Teeth

I had a dentist appointment today. My teeth aren't falling out, but I don't like going to the dentist. It brings out a little rage. So I wrote a story.

The molars started slipping first. Then the incisors and the canines.

All of Frank’s upper teeth slid down, just slightly, but enough to accentuate their wobbliness and precarity. 

He looked at himself in the mirror and gently poked at his mouth. Yes, more movement was certainly apparent. 

Well, he thought, I guess today’s the day. 

He grabbed his jacket and started down the hill. 

Frank’s house was a little bungalow situated at the top of a bluff. It had no business being where it was. It had been built on an outcropping of stone that jutted out over the country club. Rhododendrons and wisteria vines wrapped around its base, as if holding it in place. They were there when Frank was given the deed to the house. He had no idea how they grew, given the paucity of soil. 

The house shouldn’t be where it was. It was terrifying. For the first year, Frank had nightmares of the house slipping off the bluff and plunging into the golf course. There was no rational reason why it didn’t. So maybe the bushes were, indeed, securing it. He kept them watered. 

No one else lived on the bluff. Frank didn’t like people. 

As he began his journey down the stone walking path, he turned to look at the little bungalow. It needed paint. He’d hire someone. 

He patted his hip to be sure he had the gun. He always had the gun, so it was simply a habit at this point. 

The stone path was as dangerous as the house appeared, bumps and cracks and branches and other trip hazards running from summit to base. He knew the path well, though, so he placed his feet with sense-memory, not vision. He ran his tongue against the back of his teeth, feeling for the familiar wiggle. 

It was a twenty minute trek to the road below, but Frank barely noticed the time anymore. Time had become less important that it used to be. 

As he descended, acorns began falling onto the trail, dropping from sturdy oaks, some popping free from their cupules, leaving them even more vulnerable. Frank’s feet crunched them into tiny fragments, not deviating from his careful rhythmic march. Crack, crunch, crack. Weak little gatling guns firing at nothing. 

An acorn knocked him on his head and bounced into his waiting hand. He knew how the acorns fell and he knew how his body could respond to them. 

When he crunched his way to the bottom of the trail, he looked back. The path was covered in shrapnel, sharp little chunks of oak-potential scattered across unrepentant stone. 

He walked along the 17th fairway of the golf course at the bottom of the bluff. A short-cut. Someone on the 18th hit a 300 yarder from the tee-box, the crack briefly startling Frank. He clenched his jaw, his top teeth wiggling a little. 

He walked to the clubhouse and entered the bar. The bartender was new and young. Frank hadn’t seen him before. The clubhouse was empty of customers, as was usual. 

“Is Jack around today?”

The bartender looked up, “Who?”

“Jack. Old guy. He’s in every day. He drinks old fashioneds.”

“Sorry, I’m new.” 

“Okay. Could you make me a vodka soda?”

“You a member?”

Frank laughed, “Absolutely not.”

“Sorry. Members only.”

“Bullshit,” Frank replied, putting his wallet on the table. 

“I’ll get in trouble. Sorry, man.”

“No you won’t.”

The bartender hesitated, running his hand through his long hair, which certainly was against club rules. 

“It’s okay. You’ll learn. I can drink here. I live up the bluff. People know me,” Frank said, trying to be friendly.

“Up the bluff? In that shack up there?”

“It’s not a shack.” Frank wanted to pull out the gun, but didn’t. He took a breath. “You’ll learn, but you should learn a little quicker.”

Frank pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and put it on the bar. 

“I’ll blame you if I get fired,” the bartender said as he reached down toward the liquor rail. 

“Works for me,” Frank said, sitting down. 

He was three vodkas in before Jack arrived. Jack was walking with a cane these days, though Frank thought it was just for looks. Jack took off his glasses and set them on the bar next to Frank’s glass. 

“Frank,” he greeted.

“Jack.”

Jack put his glasses back on and walked to his table next to the plate glass window overlooking the driving range. Frank noted Jack’s performative limp. He covered his face to hide his smile and felt his top teeth move a little, not a lot, toward his throat. 

He recovered and ordered a fourth vodka. He should stop there or else getting back up the bluff would be strenuous.

“That’s Jack,” he said to the bartender while the still nervous, mop-headed adolescent tipped a bottle with a portion control stopper over a freshly iced glass. 

