Rontel (12 page)

Another person introduced himself and said he too had always been fascinated by beekeeping.

Then he referenced living in Hawaii numerous times in astounding succession.

Hawaii Man again.

When it was my turn, I said, “I’m here because my girlfriend asked me to come with her and said she’d pay, and also because I want to control nature.”

The overweight kid at the end of the table said, “Control nature!?” really loud and crossed his eyes then held up a game of tic-tac-toe he’d drawn on his bee packet.

When it was his turn to introduce himself, he got real nervous and said, “Um yes, hello, I’m Eli. I like bees uh, because um, because they’re my favorite thing to love because I like them and I’m an artist.”

Then the next person began her introduction.

Eli made a face at me, biting a muffin he’d acquired during break.

Fuck you, bitch.

*

After the beekeeping class my girlfriend and I went to a secondhand store in Humboldt Park.

She wanted to buy clothes and make them into different clothes.

She walked around looking at clothes and I walked around feeling like I wanted to hit my head against something and hurt myself.

My skin warmed up and felt hardened.

Felt like I couldn’t comfortably be inside any building.

Wanted to leave.

From behind a rack of clothing, someone said, “I’m sayin’, all they shorts is fuck-TUP, Darryl.”

Then Darryl said, “You sayin’ they
all
bogus. Well I’on’t want none then. Fuck this.”

In the main aisle, a kid stood in a shopping cart.

We stared at each other.

Will he fall.

Face smashed on the floor.

Me standing there.

Inevitably someone would walk up and see me standing there with the kid lying facedown on the floor, blood coming out around his head.

What would be the normal thing to do in that situation.

Do you say “hi” to the first person who finds you or do you just shrug or do you start to help or what.

My girlfriend stood at the end of an aisle in front of a small cracked mirror, holding some clothes up against her.

“What about this,” she said. “I kind of like it.”

I focused on breathing.

I purposely didn’t look at anyone.

Just me calmly and openly accepting my role in this equation.

Which always equaled a loosely defined sum.

Which always equaled just slightly more than itself.

“It’s nice, I like it,” I said, touching my finger to the shirt she held.

“I love it more than anything in my life.”

“Even me,” she said.

I looked at the shirt then back at her face.

Neither of us said anything as she continued to hold the shirt up against herself.

She said, “I think I like it, yeah.”

And I moved some shirts along a rack in front of me.

There was one with Osama Bin Laden’s face on the front, a big red X through it.

Underneath his picture it said, “America doesn’t back down.”

And, in reference to nothing, I thought—I’ll never back down, motherfucker.

Didn’t matter what because I’d NEVER back down.

And that felt good.

My girlfriend held the same piece of clothing, doing this odd series of poses with it, almost like a dance.

I looked up and saw a sign hanging from the ceiling.

It had two columns, indicating the location of things.

It listed things like “Men” and “Boys,” and “Girls.”

One of the things listed was “Hot Styles.”

I wanted to walk up to an employee and say, “Excuse me, could you tell me where the hot styles are. Oh, nevermind, there they are.”

Why would anyone want anything other than hot styles.

Who would see that there are hot styles, and then not just immediately go there.

I envisioned a sign I’d make for the store.

And the sign was bigger.

And it only had “HOT STYLES” written on it in big letters.

And there were arrows all around it, pointing out at all areas in the store.

I stood behind my girlfriend, staring at myself in the mirror.

I repeatedly thought—Hot styles/these are hot styles here—until I felt calm.

Girlfriend said, “How about this one—no?”

I said, “These are some hot styles.”

“The hottest styles,” she said.

I said, “I’m looking around and it’s just, all hot styles.”

She didn’t say anything.

She kept repeating this cycle of poses in front of the mirror.

I said, “I want you to call me ‘Hot Styles’ from now on. Call me that or I won’t answer, ok.”

The kid who was standing in the shopping cart rolled by, his mom pushing.

Still standing, staring at me like I was hot styles.

*

My girlfriend looked through the aisles of plastic and glass objects and I walked around.

A man came up to me from one of the clothing aisles.

He had on Velcro shoes, sweatpants, and a huge white t-shirt.

His hair was long and greasy and he wore swimming goggles.

Kept doing this series of mouth tics.

Twitches.

He’d draw his lips inward, then extend them, making his mouth into an
o
, and then say, “Ohp.”

He did that eight or nine times before he said actual words.

Eventually he asked me about winter coats.

It was so hot outside—and had been, and would be—that people were dying.

But I helped him look for winter coats.

There were none.

“No more winter coats,” I said.

He kept saying, “Ohp,” over and over, a little more nervous/upset now.

I tried to explain.

Tried to tell him.

He just looked sad, repeating, “Ohp,” over and over.

Soon as I started backing away, he said, “Ow.”

Started saying, “Ow,” and just stood there between aisles.

