August 17, 2010
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Teeth.
My front tooth is missing.
Number 9 as the dentist calls it.
All I can think about is when John Lennon keeps saying “number 9” over and over again on the White Album.
After 23 surgeries, narcissism, constant belligerence, and plenty of pain; all inflicted by previous dental “professionals” I now have the my left, your right tooth out of my skull.
The fake one that was in there was slipping out of my mouth.
My jaw in the particular area didn’t have enough bone for the screw that had to be put in there to hold onto.
The guy who originally started this insane trip of tooth follies is now dead.
I’m not happy that he is dead.
But I was happy I never had to see his name anymore.
And I’m not saying that his death equals the college tuition-esque bill I had to pay, or the gun shot wound like pain I had to endure, or the proud self-assuring experiments he tried out on me, or cigar-stained fingers that went into my mouth, or the young asshole endodontist that was straight out of an “E.R.” type show (the kind of guy that had to prove he was better than everyone else because of daddy issues or some bullshit) or even just embarrassment of the absence of a tooth. What I am saying is that I hope he regret it right before his last breath.
I’ve never taken Vicodin before.
Can you tell?
I once took a bite of a sandwich with french bread and found my tooth in that meal.
I once sneezed, with my eyes wincing of course and upon opening them seeing my tooth on the ground.
I once had to walk around my college campus for 2 months and star in a play with a missing tooth because he couldn’t fix it yet and my insurance couldn’t go anywhere else.
Now I lay here.
Mouth swollen. Head clouded. Saliva bloody. Gums tender. Smile like a fucking jack o’lantern.
The surgery today was all but painless.
Half-way through my procedure the novocaine wore off.
Because of all the previous surgeries my body is immune!
My gums were too exposed to filler up again.
So there I just had to “grin and bear it” as some trite people say.
There were people observing my surgery today.
Some company that has to to deal with my particular type of surgery.
So there were three people standing there just watching.
They weren’t just people either, they were beautiful.
Two square-jawed, fair haired, muscular build men, whose chests were so big and strong that some realtors in Manhattan could get away with calling it a studio apartment.
There was also this little blonde girl there. All dolled up.
During one of the breaks of the surgery in the haze of the blood, numbness and shock I told her that we should go out because she’s seen me at my worse.
She laughed.
Then I coughed.
Blood landed on her leopard print top.
I laughed.
She left.
I cried from the pain today.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I cried from pain.
I once cried when I badly sprained my ankle, but that was because I wasn’t going to be able to play the one game I loved.
I was literally sobbing on the car ride home, and when I brought the prescription to the pharmacy and when my mom held me.
I’m fine now.
Just another story to tell, right?
