Mather Schneider was born in Peoria, Illinois in 1970. His poetry and prose have been published in many places and he has 6 books available. He lives in Tucson, Arizona and works as an exterminator.

A STORY WITH TEETH

I haven’t been to the dentist in 26 years and it’s been about that long since I’ve had a girlfriend.

I step into the waiting room, sign my name on the sheet. The blond girl behind the counter smiles at me with a smile like Tom Sawyer himself has been painting her teeth all week. I sit down on a chair and flip through a periodical about all things periodontal.

My name’s called. The lady takes 46 x-rays of my mouth, looks at each one on

the screen, tsk-tsk-ing through her tusks, which are also unworldly white and perfect. Then she shuffles me off to the dentist, a big black guy whose teeth look even whiter because of his dark skin. He digs around, says, “Hurt? Hurt? Hurt?” He’s disappointed to find only two cavities. With the help of his assistant they drill and fill while discussing his recent vacation in London

“God, the teeth over there!” he says.

            Then I am off to dental hygienist’s room. The lounge chairs are comfortable,

I could go to sleep. The hygienist comes in. She’s a legitimate bombshell, with a smile that could knock your retinas out. I think there’s an optometrist next door.

            She mines around in my mouth a bit, addresses my x-rays, then leans down on my chest to start the “deep cleaning.”

            “You have some issues,” she says. “You need to try harder.”

            “I know,” I say.

            “Myself, I brush and floss 10 times a day,” she says.

            “Wow.”

            “You need to floss,” she says, “but I know, you’re a man, and men don’t like to floss.”

She smiles when she says “man” and I am aware my gut is flatter because I’m lying down.

            “This may hurt a bit,” she says, leaning her sexy slight frame on mine. She leans on me more than is necessary I am sure, so intimate, I feel like she’s gonna climb on top of me. I think she likes me. I don’t flinch when she gets under the gum.

            “You’re very brave,” she says.

            “Anks.”

            “You take it well, most people squirm and whine. I had one girl tell me I was the Devil.”

            “Pwetty Devil,” I say.

            “Aw, you’re cute,” she says.

            I nod and gurgle.

            “26 years since you’ve been to the dentist,” she says, “why so long?”

            “Oh, you know, wife,” I say, meaning to say “life.”

            “Oh,” she says, “well she’ll love you more after this, when you’re all better.” She grabs a towel. “I was married for 4 years, but he left me.”

            “He doesn’t know what he ‘ost,” I say.

            I do believe we have a connection.

            “Tilt your head over this way,” she says.

            I turn toward her breasts.

            “That’s good,” she says.

            Her voice and manner are so feminine and charming and warm, she’s flirting with me I know it, she likes my new shoes and my shirt.

            “Blue’s my favorite color,” she says.

            I think I’m in love.

The procedure takes 45 minutes. When it’s over she makes another appointment for me, a month from today.

            “Looking forward to it,” I say through my numbed mouth.

            I smile big for her, as if I had brand new teeth. She smiles too. I’m sure she doesn’t treat all her patients like this. I’m walking on a cloud as she escorts me all the way out the hallway to the reception room. She doesn’t do this for everybody, no chance.

            I am smiling the whole way, I smile at everybody. I smile at the other hygienists and patients, I smile at the girl at the reception desk as the hygienist tells her, “Marco has an appointment for June 3^rd, and I will be his personal hygienist.” 

I smile and smile and do not want to say goodbye.

            “The pain might hit you later,” she says.

“Naw,” I say, “I fine.”

            I walk out backwards, still smiling, waving to everyone like a parade float clown,

out into the sun. Man, what a day. Why did I wait 26 years?  

I get in my car, start the engine, think about what a beautiful blue sky it is. I tilt the rearview mirror toward me, smile again. My whole mouth is bloody as a slaughter

house floor, gauze still in my jaw, lips swollen like an over-age boxer, eyes kind of loopy and watery from the pain just starting to seep through.

            I have her card that she gave me: Julia Alvarez.

            I drive home and decide to request her friendship on Facebook.

END