SAM PINK

Official Tumblr page of nonfiction, fiction & poetry author Sam Pink.

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SAFE

On the Red Line train this guy gets into the car I’m in, right before the doors close. He stands there and says, “Safe! I made it!”—doing a baseball umpire motion for “Safe” holding an unpeeled banana in one hand and some mail in the other.Then he sits in the seat next to me, organizing the mail on his lap. He eats the banana and puts the peel in one of the opened envelopes. He is very calm and doesn’t say anything else to anyone the whole time. Safe.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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ICE CREAM SANDWICH

I’m waiting out front my apartment building because I locked myself out. On a bench nearby, a man and a woman talk about past drug use. He did heroin and she did crack. He’s wearing a neon green fanny pack and a Bears sweatshirt and she’s wearing all red—red shirt, red shiny stretch pants,and a red top hat. He said, “Yeah I’m the kind of guy—it’s like, I just love ice cream sandwiches so I’ll just keep eating them know, if they’re there, you know. It’s like, that’s how heroin was. Know, I like something I just keep doing it.” The woman laughs like, “Eh ah” and says, “Ice cream bars— shee yit.” “I lost all the feeling in my right hand, know,” he said. “Stuff’s bad.” She slaps both her thighs and turns her head a little sideways and says, “Zat all you did, fuckin herr-on.” He said, “No, I did stuff like uh, acid and pills too.” “Oooh,” she says, cringing l and leaning back a little. “Fuck all at weird shit, jo.” The man whistles two notes, staring forward. He says, “Know, I just love ice cream sandwiches.” lThe way he’s talking is like something is wrong with his throat or brain or other related part. Like, I understand him, but the words are slightly different—like an accent from a country or region in which only he exists. Then the woman in the shiny red top hat cites a few bible verses—at times, angrily yelling them. The man just sits there, staring forward through his tinted eyeglasses. Green fanny pack. Heroin. Herr on. The woman says, “Uh, yeah but uh, I’s talkinna my susta and she was talking some URRitating shit. Mm!” She starts seething a little. Leans forward on the bench. Begins pointing her finger downward in hard motions between her open legs. She says, “I’s like, ‘I buss yo fucking head, talkinnat smart shit to me, bish.’ To me! Fuck. BUSS, yo fucking head, bish.” The man just sits there—his hands folded over his lap, legs stretched out. What is their relationship. I want them to be married or getting married. I want to be the only person at their wedding, where nothing is served except for ice cream sandwiches. The woman uses the phrase ‘buss yo head’ for multiple other situations involving her sister and then she’s actually on the ground, pointing and yelling. Her yelling is scary. She’s yelling in a way that makes her voice sound demonic. And the man just sits there looking forward. I imagine him holding an ice cream sandwich against his face as the woman readies herself to punch him—saying, “buss yo fucking head” to herself over and over, covering her fist with the other hand—and then she swings her arm around like a windmill and punches the ice cream sandwich into his face. And what would that do. It would do a lot. -GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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ANOTHER THING ABOUT PERSONALITY

I’ve noticed sometimes when thinking about myself—like remembering a situation I was in or whatever—I don’t visualize myself as how I actually look but instead as a pile of sticks.

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PERSONALITY SHIELD

It happens now where someone tries to interact with me and we both just stand there while his/her personality bounces off my shield and hits the ground, instantly motionless.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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ERIN AND HER FRIEND

1. This girl Erin from where I used to work asked me if I’d escort her and her friend to a birthday party for another girl from work. The party was in a bad neighborhood and they wanted me to come with them. So I met them at the Wilson Red Line. On the train, Erin sat next to me, and her friend sat in the seats in front of us, turned. Erin punched my arm/neck and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you, smiley. Are you on drugs. You never smile.” I was smiling but I didn’t know why. “I’m just happy to be with you,” I said. Her friend stared at me the whole time. Erin told me a couple days ago she wanted me to come out so her friend could, “…see you’re hot and then you guys could have sex whenever you want, simple”—and she shrugged when saying it. I looked out the window on the way to the party and tried not to make eye contact with anyone in the reflection, including myself.

