Hurt Others

by Sam Pink

  Maybe you’re an amazing violin player and you don’t even know yet.

  For the last few minutes of break, you think about how it seems like you can already play the violin even though you’ve never held one.

  Yeah, it could be.

  Always having been this amazing without knowing it.

  The women continue to talk.

  You feel glad that this—and everything else—is happening.

  But you’re also feeling a weight inside your body at a location triangulated using the backs of both eyes and a point inside the brain, and that weight is called: Nothing more to contribute.

  A weight that never seems entirely retired.

  So you want to try and start liking it.

  You need a fucking violin.

  After break, you’re in the loading area of the store, breaking down boxes with another stockroom employee, nicknamed Sour Cream.

  You’re ripping boxes apart and stacking them in the compactor.

  There are three big cages full of boxes for you to break down and compact.

  “Shit jo,” Sour Cream says. “I feel like such a bitch. Like, I feel like, just such a soggy-ass bitch on the inside.”

  “Awesome,” you say.

  Then he starts telling you about how his uncle has done work for a drug cartel in Mexico.

  He says his uncle pays people thirty-thousand dollars in cash to drive a truck from Chicago to the border of Mexico.

  He says his brother was in jail for going to a guy’s house and knocking on the door and then just firing a shotgun into the house when the door opened.

  Then he says, “So what’re you doing tonight, guerrito.”

  “Probably just going to go home.”

  “And how does that make you feel,” he says.

  He says that sometimes after random shit.

  You’ll be like, “It’s busy in the store today.”

  And he’ll say, “And how does that make you feel.”

  A cardboard box cuts a big cut on the side of your finger.

  It bleeds dark blood.

  “You know what I’m saying though,” he says, ripping a banana box into pieces, “like, just a little bitch deep down, guerro.”

  “Yeah a soggy bitch,” you say. “You feel like a soggy bitch.”

  “For real. Hey did you see that new trainee. He looks like a little bitch too, jo.”

  “No man, no, you’re the bitch,” you say. “I’m going to hold you down while he fucks you and then I’m going to look you in the eyes as you’re getting fucked and I’m going to say, ‘You’re the soggiest bitch.’”

  Sour Cream laughs really hard.

  He walks away a few steps and leans his forehead on a shelf, as if the laughing is too powerful.

  He rubs his eyes and claps once.

  “Bogus ass, guerro,” he says, wiping his eyes.

  Another stockroom employee walks up, carrying some broken-down boxes.

  He’s friends with Sour Cream.

  You look at him, but can’t remember his name.

  The first name you think is “JuJu The Elder” but that doesn’t seem right.

  Whenever they’re scheduled together they stay together the whole day.

  “Aw, look at this bitch,” Sour Cream says, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. Then Sour Cream seems to remember something. “Oh wait man, hold on,” he says, holding the other employee in place by the shoulders. “Do the teeth thing, bitch. Like where you put your teeth together, all fucked-up-looking and shit. Do it man, show him. Show El Guerro your, your magic.”

  They’re both looking at you.

  You feel cornered.

  You look at Sour Cream’s friend and say, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want. Think about it.”

  “Come on bitch, do it,” Sour Cream says. Then he looks at you and says, “This pussy got some diced-ass teeth man, no joke.”

  The other employee bends over laughing, and covers his mouth with his hand.

  He’s acting like a seven-year-old girl.

  It’s really dramatic.

  It’s really embarrassing.

  And how does that make you feel.

  “Come on, fucking bitch,” Sour Cream says, hitting the other employee’s arm. “Why you always such a faggot, jo. Fucking do it.”

  The other employee is still laughing, covering his mouth with his hand.

  Then he calms himself and puts his teeth down together, keeping his lips apart so you can fully see the teeth.

  His teeth don’t line up correctly.

  And he’s barely able to keep from laughing as he’s showing you.

  His nostrils twitch open and close and then he starts laughing.

  Him and Sour Cream hit each other back and forth.

  You say, “Wow those are fucked-up teeth.”

  Sour Cream looks at you, with his thumb gesturing towards the other employee. “Shit is so fucked-up right man,” he says, eyes open wide. “Freaky as hell. Fucking freak-teeth, thass what it is. Oh shit. Thass it. Nigga got some freak-teeth.” He laughs loudly at a high pitch and says, “Oh shit, freak teeth.”

  “Aw shit,” says Freak Teeth, boxing Sour Cream’s arm.

  Sour Cream says, “First time I saw them I’s like, ‘Shit is freaky.’ Like a goblin or something, you know.”

  “Freak teeth!” yells Freak Teeth, with his hand up to his mouth like he’s calling out to someone.

  They both laugh.

  You’re smiling.

  Like a goblin.

  And for some reason you think about a cardboard cut-out of Sugar Ray Leonard, on fire. And flaming cardboard Sugar Ray Leonard yells, “Freak teeth.”

  Sour Cream laughs another high pitched laugh.

  He says, “Got those freak teeth from all that dick in your mouth, little bitch. Eating all that dick up like some salad.”

