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We now enter: Total Isolation
Rontel is the story of one man's odyssey through Chicago. Follow him as he attempts to go to his last day of work. Follow him through the subway as he considers stealing chips from a dancing baby. Find him being threatened by a homeless man holding board games. Take his hand as he considers building a hydraulic cocoon for his cat out of a complimentary duffel bag. Walk the streets of Uptown as a cop-killer takes hostages to the roof of an apartment building. Meet his friends. Just kidding! Follow him to his neighbor's apartment where he gets paid in pumpkin pie to watch a baby. Follow him through through the dull pains of never quite becoming an adult. Sit back, laugh, smile, hold your breath, because not even he knows how it ends.
you can put your pants in that situation twice before needing to change—before you could smell your genitals through the pants. Could smell my genitals today, sweating through Wrigleyville. I decided to go back home after not seeing any signs about jobs (and just generally not wanting to talk to anyone). I’d gone into one place and asked if they needed help and the guy seemed to say yeah and I was like, “I can wash dishes and shit.” Regretted adding, “and shit.” And the man asked for my
conclusion, using paper towels to dry off: not bad! It was a nice, fun way to keep dry. Something new. Also, it kind of made me feel like an escaped prisoner, or someone running from someone else maybe, maybe some kind of secret government agency. Like I’d broken into someone’s apartment and had to use whatever was available then quickly escape. Have to get out quick—I thought, smiling. Have to escape. I thought about escaping as I dried off. Then I thought—No, this is all there is.
using the 18 pack—I thought. Now is the time to begin. I smiled. I was already different. Sent my brother a phone message: “Hey there’s 18 bars of soap here now if you want some.” Eventually he sent back: “Who gives a shit.” I sent back: “Just leave me a few bars you know.” * That night when I left for my girlfriend’s, the Wilson Street Red Line stop was barricaded on all sides. I walked up to the barricade. Police cars. Ambulances. Firetrucks. ATF units. Riot shields. Weapons.
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
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