2. We went to a houseparty with basically only underage girls. It was me, and then 47,000 high school girls, and like, 4 boys, all of them the brothers (?) of the birthday girl. I was standing in a kitchen, with a crowd of teenaged girls around me drinking and yelling things. One girl came up to me from behind and put her hands up and down my back and said, “Drink drink, we want to get you drunk. We want to take advantage of you.” She squeezed my back and said, “Oooooh” then all the girls started yelling again. Everyone went to the same high school. Oh. This girl sitting on the countertop, she looked at me and said, “I want to go out to get cigarettes but I’m scared, will you come with me. Creepy dudes always yell at me when I’m there.” For some reason I started smiling and couldn’t stop. I said, “I don’t know. Be brave,” Erin said, “Uh uh bitch, he’s here with us” grabbing my arm and putting her face against my shoulder. The girl who wanted to take advantage of me kept rubbing my back. I was being taken advantage of. Sinking feet first into mud, with my hands up, me screaming, “She, took advantage of me, no” then the mud enters my mouth and nose and eyes. This other girl tried to get me to drink from a bottle of tequila but then she dropped it when she was passing it and it broke all over the floor and everyone yelled at her and I helped her pick up the glass. Then there was a crashing sound from a different room. One of the boys pushed another boy out a first floor screen window and into some bushes and they started yelling at each other in the street. I had to go out into the street to break up the “fight”— where one kid immediately took off his shirt and started quoting popular rap songs that expressed his anger and desire to fight. Some guy I didn’t recognize came out with a retractable metal baton and for some reason immediately sided with me, saying, “Is it cool?” and I got everyone inside after someone else from across the street yelled, “We’re going to call the fucking cops.” Back inside, I watched them all drink, and smoke marijuana. I stood against the wall while teenaged girls stared at me and laughed and spoke spanish to each other behind red plastic cups. Didn’t know what I should be doing so I just stood there, sinking into mud, allowing the mud into my screaming mouth and eyes. I thought—What if I just walk to the middle of the kitchen, lay on the floor and refused to get up.

3. People left slowly throughout the night. Eventually everyone who was still there went into the living room and there was loud music and I sat down on a couch and the birthday girl came over. She started asking me if I knew, if I knew, if I knew, if I knew she thought I was cute. Then after I stared at her without blinking for a little bit she asked for a birthday hug. She sat next to me and put her head on my shoulder and went to sleep within seconds. Her friends all asked me to dance but I couldn’t get up because the birthday girl was sleeping on me. This other girl said, “Fuck that bitch, come on” and pulled me up. The birthday girl woke up quickly, focused on us and smiled then went back to sleep with her head on the armrest. I took turns dancing with the girls and I got really sweaty and they kept telling me I was a good dancer and every time I’d yell, “No, you’re a good dancer” to whoever said it.

4. Later I walked a group of girls to the bus stop then returned to the party to escort other girls to other stops, as directed by Erin. The whole time I walked a little away from the group as they moved down the block together in a weird formation, yelling shit at me every once in a while to remind me I was there and how was I doing man. Had to stop at a gyro place so people could order food and I was waiting outside, enjoying the cool night when one of the girls opened the door and asked me to come in and sit with them so these other people would “shut the fuck up already.” I went in and sat with them while they ate. One girl insisted on feeding me part of her pizza puff. I had to both eat it and let her feed it to me.

5. Last I took Erin and her friend home. Blue Line to Red Line, all the way north to Rogers Park. At the Red Line transfer, Erin and her friend sat on a bench hugging together to keep warm and I stood off to the side staring at a Chicago map posted by the garbage. I looked at Chicago streets and imagined myself using thumbtacks to mark where my army will engage—myself pointing up into the air and nasally screaming, “Engage and destroy!” spitting all over the map. This guy approached Erin and her friend. He was wearing an oversized coat with small patches sewn all over—one for each team in the National Basketball Association —big jeans, woodtipped cigar behind his ear. He put his foot up on the bench where the girls sat. He motioned with his hands and licked his lips dramatically, and said, “Umma axyall som’.” Then he licked his lips and folded his arms and said to Erin’s friend, “Whassya name.” She said, “It’s—” And he held out his hand and said, “Nah, it’s beautiful. It’s unique. It’s a living dream and an angel. It’s my fantasy and my destiny.” “No, it’s Val,” she said. He said, “Nah, it’s powerful. Individual. It’s essential.” Then he tried the same thing with Erin. Erin was texting on her phone and didn’t even look at him. She put her hand up a little and said, “Nigga, just stop with the bullshit.” She pronounced “bullshit” like “boo shit.” That meant she was close to being violent. I’d been punched hard by her moments after hearing her say “boo shit.” I stood there watching. Erin’s friend leaned forward and loudly said, “Yeah just leave us alone, we don’t feel like being hit on right now ok, come on.” The guy clicked his teeth then backed up, assessing them both. The first sounds of the train came through the tunnel and I went over to join the girls. The guy took out the cigar from behind his ear then shook my hand and said, “Man, they yours? Good luck with boaf ‘em. You lucky.” He walked away. Erin and her friend and I got on the train, sat down in a mostly-empty car. Erin said, “Nice fucking job, pussy. You’re supposed to protect us.” I said, “He called you essential. I heard him say that.” Erin said, “Fiss” with her lips/teeth. Her friend said, “No, he called me essential.” I said, “Which one of you was unique then.” Erin fixed her bra and took out a small plastic tube from her purse and applied something to her lips. She said, “Shut the fuck up, pretty boy.” Then she smiled and touched my face and looked at me sweetly and said, “You are seriously, a pretty white boy.” Felt like I was in love with something but I didn’t know what. Maybe just all the negative space in front of me at all times.