“Yeah? I guess I did see him yesterday. He didn’t talk to me. He was with other people and didn’t order for himself.”

“You’d better go over. If his buddies aren’t with him, you should go take his order,” Frank instructed. He was feeling helpful for some reason. 

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

The bartender forgot to take Frank’s money before he walked out from behind the bar and headed to Jack. 

Frank focused on the Rat Pack garbage playing on the speakers in order not to listen while Jack ordered. It took a while, so “Nice Work if You Can Get It” became “Mambo Italiano” which became “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” before the bartender returned.  

“Thanks man. I didn’t know who he was,” the bartender said.

“Well, now you do. What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Him. What do you think about him?”

The bartender was silent for a moment while Frank sucked some vodka-mostly-soda through the straw. 

“I don’t know. He’s a little scary, I guess,” the bartender said, “and I guess I didn’t think he’d look so old.”

“He is old. But he’s putting on a show for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing to worry about. You just need to learn the rules quicker.”

The bartender looked confused, but took Frank’s money.

Frank finished vodka #4 and stood up. 

“Now you should go to the back room,” he said to the bartender.

“Why?”

“Just learn the rules quicker! Go to the back.”

The bartender went to the back. 

Frank took the gun from its holster, pointed it at Jack, and shouted “Fuck you!”

He pulled the trigger. 

Frank closed his eyes and ran his tongue along his teeth. Wiggly. 

He opened his eyes. Jack was standing with a bullet between his teeth. 

“Damn it,” Frank said.

“I’m not Satan, Frank.” Jack spat the bullet into the palm of his hand. 

“The hell you’re not.” 

“You have too much of a temper. You also drink too much.”

“Hypocrite.”

Jack laughed. He was standing without his cane. “I’m old. I’m allowed to be a hypocrite.”

“Take the house back,” Jack demanded.

“It’s your house now.”

“Fuck you.”

The bartender was standing behind the doorway that led to the kitchen, He was holding the side of the aperture, his head peeking around the corner. The hand that wasn’t holding the aperture was holding a cellphone to his ear. 

“Learn quicker!” Frank bellowed at the bartender, who retreated into the kitchen. 

“Let’s go to the house, Frank,” Jack suggested.

“It’s my house. You said so.” 

“Yes,” Jack said, “and let’s go to it so you can learn a little quicker.”

Frank sighed. “Fine. But we’re walking.”

“No,” Jack said, pulling out his wallet. 

“You just buy whatever the fuck you want, don’t you?”

“You bet.”

Jack pulled out a credit card. Frank felt his body dissolving while he watched Jack fade away. 

Frank and Jack arrived in the living room of the bungalow on the bluff, both standing in front of the beaten-down green couch. The fabric had aged into a patchwork of shiny, rough spots and shinier, rougher spots. A few rips that wouldn’t stay repaired. Beer stains. 

“Okay,” Jack said. “Put the gun away and let’s talk.”

Frank set the gun on a side table. 

“No. Put it away,” Jack instructed. 

Frank took the weapon into his bedroom and opened the safe next to the closet. He put the gun away. He did not lock the safe, though. He realized the pointlessness of trying to kill Jack, but he’d grab the gun as soon as the old man got out of his house. 

He walked back to the living room. Jack was sitting on the couch. Frank remained standing. 

“Sit down,” Jack said.

“My house, my rules,” Frank said. 

“Aha! You’re learning!”

“Fuck off, Jack.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Your teeth are falling out.”

“Yep.”

“Make them stay put.”

“How the fuck do I do that, you fossil?”

“Decide to do it. Then do it.”

“You know nothing you say makes sense, right?” Frank said, exhaustedly. Drunkenly. 

“When I gave you the house, what did I say?”

“You said to keep the plants watered.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“What else did I say?”

Frank tried to remember. It was a long time ago. He had been Jack’s caddie, so he had heard a lot of nonsense come out of the old man’s mouth. He thought he always hated Jack, but maybe not. It was hard to remember. 

The day Jack gave him the house, they had been drinking in the clubhouse. It was raining, so golf was not an option that day, but Jack insisted on being at the club. He never missed a day. And if Jack was there, Frank had to be too. He wasn’t sure why, but that was just how it was. 

Jack had told Frank it was time to be a man, as he presented him with the deed. Jack’s hand had been on Frank’s thigh, and as he said “man,” it had moved moved up a little. Frank was in his early twenties, so he took the words as an insult but the hand as a compliment. 