  “Your dad’s dick, maricon,” says Freak Teeth, stepping back and guarding his body with his hands.

  They’re both laughing.

  “Wait, why are you sucking his dad’s dick,” you say to Freak Teeth.

  But they’re both laughing and not paying attention.

  They hit each other a little more before walking on towards some other work.

  As they walk away, you put your hand up to your mouth and yell, “Freak Teeth!”

  Sour Cream yells, “Freak Teeth!” over his shoulder and him and Freak Teeth hit each other—walking away with an empty cart between them, going to get more boxes.

  More boxes.

  On your last break, you sit in the food court area of the store.

  There’s an old couple arguing.

  They look homeless.

  The man has a shopping cart full of garbage.

  He’s very skinny and bald, like he has cancer.

  You watch him be mean to the woman.

  He’s talking in a hushed, but mean way.

  He keeps saying, “I told you not to fucking say that word.”

  The woman eventually gets up and walks away and the look on her face is very very sad.

  The look on her face is like, “Well, ok” and she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

  You think about it the rest of your shift and it makes you feel awful, like doing anything feels stupid when someone is as badly hurt as that woman.

  You continue thinking about it on the walk home, after work.

  You start panicking.

  And it transitions to thinking about getting your nose bitten off by someone.

  Like, someone biting off all the cartilage and skin.

  You can’t stop thinking about it.

  The worst part would be the aftermath, just sitting there with a hole in your face, and the air making it hurt and how nothing could be done until you got to the hospital.

  So many things I’m not ready for—you think.

  When you turn the corner to your apartment building, you see one of the area’s more recognizable crackheads—the guy who wears the big white shirt
with a cartoon man on the front, speech-bubble saying “Beer” and then the same cartoon on the back saying, “Sex.”

  The crackhead is in the street, talking to what looks like two businessmen going to the airport.

  He’s talking fast and using his hands a lot.

  The businessmen listen intently as the crackhead says a few things then goes into the middle of the street.

  The crackhead starts trying to get a taxi for them, as if he knows the only correct method.

  You’ve also seen him sell out-of-date train schedules, or half-used subway cards, or bikes, or whatever else.

  Last time you saw him he was selling a deflated football.

  He kept yelling, “Go long” and standing back to imitate a throwing motion to other people on the street. He made the Heisman trophy pose a few times too, holding the deflated football.

  The crackhead loads the last piece of luggage for the businessmen.

  He makes a securing motion before shutting the taxi trunk.

  The businessmen look pleased.

  Or eager to not be around him.

  They give the crackhead some money.

  He checks both sides of traffic and walks across the street, putting the money in his pants pocket.

  The taxi drives away, towards the airport.

  And your corner is quiet again.

  This afternoon you fuck your girlfriend right after you both wake up.

  It’s snowing/raining in Chicago.

  And tomorrow you both move out, to different places.

  With barely any kissing or touching, you take off your clothes, then hers, and she holds your ass and you’re fucking her as hard as you can.

  You take her hands off your ass and hold her down by the wrists.

  You move your hips side to side while going in and out of her.

  You’re so hard it hurts.

  But you don’t feel anything.

  It’s not enjoyable, it’s just happening.

  You get off of her and sit up while she kneels, sucks on your dick.

  For some reason this makes you think about a crime you recently heard about, where a guy kept his son in a dog cage for years, only taking him out to beat him.

  You remember that the news reporter said the kid finally starved and then the dad buried the remains in concrete.

  Your girlfriend gets on top of you.

  She lowers her ass on your hard dick.

  You’re all the way inside her while she goes forward and backward.

  Her face gets extremely red.

  Then she’s yelling.

  She keeps yelling, “Shit shit.”

  Someone pounds on the ceiling.

  Your girlfriend keeps yelling.

  You’re too sad to orgasm though.

  But also too (something-else) to get un-hard.

  You just don’t care.

  Instead of orgasming, your dick goes soft at a slow rate.

  It feels very strange—like you’re really hungry, sad, and needless all at the same time.

  It feels better than orgasming.

  You pull out.

  You both sit naked on the tile floor, to cool off and rest.

  You take a blanket off the bed and wrap it around yourself like a tepee and she does it too.

  Brushing crumbs off your asses and legs and feet.

  It smells bad in the room.

  This is happening—you think.

  Comatose, you stare at your smelly dick.

  She reaches behind her, grabs her big corduroy purse.

  “I brought Guess Who. You want to play Guess Who,” she says, taking things out of her purse.

  “I’ll play one game.”

  “I’ll play one game,” she says, doing an exaggerated impression of you.

  “Because when you lose you just want to keep playing until you win. It’s fucking terrible. Like what happened with Battleship.”

  “Because I always grouped my ships together?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nods.

  “Did you like playing Battleship with me though,” she says.

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  She takes all the pieces to a boardgame out of her purse.

  You think about how there really seems to be only one good memory about your relationship.