6. Back home, I saw Erin had sent me a message on my shitty prepaid phone. The message was: “My friend said she wants to fuck you, bad.” I sent back: “Sounds good, Erin! Alright!” lying on the floor, waiting to go to sleep. I imagined a double of myself falling through the ceiling and landing—in the “cannonball” position—on my face as I lay on the floor waiting to go to sleep.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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BUS THING

When I got on the bus this morning, it accelerated before I could grab something. I reached for a pole and grabbed it but it swung me around and I fell into the lap of a very old woman. She was wearing a plastic thing over her hair, sunglasses too. I immediately smiled and said, “Hey”—unable to move because my feet were off the ground. Then I got up and stood in the aisle—unable to stop smiling/laughing in a way that felt oh so bad.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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A LIST OF HOW SOME BOXERS HAVE DIED

Rocky Marciano—plane crash, decapitated. Corrie Sanders—shot in a bar robbery while covering his daughter. Joe Frazier—liver cancer. Sonny Liston—heroin overdose. Paco Rodriguez—collapsed in a coma in the tenth round of a fight. His organs were successfully transplanted to five people. Benny Paret—first person to die on national television when his opponent Emile Griffith hit him twenty-nine times in row before the referee stopped the fight. Billy Collins Jr.—died in a [possibly] suicidal drunken car crash after one of his opponents, Luis Resto, fought with tampered gloves and tore Collins’ iris, forcing early retirement. Charlie Mohr—died during college tournament in the 1960s, ending all of college boxing. Jimmy Garcia—brain damage. Benjamin Flores—brain damage. Becky Zerlentes—brain damage, first woman to die. Randie Carver—brain damage. Vernon Forrest—robbed at a gas station, shot seven times in the back. Edwin Valero—hanged himself in his jail cell awaiting trial on charges of killing his son and wife. Julian Letterlough—shot in the back. Diego Corrales—motorcycle accident. Arturo Gatti—unsolved, either suicide by hanging or murdered by wife. Hector Camacho—shot, taken to hospital where he died for three minutes then came back to life, brain-dead, taken off life support at the request of his mother.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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NICE JOB

I saw this guy park a giant truck into a loading dock off a busy Chicago street. He did it in one try, barely inconveniencing the other drivers. I wanted to yell, “Nice job.” But I didn’t want him to feel like I was trying to mock him. I thought about being more specific, like, “Hey man, nice job parking that truck in one try in the middle of all this traffic, that was good” but that seemed even worse.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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SUBWAY

Today when I scanned my train card, I thought the screen said: “Fuck you,” but really it said: “Accepted.” Did I want it to say, “Fuck you”—maybe, maybe.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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MARCOS

I saw an old co-worker, Marcos, coming out of the liquor store at the end of my block. He came out with two cases of beer. He said hey and walked over. He set the beer down and zipped his sweatshirt and picked the beer back up. I asked him how he was and he said he was just coming back from his cousin’s funeral and people were going to his grandma’s place a few blocks away. “Yeah man, my cousin got shot in the park,” he said. “Sucks.” “What happened.” He said, “Dude comes up behind him and puts a gun to his head and, blam, shot him.” “Shit. For no reason.” “Ha, no. Cous’ was banging. Me too, but I got out. That’s why I can’t go over like, on the blocks past Wilson and shit. They know me over there. They’on’t like me over there ha.” Two guys walked past and one looked at the beer Marcos was holding and said, “Aw shit. Y’all finna DO it.” Marcos motioned with the cases and nodded upwards. “Yeah it’s some sad shit, man,” he said to me. Then he clicked his teeth and said, “But, shit.” “Well,” I said. “Orale, pussy, let me get a beer.” He backed up a little, laughing. We were both still alive. “Fuck you, pussy,” he said. Whenever he smiled/laughed it looked like he had Down’s syndrome.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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THE TRUTH ABOUT THE JACKHAMMER AT THE CONSTRUCTION SITE YOU’RE WALKING PAST

It doesn’t matter if you try to encourage the jackhammer to fall on you from off a fifty-foot scaffold. Because the jackhammer isn’t connected to your mind. You can try. You can think, “Just fall.” But that won’t help. The jackhammer will remain where it is. And you will pass by unharmed, every time. Less and less harmed.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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GIANT HORNET

I’m sitting on my girlfriend’s couch staring at the wall, where sunlight projects the shadow of her dying avocado tree sapling from the windowsill behind me to the wall where I’m staring, right above the shadow of my head. And it looks exactly like a giant hornet hovering above me, the stinger waving. And I like it.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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RIDE WITCHO MAN

