IAOMT (increasingly aware of my teeth)

“I don’t think I’m a hypochondriac.

“I mean, I’m a lot better now than I used to be. Like, when I was a kid - just irrationally afraid that my heart would just randomly stop beating one day and I’d drop dead like a possum. Every health class would send me into a weeks-long panic spiral. And then - oh God - the absolute frenzy I had when this girl in the grade above us got diagnosed with bone cancer and we had an assembly to watch a Charlie Brown episode about that very thing that’s literally called ‘Why Charlie Brown, Why?!’

“Just sitting there slack-jawed with my dead eyed classmates, drooling into a Highlights magazine while Linus’ schoolyard crush gets a bruise that turns into full blown leukemia - something my grandfather was actively dying of at the time but that my PCP has assured me, a lotta times, is not hereditary. Then things weren’t helped that my dad loved House, or like any random ache or pain, or the pandemics, and then the time I was forced to watch the paralympics break dancing and developed a fear of amputees.

“Well - ok, that’s bad - it’s not a fear of amputees, it's a fear of becoming an amputee.

“But I’m a lot better now. A lot better. I don’t automatically assume it’s, like, a rare bacterial infection at any little sensation in my body. Like, C-Diff?! I’m still afraid of amputees - but I know now that most people make it through their entire lives with all their limbs - and appendages - intact…except for that girl in the grade above me, um…”

I swallow. And sniff up some wet snot.

“So, please, I need you to understand that I’m not just here on some, like, hare-brained…like…scheme.”

Dr. John pushes his glasses up. His burly frame balanced on the tiny rollie stool. He rolls over to the hand sanitizer and squirts some into his palm. Just staring at me.

“So…what’s our problem tonight?” he asks.

“I am constantly becoming increasingly aware of my teeth.”

  We just stare at each other now. My teeth vibrate against their gum sockets.

“Ok… Can you explain to me what exactly that means?”

I try my best to not be curt with Dr. John. “All I can think about is the sensation of my teeth in my mouth…like how they sit in my gums or like if one of them shifts - or one of them feels a little looser than the others.” I open wide and jut my jaw towards Dr. John to show him how my front two bottom teeth can slightly wiggle. 

He snaps a glove on, grabs my jaw, yanks it close, and shines a light. 

“Everything looks alright. Are you experiencing any jaw pain?” 

“Noh…I jusss feeel dem…” I say, mouth agape.

“Have you gone to a dentist? Or…a neurologist?” Dr. John snaps off his glove.

“No. It’s not pain exactly, it’s just…awareness. I constantly feel them. Like, the nerves got more nervous or something. And everyday is worse.” 

“They’re a part of your body, you should feel them. If you didn’t you’d be toothless. And we don’t want that. I’d say take an Ibuprofen and get some rest. Maybe reach out to a psychologist.” Dr. John winks.

“Isn’t there any kinda pain medication you can give me? There’s nothing to numb my gums? I know there is. I’ve had it before.” I demand.

Dr. John squints at me. “We’re not wasting any good lidocaine today.” He ushers me up and out, whipping open the curtain to reveal the drowsy and grim ER. “And hey pal, next time, remember, seriously: the emergency room is for emergencies. Especially at 3am - ok champ?” And with that Dr. John eschews me back out into the night. 

Lidocaineless.

…

I try to sleep at least a few hours, but I can’t. I can only feel my teeth. It’s hot, unbearably so. The fan spins above head and the AC whirs on in the other room, but it’s not the heat. It’s my teeth.

I can’t explain it. It’s not pain and that’s where I lose most doctors. It’s just a raw tenderness. An irritation of the teeth where they attach to the gums - stabbing into the tissue. My tongue pressing against them. I feel all 32 of them and the impacted molar, individually. The air touching them, food getting caught between them - my teeth, my teeth - MY FRIGGIN’ TEETH! 

And it just started one day out of the blue. A Thursday in May, four months ago. 

I bit into an ice cream bar when me and Gina went to the park. It was supposed to be the first truly hot day of summer. We splashed in the fountain, I rolled my pants up, Gina lifted up her long, orange sundress. But when I bit into the ice cream bar the brain freeze shocked my teeth directly down to the nerve. And I actually haven’t been the same ever since. 

At least I have my answer ready now if anyone ever asks me what I would do for a Klondike bar.

