Rontel Read Free

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