The last day at that job, I was in the breakroom eating a yogurt someone didn’t want. Talking to two girls. One girl was sitting next to me, opening up a small lunch thing where you combine crackers with deli meat and cheese. The second girl was standing by me, one hand on the back of my chair and the other hand completely bandaged. She held her bandaged hand in my face and said, “This be from fightin’ w’some A-rabs. Yeah. I’s out wimma man and these A-rabs jumped him at a restaurant we was at. You know how them A-rabs luh to tussle.” “Ey do be tussling,” said the girl at the table, turning her head sideways a little and looking at me as she combined a cracker with deli meat and cheese. “Arabs love to tussle,” I said, shaking my head no. “What do they do.” The girl with the bandaged hand said, “Yeah, they luh to tussle. So I buss my hand punching this A-rab dude” then in a higher voice, “cauz he was fucking wimma man, f’rill.” “You broke your hand on his head,” I said, flicking a piece of pretzel off the table. She smiled and hit my shoulder with her uninjured hand and said, “Mm hm.” The other girl got serious and looked at me and said, “”S’right, because you gotta ride witcho man.” “Hell yeah,” I said, feeling in love with her. Bandaged girl said, “Hell yeah.” Then someone else in the breakroom began a conversation where people took turns saying what s/he’d do if s/he won the lottery. When it was my turn, I leaned my chair back and said, “Shit, if I won the lottery I’d,” —and I let my chair hit the ground, moving my head back and forth like I was trying to touch each ear to a shoulder, “I’d ride witcho man.” And the girl with the bandaged hand laughed and stomped the ground and her friend laughed and I laughed and when the bandaged girl pointed at me I just did this dumbass shrug, hands up, shaking my head no.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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QUIT JOB

I quit my warehouse job a week ago. I was helping the head of security throw out garbage in the alley. He’d just told me that last night when he was throwing out garbage, he saw a prostitute sucking someone’s dick. I said, “Oh yeah, so I think I’m going to quit.” He looked at me and said, “Oh shit, really. Ok.” He was nodding. “Man that sucks though. We all really like you and everything.” “Oh man, thanks.” We threw out the rest of the garbage without speaking. Then he noticed my boots. My boots were brown but I’d colored them black with a permanent marker. “I ordered black but then they sent me brown,” I said, explaining it to him. Then, before he reacted, I said, “Best of both worlds” and thought about how that didn’t mean what I meant. Felt like saying, “Hey just so you know, again, I quit.” And for about eight seconds, the idea of not having a job made me feel like I could do anything I wanted. There was nothing I wanted.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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FRIES

My girlfriend and I are walking her dog around Uptown. It’s really hot. At a stoplight, I watch an old lady in the parking lot of a fastfood place throw an entire package of fries onto the asphalt for the pigeons and seagulls to eat. And I start thinking about how I want to do that every day—to have that be the thing I did every morning—not read the paper, not drink tea, not make juice, not smoke a cigarette, not exercise, but go and buy a few dollars’ worth of fries and throw them all into the parking lot for the seagulls and pigeons to eat. And the pigeons would come down from powerlines and the seagulls would all come from the lake every morning, just to see me. They’d all rely on me. I’d be theirs. How would I deliver the fries though. Would I break the fries up. Would I throw them down one at a time. Maybe break them all up and throw them all up into the air like confetti for “one big rush.” What would I do. We cross the intersection and keep walking. I wipe my face with my shirt. My girlfriend says, “My grandma died in a heatwave like this. She got really paranoid and wouldn’t leave her apartment and then like, at a certain point, she wouldn’t even let people in. Like she wouldn’t let people deliver groceries because she was too paranoid to have the door open, even for a second.” Her dog walks in front of me to sniff something and I almost trip over the leash. And I think about an old woman locked in her apartment, dying. I imagine her lying down to die. And then after she dies she wakes up as a seagull, in motion over Lake Michigan, following other seagulls to a fastfood parking lot where I’m throwing fries all over the fucking place.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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THOUGHTS ON WHAT I REALLY LOOK LIKE

Like, there’s me, then there’s a smaller me in orbit of the regular sized me. But the orbit is just a constant floating backwards, describing the regular me left in the distance. Getting more and more distant but still trying to describe. And the way it’s described is how I actually look. And no one can see the process behind it.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN

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PIGEONS

There are pigeon blockers along the beams and overhangs of most outside train stops in Chicago. The pigeon blockers are strips of steel, with sharp upturned segments like saw-teeth. Sometimes I’m just standing there waiting for them to come to life and fly at me, snapping open and closed. Me running at first, then being like “No, why am I running” and allowing the jaws to close on me. Except the teeth don’t bite, they bend around me.And it’s just me standing on the subway platform with all this metal bent around me, and I say “fuck” before going back to wait for the train.

GERALD MCCLELLAN VS NIGEL BENN