…

The sun rises. And I dread breakfast. Gina is supposed to come back over and we’re supposed to make waffles. I love Gina, but eating anything makes every nerve ending in my teeth quiver. She was supposed to stay the night - until I kicked her out at 1am to take myself to the ER.

…

“Is that all you’re gonna eat?” Gina interrogates me. The glorious spread we made of waffles and bacon on the table as I’m sat queasy over my little bowl of lukewarm yogurt.

“I’m still not feeling 100%.” I mumble, gumming down a slop of yogurt. I slurp it like a cat down my throat, not even letting it graze my teeth. Gina caresses my hair. I barely feel her. It’s like all the nerves have migrated from the rest of my body to my teeth.

“You’re really messed up, jeez. Did they say what’s wrong?” Gina crunches on a piece of bacon. That crunch like cheese grater against my cerebellum. I do my best not to flinch.

“I don’t know. They said it was food poisoning and to just let it pass.” I haven’t told Gina about my teeth thing. She already thinks I’m neurotic. She’s too pure for this.

“Poor, baby.” Gina pinches my cheek and clears the table. “You shouldn’t’ve gotten that shawarma.” I only got the shawarma for the hummus and I only gummed the hummus. “Ok, go brush your teeth, babe so we can get to the farmers market before they close.”

Drag me down to hell, it’s the worst part of the day. I’ve eliminated my night time brush - but the morning brush is required for participation in society. The mint strings, it seeps in between my teeth and gums, the bristles erode the enamel, and I can feel every single bit of it. In college, I chipped my front tooth slamming a bottle of Jack when my swim team made it to the championship. I hadn’t felt a thing. But now, every morning, that tiny chip is like an open wound. A hot cold sore percolating on my tooth. 

But I do it. I brush. And the insidious scraping sound drives me to the edge, my eyes well with tears. It is in moments like this that I understand suicide. 

But I rinse. And spit. And dry my eyes. Bloodshot and twitchy. 

Ready for the farmer’s market!

…

The tulips are entirely too excitable at the farmer’s market. They make me want to scoop my eyeballs out of my skull with a grapefruit spoon. But Gina’s having a good time, and that’s what matters. 

“Y’all wanna try a sample?” An eager farm boy shoves a tray of apple slices in our faces.

“Oh my God - yes!” Gina coos before I can even process what’s happening. An apple is my worst nightmare. The crunch, the tart sharp pinch of sweetness and sting that will inevitably come having just brushed my teeth. 

I want to rip each one of my teeth out one by one with a set of pliers. 

“Delicious!” Farm boy shoves two tiny cups with enormous apple slices at Gina and she hands one to me. I know what she wants us to do. She wants us to bite them, together, in unison, like we’re doing a taste test in a video. 

“I’m allergic to apples.” I chitter but both the farm boy and Gina laugh at me. What the hell. There is no way to back out. 

1…2…3…and….

CRUNCH! 

I give Gina what she wants. The cold tartness hits every pore in my teeth like poison darts. The lingering minty freshness violently clashes with the apple. But I can’t spit it out because everyone is staring at me. And I don’t want to look like a freak. Especially to Gina.

“Oh, wow. That is really fresh! Mmm!” I spit out. On the inside I am screaming.

“Thank you so much! Have a wonderful day!” 

“Hey, you guys too!” Gina and the farm boy coo and giggle at each other. 

HAHAHA! I want to burn the farm boy alive.

I spend the rest of the farmer’s market mouth-breathing, teeth jutted out of my mouth like a horse until the sting of the air overwhelms.

“You getting that sweaty mouth? Your tummy still feeling off?” Gina looks at me sweetly, the sunlight glistens off her hair. I jump at the chance.

“How’s about you and me go back to mine and just get back into bed and curl up all cozy?” I lean in, grabbing Gina by the waist and pulling her in close. A cheeky smile curls onto her lips.

…

I pass out the second we get home. Listening to me snore for seven and a half hours of daylight was maybe not Gina’s ideal summer Sunday. So I wake up drenched in sweat, and alone. I want to squeeze her shoulders and wrap my legs around her but my teeth buzz me back down to reality before my fantasy can take off. My sex life with Gina has dwindled since my teeth thing, and I don’t know what she thinks about all of that.

My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything all day save for my slop of yogurt and that apple. It’s 11pm, and I have work tomorrow, and at least six hours of work to go before I sleep. 

So I gum down some damp lo mein from four days before. Not chewing it, it feels like swallowing a wad of hair. I decide to take a stab at a La Croix - I don’t know what bravery came over me with that one.

