TEETH
THOUGH I AM not a finicky eater, there are certain foods I do not like to eat in public. The sandwich, for example, embarrasses me because I cannot resolve the issue of how gracefully to dispose of that final corner. Usually I just pop it into my mouth after glancing over the area; this is done with practiced casualness.
Four months ago I had the added misfortune of sharing my table with an ingenuous-looking, curly-headed lad, whose eyes were directed toward observing me ingest my food. For days he stared at my mouth with fixity. As a result, I rescheduled my meals to allow me, instead of my regular lunch at twelve, a snack, the neatest and least obtrusive being one quart of milk, sipped through a short, narrow straw. I was then comfortable in his presence. But I noticed one disadvantage: since my entire mouth was not engaged in eating, he assumed I would be interested in speaking with him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “your teeth have a particularly glossy whiteness. Calcium deposits, of course,” he remarked, “if they’re real. Are they?”
“Certainly. I have always taken assiduous care of my teeth.”
After I said that, I pressed my tongue over the surface of each tooth and presented a glossier, whiter set.
He responded. “Ah, yes, I can see that.”
Since he had an annoying habit of unfurling his fingers in front of his mouth while speaking, I asked if he would repeat what he’d said.
“Of course,” he answered, “I said, ‘Ah, yes, I can see that.’ “
His lips hardly parted, and the words were squeezed out with much effort.
“You must be wondering why I’m concerned about your teeth,” he offered, flushing at his urgent need to explain.
“What?” (Sometimes I imagine that the fact of my beautiful teeth is related to the fact that I am slightly deaf. Psychologists acknowledge compensatory phenomena in the world of emotion, and one seeks analogies in all realms, especially if he is interested, as I am, in the Universal Oneness Hypothesis.)
He reiterated, adding that he is an avid student of orthodonture who delights in perfect teeth. Before he had time to explicate, I interrupted him with a basic tenet of the U. O. Hypothesis.
“Isn’t it remarkable that Imperfection superimposes Perfection on all it knows, thereby judging according to what it can’t know?” I extended my hand across the table as if passing him a microphone. He reacted as if I had.
“Well, teeth, when perfect, are naturally white, undefiled units, thirty-two ... in two rows ... in one mouth. We know that as perfection ... in teeth.”
Giving him the complete white effect, I interjected good-naturedly, “Or the least imperfection ... in teeth.”
“Your teeth are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” he emphasized, “and for a man your age . . . why . . . enjoying them, I’ve been unable to eat. I don’t suppose you have any cavities, no fillings either, I bet.”
“From overindulging in sweets, I have one surface filling in my wisdom tooth. It’s gold. Look.”
He leaned heavily on the table and scrutinized my gold filling. Then, like one in ecstasy, he lowered his eyelids and scanned all of the teeth. If my jaw had not tired, I’m certain, he would have stayed longer, marveling at their perfection.
For a short interval, neither of us spoke; the silence bound us.
“I wouldn’t mind exhibiting them,” I said. This delighted him so much that I suggested he take photographs of my mouth’s interior and perhaps X rays of individual teeth. I made an appointment with him for the next morning at his studio and he left me, both of us in good humor.
Before starting for his apartment, I brushed my teeth three times: first with Cow Brand baking soda and then, twice with Dresh, the ADA-approved paste. Thereupon I left my rooms, locking the door and placing the key under the welcome mat.
On the street a gray mottled tomcat leaped from the garbage heap to my side. His eyes were a violent shade of aquamarine, the parenthetical pupil bulging manlike at the center. Though of different Families, we were after all of the same Kingdom, Order, and Class; I allowed the encroachment. The cat, nevertheless, disturbed by the finer distinctions between us, deserted me at the end of the block.
From there, a bus transported me to the student’s living quarters.
“Ah, I am so glad to see you again.” He directed his greeting to my teeth and admitted me. Directly opposite the door was one window. In its scant light I discerned the skeletal framework of his studio-home. One flat cot, wrapped in an army blanket, jutted from beneath the windowsill. A human skull rested innocently on the bare kitchenette table. Tools, an aluminum flashlight, chisel and hammer, were strewn about the floor. Illuminating the exposed light bulb protruding from the low, ribbed ceiling, he revealed the room’s full starkness. Color was concentrated in reproductions of healthy, decaying, or corroded dentures. To evoke further images of corrosion, he had used yellow and orange crayons. I was unnerved. Where were his books, his signs of practice—the chalk pieces, fine carving knives? How could he study under these conditions: dismal, ill-lit, cold?
“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said. Unfolding a chair from which had been scratched the name of a funeral home, he settled it beneath the light.
“Thank you,” I stammered. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Would you prefer a shot of whiskey with it?” he asked.
Hoping that it would settle my nerves, I accepted. My eyes followed him to the peeling doors of the cabinet above the table. From it he removed a pint of whiskey and one shot glass. After measuring out full capacity, he emptied the whiskey into a six-ounce cheese glass, added water, and brought the drink to me.
“Won’t you join me?” I asked.
Rubbing his nose with the palm of his hand, he answered that he didn’t care to drink in the morning, yet I thought I had detected liquor on his breath when he met me at the door. The whiskey had an acrid taste. I gulped it down and he offered me another. Since I was still disturbed, I accepted.
After two more drinks, I felt warmer, more relaxed.