And it seemed like he understood everything—or if not everything, then at least some amount of things that a person like myself might easily confuse for everything.

Amen.

Amen, brotha.

Hot styles.

Triumph.

Triumph of the hot styles.

Hottest style wins.

This is the beginning—I thought.

This is the beginning of a new period in my life.

One where I solved problems as they happen.

Where nothing happenes.

I joined my girlfriend in line waiting to pay.

I openly grabbed her ass and said, “Hot styles.”

People at the next cash register were talking.

One described to the other a commercial she liked and what happens in the commercial and have you seen it?

*

My girlfriend took me to get pie, because at the secondhand store I made a comment about not getting any pie at the bee class and she thought I was genuinely upset and I didn’t try to change her mind.

We went to her “favorite pie place.”

We walked from the secondhand store.

She turned to me after a considerable silence and said, “Hey, did you smell that one guy back there.”

“The homeless guy,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah why,” I said.

“He smelled
so
bad.”

“He’s fucking homeless, of course he smells.”

She didn’t say anything.

“What’s the point of saying something like that,” I said. “Why would you even fucking say that.”

She didn’t answer.

We continued walking.

No conversation.

A few blocks later, someone behind us yelled, “Kevin,” repeatedly.

I started to think he thought I was Kevin, and he was trying to get me to turn around.

What if I really am Kevin—I thought, and just never knew it.

But I forced myself to not turn around.

If I turned around to confirm who he was yelling at, he might continue to think I was Kevin.

And if he thought I was Kevin, I’d have to answer for not turning around initially.

I’d have to answer for forgetting my own name.

*

By a small four-way intersection, there was a group of teenaged kids.

One of them blew on a kazoo loudly.

As we neared, he stopped.

I was worried he was going to blow the kazoo right as I walked by—startling me for everyone to laugh at.

Everyone fuck off, I’m not Kevin, and I don’t want to be frightened.

A crackhead with only her two brown front teeth walked by us quickly, yelling, “Need a dolla fo’hotdog.”

She seemed to be yelling to anyone—like, as a precaution against not asking someone who would if asked.

I silently tried to manipulate my girlfriend into buying me a hotdog, in addition to the pie, and my method was looking at her and squinting my eyes.

*

We sat across from each other at the pie place.

Our table looked out at Milwaukee Avenue.

My girlfriend read through a weekly Chicago newspaper, making comments about every bar/restaurant listed.

“Ohhh we should go here,” she said, pointing at some picture of a plate of food with an address and review beneath.

“No,” I said. “I don’t like going places. No places for me. Never again after this.”

“Ohhhh, this place,” she said, looking up at me. “This place has the BEHHHST fucking green beans.”

“Best green beans, muffucker,” I said. “You wannem, well, here they are, muffucker, my greenest beans.”

I decided to just repeat everything she said.

Because we weren’t having a conversation.

She was just referencing things she bought or wanted to buy.

Most of our interactions were like that—her describing something she bought or wanted to buy.

So I’d just repeat what she said and add “muffucker” to make it seem like I was encouraging her, make it seem like I was in a good mood.

“Whoa-bob, this place has aMAZing scones,” she said, tapping a description of a restaurant and making a noise with her mouth.

“Boy you know we got the best scones, muffucker,” I said.

Then I grabbed a corner of the newspaper and ripped it and said, “MufFUCKa.”

“Motherfucker,” she said, with passive disapproval, straightening the rip.

A pie store employee walked past us.

She made eye contact with me and smiled.

I’m too goodlooking—I thought, gravely.

Goddamnit.

The employee locked the entrance and said, “Take your time, I’m just closing up.”

My girlfriend and I sat there eating our pie.

Most of my life could be characterized as “being somewhere/doing something with someone who has paid to ensure I come along.”

The other part of my life could be characterized as “not.”

My girlfriend said, “Oh I forgot to tell you, my sister’s pregnant.”

I listened to her talk about her pregnant sister.

But I was thinking about dogs.

I want a German Shepherd—I thought.

And I imagined myself dressed in some type of ceremonial robe, standing with both my arms out, palms upward.

And above one palm floats the fully-enclosed fetus of my girlfriend’s sister’s future baby, and above the other palm floats the fully-enclosed fetus of my future German Shepherd.

And my face is emotionless.

And above my head there’s a fire but it’s clear and just looks like the air is waving.

I stared out the window watching things happen on Milwaukee Avenue, eating pie with my girlfriend.

2012.

Living.

What happened to me.

Outside, someone walked up to the pie store and tried to come in.

When he noticed it was locked he looked at the store hours.

Saw it was closed and made a face, looking downward at the sidewalk.

Then he looked up.

We made eye contact.

Maintaining eye contact, I picked up my plate and took a big bite of the pie and made a face like the pie was too good to endure—leaning back a little as I chewed, closing my eyes and touching at my throat and face like a woman nearing orgasm.