A static of bubbles hits my tongue and I shudder. I am not only aware of my teeth in my mouth, but I feel their roots shoot down stabbing through the length of my entire body like tiny pinprick swords. I’m shaking - but I double down. A big swig of La Croix. The grapefruit assaults me. And another sip - and another. A stir in my stomach, a sting in my mouth - and I finish the can.

Sssssssssssss - my teeth sizzle. I contort my face into all hideous shapes, pulling my cheeks back all the way to expose my teeth to the air as much as possible. Anything touching them would make me shrivel. 

Hyperventilating and slack-jawed, I plop myself in front of the AC. Feels like I just went bungee jumping or ziplining or skydiving or whatever. I want another La Croix. This pain had solidified that this is a real sensation. It’s not just an awareness or sensitivity or a mild tenderness or all in my head or acute hypochondria - it’s pain now. Now someone will listen to me.

Wired but tired with Monday morning creeping in, I plop down at my laptop, open the spreadsheets and the decks where the colors are still all wrong, and feel the spirit leave my body. I need something. I need another La Croix.

I want to stab my canine tooth into the side and slug it down like a shotgun. 

So I do it! I haven’t done this since college. The sound of the punctured carbonation sends chills down my spine. I crack the tab and chip my nail as I do. I suck and suck and suck. The bubbles singe my throat, I’m barely breathing. I crush the can against my skull, my knees buckle, and I collapse onto the floor. The remainder of the La Croix trickles down my cheek.

I lay there in the dark. On the cold tile. Twitching. For I don’t even know how long until my phone dings. A message from Gina. “Going to bed, hope you feel better bb. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow, goodnight love you!!” 

I write back,“Goodnight. c u tomorrow. love you.” 

Red heart emoji.

…

“So, when you give me the lidocaine what is it - is it like a needle into my gums?”

Dr. John blasts the light directly into my bloodshot eyes. “Lidocaine’s not an opioid, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

“I wasn’t wondering that.” I’m splayed out on the exam table like I lost a boxing match to three cans of La Croix. I did my best to make it until past 3am, but it became unbearable. 

“What’s your problem, again?” Dr. John snaps off his gloves.

“I am becoming increasingly aware of my teeth.”

Dr. John says nothing. Daring me.

“You seem to be talking just fine.” Dr. John shrugs.

“It hurts now. It’s like how some people can have an orgasm from stepping their foot down the wrong way. You know what I mean? Have you seen that?”

Dr. John nods. 

“What’s that called?”

“Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder.” 

“Yeah. It’s like that, but with my teeth. It’s like the nerves in my teeth and gums are overstimulated. Get it?”

“Sure. You should see a dentist about this, like I said last night. Not the ER. It could be scurvy. Have you tried eating any citrus fruit?”

I blurt out a laugh. I haven’t had a citrus fruit since before the Fourth of July. “I think a citrus fruit would literally kill me. Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

Dr. John jumps up. “Try something easy, mash up some blueberries. Baby food. Try to eat like a duck.” He grabs the curtain.

I grab Dr. John’s arm. “Can you please just give me something to numb my gums? I promise next time I will go to the dentist, but right now, I have work in three hours and a presentation to give, and it feels like my teeth are clawing their way out of my face.”

Dr. John sighs and sits. “Lidocaine is not an opioid. It’s not going to feel the same as an opioid.”

“I know.” 

Dr. John rolls his rollie stool over to his mobile laptop and yanks the standing desk down to his level with a loud crank—

“You get nauseous easily?” he asks, not looking up from the screen.

“Recently, yeah.” 

Wrong answer. Dr. John rolls his eyes and types ferociously. He rolls over to the phone on the wall and reaches up for it - but stops—

“‘You sure you want this? It’s a needle into your gums.”

“Yes.”

“And it is not the same as an opioid.” Dr. John glares at me over his glasses.

“I know.” I glare at him right back. My fervor makes my teeth jitter.

“It’s your deductible.” Dr. John sighs and grabs the phone off the wall. “40 CC’s vandocaine and bring the numbing wax please.” Dr. John flings the phone back into its holster. “I’m giving you vandocaine, not lidocaine. It’s the same thing but stronger.” I had passed Dr. John’s test.

Five minutes later Dr. John holds me down, cranes the bright light over me, and hands me thick black sunglasses. 

