Rontel Read Online Free PDF Page B

me.
    Luis, please.
    I said, “So is this one good then. Or no.”
    He put one hand in the other and clicked his teeth. Said, “Man, they all pretty much the same. They do basic shit, man.”
    “And this one comes with the full numerical keyboard—I get all numbers,” I said, splaying my fingers out over the model phone attached to a small piece of pressboard.
    He said, “There’s a manual with each one on how to use it and what it does, man. You can go on the internet and shit but it looks like a fucking videogame from the 80s and it barely works—but yeah it does some shit.”
    “And now, is this the classic ‘ear to the top/mouth to the bottom’ type of phoning device.”
    He started helping someone else.
    I wanted to ask if I had to dial the number then hit some kind of “send” button, or if just dialing the number correctly would send the call.
    The phone cost $20 and then I had to buy a plastic card with minutes.
    It was like, a fun thing to watch my time run out.
    It gave my life a certain urgency that—if searched—would be hiding its own version of, “No, not yet.”
    The first thing I did after entering the minutes was send my brother a message.
    I walked out of the store and stood on the sidewalk.
    Sent my brother a message that read: “This is my new phone number: (phone number)…you…fucking bitch.”
    He sent back: “Haha you got a phone. You’re stupid.”
    *
    First night I had the shitty prepaid phone, I lay on the floor of my room, trying to sleep.
    My brother and I had just moved in together and hadn’t had electricity for almost three weeks during a heatwave.
    All I’d done for days was sweat and work and take showers where I’d sweat during the shower.
    I lay on the slightly cooler floor of my room, crumbs and cat hair all over my naked sweating ass.
    I thought—This is the end of something but I’m not sure what.
    Then my shitty prepaid phone vibrated.
    I checked it.
    I pressed a button to receive the message.
    Half a minute, subtracted.
    The subtraction was done on the screen of the phone.
    It showed how many minutes were being subtracted, then showed the remaining total.
    Half a minute for a text message.
    Full minute for each minute of talking.
    A countdown.
    An equation.
    Death.
    The end of my maniac youth.
    Extinction.
    My face, burnt black against my skull.
    World peace times infinity.
    I read the message.
    It wasn’t from my brother and I hadn’t given anyone else the number.
    The message was: “Hey man, you going to the post-production party??”
    Post-production party.
    I thought—What if I’m dead and this is an ambassador to an afterlife, and there are many afterlives and it’s up to me to select the right one.
    I sent back: “Who is this.”
    Subtract half a minute.
    The person sent: “Dude it’s Wisnieski.”
    Half a minute less.
    Who’s Wisnieski.
    I don’t know Wisnieski.
    But, it was him.
    It was really him.
    Wisnieski goddamn it.
    Me: “Oh hey man, how are you.”
    Wisnieski: “Good, just seeing how you were getting to the postproduction party at Alex’s.”
    “Wait, Alex is having a party????”
    “Yeah he didn’t tell you. Haha”
    “No man. What’s up with Alex is he mad at me.”
    “Shit, I don’t think so. You think so?”
    “Sometimes with Alex…you just don’t know.”
    “Haha. For real yeah. You coming then?”
    Me: “Wisnieski, how are you. Are you ok.”
    “What. I’m good, why.”
    “Wisnieski, I mean, are we good. Did I do something.”
    A few minutes passed without a response.
    I started sending “are we good” over and over.
    My minutes, vanishing.
    Drying up.
    I’m dying—I thought.
    Dying!
    Oh Wisnieski, help me!
    Please fucking help me.
    Me: “Wiskieski, just tell me. We used to be so good man. It was me and you. Just me and ol’ Wisnieski. What now.”
    Minutes passed.
    Wisnieski: “Who the fuck is this.”
    Me: “It’s Wisnieski dude.”
    And I lay there in the dark, waiting for Wisnieski to respond.
    To