  It was the night someone broke into the apartment through the sliding glass door while you were out, and then stole a bunch of shit and one of the only things left was the tv with the vcr built into it.

  Instead of being upset all night, you and her bought five 40 oz. King Cobras and a lot of 25 cent bags of chips and stayed up all night getting drunk and watching television and then when it was light outside you had quick, meaningful sex and fell asleep.

  It was good.

  It was the only good thing.

  “Here you go,” she says, handing you some pieces to the game.

  The game consists of two small plastic boards—one for each player—with a few rows of smaller plastic holders that hold cartoon pictures of people, their names printed beneath.

  To start the game, each person playing takes a card from a deck and places it at the front of their board.

  The goal is to guess who the other person is by asking questions, and eliminating people on the board.

  You eliminate people from your board by lowering their picture in the plastic holder, getting closer to knowing the right person.

  And after the first few guesses, she’s already winning.

  She’s already winning because of a brave guess about the person’s haircolor.

  And she opens her blanket tepee a little, clicking down plastic holders on her board.

  For what seems like a ridiculous amount of time, you can’t remember her name—just feeling comatose, and like, idly handling your dick and balls.

  Like a baboon.

  American baboon, handling his dick.

  Why can’t I remember her name—you think.

  The first name you think is: Maria Consuela Hernandez.

  “What if your name was Maria Consuela Hernandez,” you say.

  “I like that name,” she says.

  “I do too.”

  “Fuck, I’m winning,” she says. “Took a big risk with that hair question, but now—ssss—I’m destroying you.”

  You cup your hand around your mouth and look up and say, “Dee-stroy-duh.”

  She says, “Dude you’re getting destroyed. I’m running this fucking board. And you’re just over there eating dicks all day.”

  “Shit, I know,” you say. “I know it.”

  She says, “A big plate of dicks, twirling them around a fork like spaghetti.”

  She checks her board and the remaining rows, pinching her crotch piercing.

  She smells her fingers, thinking.

  Thinking with a secret hate.

  Trying to win.

  This means something to her.

  She’s trying hard to win because she hates you.

  She wants to degrade you.

  She wants to be able to go around and tell everyone how terrible you are at this game.

  Shit, did you hear how bad he is at Guess Who.

  Oh I heard he’s absolutely shitty.

  You watch her think.

  Will she guess who you are and win, or will she keep failing.

  You look at the person on your card.

  Here he is.

  “Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey looks really upset.

  Like, he looks totally pathetic and helpless.

  And this is the moment you and him realize you know nothing about each other, and have nothing to contribute, only take—which doesn’t happen, because there’s nothing to contribute.

  Ha fucking ha.

  Sorry Jeffrey—you think. I can’t help you.

  Your girlfriend puts her hands together and puts both forefingers up to her bottom lip.

  She says, “Does your person, have—” points her folded hands at you, “—sideburns.”

/>   You look at Jeffrey.

  Jeffrey has sideburns.

  He has beautiful, light-brown sideburns.

  Don’t tell her about my sideburns, says Jeffrey. You can lie, he says. Lie about it. Say your person doesn’t have sideburns.

  Jeffrey, I can’t—you think. No, because then I’d have to win before she finds out I cheated. I’d have to guess who her person is before she realizes I’d made it impossible to guess mine. And right now I’m not confident enough. I’m not good enough to do it. No. I’m going to just tell the truth, Jeffrey. Jeffrey.

  Jeffrey is silent.

  “Yeah, he has sideburns,” you say, looking down at your smelly and wrinkled dick.

  Your girlfriend puts down a few more of the plastic holders, making a fist with her other hand and elbowing downward against the air, her big green tit-vein shaking.

  You look at the big green tit-vein shaking.

  It’s beautiful.

  Hey it’s the big green tit-vein—you think. Hey you. Thank you for this.

  And for some reason this transitions into you thinking about a reality where everyone’s death is just a spreading apart into invisibility—and each death is voluntary and self-inflicted—accomplished by detachment from all objects, people and experiences—where death is an accomplishment—where death is people slowly guessing everything out about you, figuring you out.

  And then that somehow transitions into thinking about holding your lips open and exposing your teeth for someone to throw darts at (why not).

  You’re careful not to make a face so she doesn’t ask you what you’re thinking.

  Outside there are a few loud booms, then squealing tires.

  Your girlfriend looks at you.

  “Were those gunshots,” she says, holding a plastic holder halfway down.

  “Yeah, I think so,” you say.

  She slowly flips down more holders.

  You yawn and say, “Hey did you eat the rest of the peanut butter I bought.”

  She flips down more holders. “Uh huh.”

  “So it’s not on the counter anymore. I just don’t want to be surprised in the morning.”

  “No, it’s gone,” she says. “It’s all gone.” Then she yells, “It’s all gone.”

  Someone pounds on the ceiling.

  “All gone,” you say, looking at the board and scratching your chesthair.

  It’s your turn.

  It’s your turn to crush her with a casually-stated question that completely characterizes the reality of her person, putting you one guess (not even a guess) away from finishing her forever.