“My dear young man, how can you survive under these conditions? You must need many things. Have you enough to eat?” I was beginning to feel paternal toward him and concerned myself with means of assisting him. “Have you a position?”
“I’m a student . . . that’s my sole job at the moment. A student needs his mind and sources of stimulation. Presently you intrigue me and serve, as it were, as a text.”
I could understand that the reality of perfect teeth was more satisfying than a text’s substitutions. Truly I was warmly disposed toward him. How he flattered my teeth, how I revealed more and more of them, laughing open-mouthed at inappropriate times, exposing even the gums. But what harm could mutual enjoyment bring? Suddenly I was struck by a peculiar oversight: I had never seen his teeth. Moving closer, I raised my eyes to his face and waited for him to speak. He whirled to the window.
“I feel you don’t like my way of living. You think I should be ashamed of this room. Is that it?”
Patting his arm, I soothed, “Why, no, not at all. The important matter is that you appreciate your rooms. Allow no one to insult you in this way.”
For the first time he smiled at me. Too late did his hand pounce upon his lips. Horrendous sight. Grotesque image. He had no teeth. None. And his gums were ragged red bits of flesh. I was horrified. Still he smiled, unabashed.
“I see you’re appalled because I’m without teeth, because my gums are destroyed, because there’s no hope of inserting false teeth. Your reaction’s natural; it’s an ugly sight.”
His statement lessened the condition’s importance. I intervened with a comforting maxim derived from the U.O. eschatology: “The amoeba is toothless and he lives.” But the student sneered, air gasping from his nostrils.
“Now you can understand why I’m consumed with the beauty of your teeth.”
“Yes, that is obvious.” In my mind, I compared it to substitution. “Normally one would be concerned with his own teeth. In your case it’s only natural that you be engrossed with another’s teeth.”
“It’s not that exactly,” he interjected. “I’m only interested in the most beautiful teeth. For years I’ve searched through mouths.” His eyes were transfixed. “Two months ago I thought I’d found the perfect set in a young woman’s mouth. They were dentures. Besides, she had halitosis. I was about to give up when I met you.”
Concluding, he became excited and grabbed my arm.
“But what can you hope to gain from studying my teeth?” I asked.
He told me that he’d pretend they were his. That is, he planned to care for them, ask questions about them, in effect, know them better than I did.
“As far as I am concerned, you may do that if you like. Teeth can be tiresome. Sometimes I wish I had none,” I added, more to be kind than anything else. “Just sometimes, when I’m weary of caring for them.”
Since that first day in his room, I had endured interminable gnawing investigations by him. What a grueling business it was. He spent hours probing my mouth. He’d purchased tooth powders, tubes of paste, bottles of mouthwash, and jars of cocoa butter. Perpetually he begged that I brush my teeth before him and distort my face into many possible expressions: grimacing, laughing, crying, grinning, smiling, gasping, etc. He was fascinated by the teeth’s effect, peeking through the emotional contortions of my lips.
Often I had been tempted to skip visits with him, but somehow I was bound to his attention. For the past month, sensing that I was losing interest in such gymnastics, he bribed me with that same acrid-tasting whiskey. I became so disgusted with teeth that I no longer looked at them in the mirror. He was the only person who saw them. All he did was praise them. It was sickening.
Yesterday I decided not to see him and, retracing former habits, returned to the table where I’d first encountered him. Soon two young girls sat with me. For a while I was oblivious of them, and then I began to sense their eyes on me or, rather, on my mouth. I couldn’t stand it.
“Yes, I know that I have beautiful teeth. You needn’t bother to tell me. I know I have beautiful teeth. I know all about it, thank you.” With that, I hurried away, not having finished eating.
Outside, I looked at them through the window; they were jubilant. Stupidly, I stuck my tongue out. As I was doing this, my eyes caught my reflection in the windowpane; I noticed that my teeth appeared dimmer. Uncontrollably, I slipped back into the building, pushing through the noon-hour crowd to the men’s room.
A bald black attendant was sweeping the floor with a small broom and shovel. While he bent over, I gazed into the mirror, spreading my mouth wide to see my teeth. What I saw were not my teeth. My teeth were white. These were yellow, like the photographs of corroded teeth I’d seen in the young student’s room. Black pits opened between almost every tooth. My gums were scarred and blood-clotted. Parts of the teeth had chipped’ away. I was confused. He said he wanted to care for my teeth. Suddenly I could see him, his face radiant as he worked in my mouth, wreaking his devastation. I hurried to his room.
“Come in,” he said, pink-faced, happier than I had ever known him to be. “Though you’re a bit late, I expected you.”
“Why did you do this to me? Why?” I shouted, hands reaching for him. He grabbed my wrists.
I was almost crying. “You said you loved beautiful teeth . . . my teeth ...” I was stammering, my body weaving before him.
“Ah, but I do,” he said, as if he were a teacher clarifying some obscure point for a dull boy. And then he began laughing maniacally. “Look—look.” He pointed to his gaping mouth. There I saw, glittering and unsullied, a row of teeth as wondrous as my own had been.
“You’ve served me well,” he said, and patted my arm. “I herewith bequeath you a maxim for your philosophy: In the universe where matter is neither created nor destroyed, know you from experience that it is simply redistributed.”
His demonic laughter followed me to the door.