“You told me to be a man,” Frank said.

“I told you you were a man,” Jack replied. “Was I wrong?”

“Fuck you. You of all people know the answer to that.”

“Then be a fucking man!” Jack was standing now and his voice had changed from a hoarse whisper to a blustering trumpet. 

“What do you want me to do?” Frank was yelling. 

“Be a man!” 

“I am! I water the fucking plants. The house hasn’t fallen into the golf course. What do you want from me?” 

“Punch me.”

“No.”

“Don’t shoot me. Punch me.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“Punch me!”

Frank punched Jack. He aimed directly for his mouth, vowing to take out as many teeth as possible. 

Jack’s teeth remained intact as he flew through the living room window, which remained unbroken. Jack’s body was simply in the house one moment and outside of it the next, shooting out over the edge of the outcropping, jettisoned into oblivion over a golf course. 

Jack yelled from the other side of the window, hurtling to his death, “Yes! Your arm is as strong as your cock!”

Frank watched as Jack’s motion changed from horizontal to vertical, plunging down to the 17th fairway. 

Frank ran out the front door and scrambled to the edge where ground became not-ground. He got on his knees and looked down, expecting to see Jack’s dead body. But all he saw was a foursome walking to their balls. 

Frank went back inside. He went to the bedroom and retrieved the gun. He put it in its holster on his hip. He went back to the living room and sat on the raggedy couch. 

He touched his tongue to his teeth. 

They didn’t wiggle. 

The next day, he slept in. 

Around 2:00 pm, he got the hose and watered the rhododendrons and wisteria. He grabbed a broom and started down the path. He swept acorns to the side of the path as he walked, which disrupted his sense-memory march, but was necessary. 

He went to the clubhouse, carrying the broom with him. 

The young bartender was there. When the young man saw Frank, he ran to the kitchen door. The clubhouse was empty of customers, as was usual. 

“Hey, man. I didn’t tell anyone. I swear, nothing happened. I didn’t see anything. We’re cool, okay?” the bartender pleaded.

“We’re good. You didn’t call the police?” Frank asked, calmly, leaning the broom against the bar.

“I mean, I did, but then I told them it was a mistake. You guys were gone all of a sudden. I just told them I didn’t mean to call. They came, but I got them to leave.”

“That means you’re learning. Good,” Frank said.

Frank sat at the bar. “Could I get a vodka?”

“You bet. You’re not going to shoot me, right?”

“I’m not going to shoot you. Pull the stopper out of the bottle before you pour it.”

“I’ll get fired.”

“No you won’t.”

The bartender pulled the stopper out of the bottle and poured Frank his drink.

Frank eyed the young man. “I like your hair. They’re going to make you cut it.”

“Really? No one said anything.”

“Your hair got you the job. If you want to keep the job, they’ll make you lose the hair.”

“Crap. I’ve been working on it for two years.”

“The job or the hair. You’ll have to choose.”

The bartender ran his hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“Are you learning?” Frank asked.

“I guess. I think I am. What am I supposed to learn?”

“To be a man, according to some people. You’ll have to choose, though. This place is poison.”

The bartender looked at Frank, puzzled. 

And then, Jack came into the clubhouse. He was not dead. He was with his buddies. A group of old men, fresh from a round of golf. 

“Jesus,” Frank said under his breath. 

“He doesn’t look mad at you. What’s going on?” the bartender asked, leaning close to Frank’s face. 

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Frank whispered, bringing his face closer to the young bartender’s face. He smelled clean. 

The old men walked to their table by the plate glass window. The bartender started to walk over to them. 

“No,” Frank said. “If they are together, one of them will come to the bar and order a round.”

“Okay,” the bartender said.

“What’s your name?” Frank asked.

“Robert.”

“Okay, Robert. What did you choose?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to be a man the way those men are?”

The bartender looked at the table by the plate glass window. Frank Sinatra started singing “My Funny Valentine” through the speakers.

“I don’t think I want to be,” the bartender replied.

“Well, Robert, that’s good enough for me. You’re learning quick.”

Frank stood, took the gun from its holster, ran his tongue along his solid teeth, and fired four shots.

But you can’t kill Jack. And you can’t kill Jack’s buddies.

Frank’s teeth felt wiggly while he watched Jack smile back at him.