Rontel by Sam Pink Read Free Book Online

I’d recently done to Rontel.
    You just twist the hair on his neck over and over while he falls asleep.
    My brother didn’t respond until I was almost at the sandwich place.
    He sent: “Just saw a video of a baseball pitcher dying when the batter hit the ball right back into his face.”
    *
    I got a sandwich at this place near my apartment.
    I didn’t like the food there, but felt very hungry and dizzy.
    I went in and ordered.
    The man put together my sandwich as I directed.
    I pointed at the things I wanted.
    “That bread, please,” I said, pointing towards some bread behind a glass blocker.
    It was very intimate.
    An intimate process.
    A mutual trust.
    A marriage.
    In which he agreed to gently make my sandwich as I directed.
    No, commanded.
    The manager started yelling at the customer behind me in line.
    “ Vutt kind bread , vutt-kind-bread ,” he yelled.
    The customer looked hurt and scared.
    Felt like turning to her and saying, “More like, ‘what un-kind bread,’ eh?’”
    And I thought that twice as I was looking at her.
    And she noticed me right before I looked away—so it seemed like I was trying to look at her then not get seen.
    Just felt terrible, yuh.
    The employee making my sandwich said, “Vutt else for you, man dude.”
    He smiled, gently sliding my sandwich across a cutting board.
    The tips of his latex gloves hung off a little.
    His latex gloves looked so elegant.
    And yes, I was happy to be with him, working together.
    I began to use different words for including each ingredient.
    I said, “Some onions on there, please.”
    He said, “Onions, yes yes.”
    Then, “And, hit me with some tomato.”
    He said, “Tomato”—gently applying tomato slices with his elegant latex gloves.
    “Then slap on some cucumber.”
    “Cucumber, yes,” he said.
    A dance song played over the PA.
    “Gas it up with some spinach.”
    “Spinach, yes.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    There was another employee next to him, making someone else’s sandwich.
    The tips of her latex gloves had shriveled.
    I said, “Oh man, you got them sizzle tips”—pointing at her gloves by tapping the glass blocker.
    It felt weird to have initiated a conversation.
    Paralyzed me for a moment.
    Weak.
    She smiled.
    She raised her eyebrows and said, “Vutt.”
    I pointed at her gloves.
    “Your gloves,” I said. “That’s from bacon, right. You made bacon and then it burnt the tips of your gloves. That would happen to me when I worked at a sandwich place. ‘Sizzle tips.’”
    She smiled and looked at the gloves and nodded. “Oh, j’yes.”
    “It hurts, right,” I said, smiling for some reason.
    “Oh,” she said. “J’yes, hoort bad.”
    “Sizzle tips,” I said, then continued interacting with the man putting together my sandwich. “Some spinach and then we’re good I think.”
    “Already spinach, boddy,”
    “All right yeah,” I said. “That’s good.”
    He had both hands on the cutting board, looking down at the sandwich.
    We were almost done, and I think he realized it.
    Looked like he wouldn’t be able to release this one.
    How many sandwiches had he made then been too sad to release.
    Or was this the first.
    Did I break him.
    Did I crush him, tear away his beloved.
    As he handed me the wrapped-up sandwich, a customer at the beginning of the line said, “Whatchoo thank, o’boy like me wouldn’t want some banana peppas onnat shit, put that shit onnat nah. C’mawn, mang.” Then he laughed like “heh ah” and put his hands in his pockets, sniffing.
    Paying for my food, I imagined myself accepting change from the cashier then floating sideways out of the sandwich place.
    Just, out the door and up into the sky.
    Not too fast, not too slow.
    With enough time to fully enjoy it.
    *
    When I got home, there was a note underneath the apartment door.
    The note was handwritten on lined stationary with flowers and birds on it.
    It read: “Hey could you please please please stop smoking. It’s stinking up the hallway