It's nice to have teeth

Even after everything I put them through.

“Where should I put my tongue?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” the dental hygienist pauses, a steely instrument dangling over my face.

“I never know if I should try to keep it as flat possible. Or press it up against the roof of my mouth. But then I’ll have to keep moving it around to make space for you. Should I just try to hover it in the middle?”

“Oh no,” she giggles, nervously. “Just rest it in your mouth.”

Then she hands me a pair of sunglasses: “Sometimes, there’s a bit of splatter.”

I know she’s lying. My former hygienist never gave me sunglasses. And it was really awkward. If you hold someone’s mouth tenderly and gaze into their face, what follows should be a kiss. Not a sharpened steel pick.

Instead, the very old woman would hold me tenderly and scrape ruthlessly, while trying to make eye contact for some twisted reason.

My new hygienist is much more thoughtful. The real purpose of shades is not to prevent splatter, but to avoid the weirdness of sustained eye contact. Especially at jarringly close range.

That way you can make googly eyes, wink in Morse Code or whatever suits your fancy behind the privacy of sunglasses. I keep my eyes shut anyway. I have a weird phobia — human faces look incredibly disturbing up close and upside down.

I have more questions — “What part of the mouth gets the most plaque? Have you ever had to do a cleaning in instalments? Has anyone ever died during cleaning?”

But let’s face it, I’m just nervous. Let’s get this over with.

As you might guess, it’s been a very long time since these teeth have been cleaned. We’re talking the pre-crack smoking era. Or, at least before I really got into it.

As an addict, there was no ‘beddy time.’ You sleep when every last cell in your body revolts and shuts you down in the middle of whatever you’re doing. Which is probably smoking crack. Which is why so many of us wake up with a pipe in our hand a few days later. Or not at all, since you set fire to the sheets and burned down the apartment. This is a shockingly underreported cause of death among junkies.

In any case, you’ll never see a crack smoker glance at his watch and say, ‘My, would you look at the time? I’d better get ready for bed.’ Serious addicts don’t own pajamas. So I never had occasion to brush my teeth. No bedtime rituals. Too busy.

I did do this thing where I constantly ran my tongue over my teeth. The idea was that even though I didn’t formally brush, the least I could do was lick my teeth incessantly. It probably only made me look extra cracked-out in front of company.

Late in my career as a junkie — in the darkest hours — I gave up on hygiene. Toe nails curled and twisted. Bellybutton lint overflowed. Teeth turned to mahogany. I figured it wasn’t necessary. Why do anything unpleasant in the short time I had left on this plane —

OUCH! Jesus. The new hygienist hit a nerve. I hope she’s done with that tooth becau—

Fuck. It’s like she senses where it hurts and comes back for seconds.

Anyway, where was I? Nothing says you want to live quite like brushing your teeth. And, as an addict, I had stopped dead. And don’t even get me started on flossing. Not even when I was sober.

See, I could do just about any chore — even brush my teeth, if pressed. So long as it takes only one hand. The other hand must be free for scrolling through my phone and filling my vacant head with social media confections.

Ow-ow-ow! The hygienist has found another sensitive tooth. A bolt of lightning! Please, God don’t let her come back for another round.

I wonder if the pain means a tooth is ready to fall out. Maybe I didn’t emerge from this habit unscathed. After all, it’s only a matter of time before a crack smoker’s tooth falls out. It’s like a rite of passage. Congratulations. You’ve graduated. Every time you smile, you show the world your degree in crackology.

“It looks great in there,” the hygienist says, leaning back. “You’re taking good care of your teeth. Now, what fluoride flavor would you like?”

“You have… flavors?”

“Yes. Mint… bubble gu—

“BUBBLE GUM! I mean… please.”

Thank you, teeth. For hanging in there.