones I could probably break with my bare hands.
I compiled a list.
Arrived at the Wilson Street stop in Uptown Chicago.
And yeah if people had access to my thoughts and feelings, I’d be asked to live on a rock in outer space—one with a long tether to a building in Chicago if any of my friends (just kidding) wanted to come visit.
*
Going through the turnstile, I heard two people by th
e ticket machine.
One said, “—and really, that’s the bottom line.”
I wanted to ask what the bottom line was since I’d missed that part.
Hadn’t heard what he said right before it.
Because if I knew where the bottom line was, it’d be easy to avoid it, or jump over it, or do whatever you do to it.
*
Exiting out onto the street in hundred degree weather, I got shot in the face and died.
Didn’t even really hear it because my head was immediately all over the sidewalk.
No.
That didn’t happen.
I just walked down the street, sweating.
Passed an old man, bald but with long hair on the sides and back.
He had one arm.
Hunched over and limping down the sidewalk, smoking a handrolled cigarette.
Saying, “Buhhhhgghhhnnnnn—ahhhhhmmhh.”
That was the first person I saw in Uptown this morning.
*
Next I saw an old woman sitting on the single step to an apartment building, right along the sidewalk.
She was in her fifties.
She sat with her knees together, feet spread.
She wore a winter coat in the hundred degree heat.
She had her head down, face to palms.
The hair on the back of her head stuck up in spikes like it’d been rubbed a lot until it knotted together.
I could see her scalp.
She looked up at me.
The wind made her hair float around her head for a few seconds and she said, “Fif-ty cents,” real slow.
She only had the front four teeth on the top and bottom of her mouth and they looked like they were covered in caramel. “Fif-ty cents,” the teeth slowly came together like insect pincers.
I thought—Summer is weird because I always forget that it happens and what it’s like when it does happen and then it happens and I remember.
Always surprisingly unique and lovely.
This summer I’m going to kill myself—I thought.
And felt confident I would.
And confidence is all I need—I thought.
*
Honestly though, at some point, it would be my time to get shot.
Every couple days/weeks someone got shot in the area.
I awaited it eagerly.
It would define me.
Definition: Shithead shot dead on the street, found with receipt from a four dollar and fifty-three cents purchase at a gas station in his pocket.
Sometimes I’d be walking down the street and get a sense that it was about to happen.
That it was my day.