“Say, ahhh.” He jams two plastic hooks into my cheeks, yanks my mouth open wide, and hands me the hooks. If this had happened earlier in the day, I would’ve snapped. The light, the air, Dr. John’s hot breath - but the sweet promise of the vandocaine kept me going.

Dr. John jams his fingers into a tiny jar and scoops out a glob of earwax. “This is numbing wax. I’m going to numb your gums before I give you the shot.”

“Puhh iii awww o-err mah mouuu.”

“What?”

“Puhh iii AWWW o-er mah mouuu!”

Dr. John, again, just sits there. I’m so over it—

“Rub that numbing wax all over my gums and my whole mouth - I want to feel like I am paralyzed - ok?!” I yank my mouth back open with the hooks and resume the position.

“Don’t worry about it.” Dr. John smears the evil earwax all over my gums. This is medieval torture. Dr. John isn’t afraid to be gruff, his fingers hard against my gums. It feels like he’s going to pop my teeth right out like they’re pomegranate seeds and munch down on them in front of me. Tears stream down my cheeks. The pain’s almost too much when - my gums start tingling. I can only describe it like that scene in the Matrix where the bug tries to crawl out of Neo’s mouth, but his mouth has disappeared. I’m about to pass out but - the intense tingling gives way to nothing.

Nothingness. My breath catches in my throat. I haven’t felt nothingness in so long.

Then Dr. John pulls out the longest needle I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, what’s that over there?” Dr. John says.

“Wahh?” I look over and - Dr. John stabs me directly in the gums! I scream and drop the hooks, squirming all over the place. I nearly bite right down on the needle. 

“I tawttt yuuu sehdd iiih wahh num!!!” 

Dr. John shrugs. Dumps the needle, and snaps off his gloves. “Is it working yet?” 

I’m lightheaded, but I feel nothing. I am not aware of my teeth at all, it feels like I don’t have a bottom jaw or even a face at all.

“Yahh…”

I try to move my mouth and speak - but nothing. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the ceiling. Slack-jawed and drooling, even my eyes droop. 

“Tahhh yuuu.” I clasp my hands to show Dr. John my gratitude and literally force a smile but I cannot. It’s pure ecstasy, like I’ve been lobotomized. I laugh with glee, but it comes out as a glib guttural “heh-heh-heh.” Dr. John is taken aback.

“Alright. I gave you a hero dose champ so you’ve got about 12 hours. And it’s…7am right now, ok? So try and get to a dentist before the end of the day if it’s really still bothering you.” Dr. John scoops me up and pushes me out.

Outside, the bright August sunrise slaps me in the face but I feel nothing at all as I take myself home - dragging my lifeless jaw on the ground behind me.

…

The second I get home I drop to the floor and crawl across the apartment back to bed. Three months of dust and dead skin gets mopped up by the same grey Nirvana t-shirt I’ve been wearing for 46 hours. I slink into bed and shed my clothes. For the first time in days I’m unsullied, splayed out on top of the covers, in my sweaty numb naked form.

I don’t know why this problem happened to me. Maybe I had a traumatic brain injury that I totally forgot about. Maybe the nerve center in my brain responsible for my teeth just short circuited, or maybe I had a tiny totally localized aneurysm. Maybe the Klondike bar quantum leaped me into a different dimension. Or maybe I just wanted to create a problem that only I could feel and only I could experience and use it to detonate my entire life - one tooth at a time.

I slept all day. By the time I wake up it’s around 5pm. I’m still numb. I haven’t finished any work and I missed my presentation. I don’t even know if I had any other meetings or work for the rest of the day. I only have a few emails. A meeting added tomorrow with my boss and Hayleee with three Es, our 22 year old HR person, and a note from my boss reading,“Added a meeting with Hayleee. Plz don’t miss.”

Whatever. 

I need to see Gina right now, as soon as possible, so I can be with her while all of my nerves are intact, and I have feeling in the rest of my body, rather than just my teeth. Dr. John said I had 12 hours, and now we’ve only got two left. I race out of the house - in the same dusty Nirvana t-shirt as before.

Every Monday night, to beat Gina’s Monday blues, we have dinner with Gina’s parents at the pho restaurant they own. Gina is a dental hygienist, and does bookkeeping for her parents part-time, so Mondays are particularly draining on her spirit. And Gina deserves it.

I rush into the restaurant and plant myself next to Gina, across from her parents. I give Gina a peck on the cheek, which is more like an open mouth slobber.

“Hey, baby…” Gina reciprocates.

“You’re late. What’s wrong? Are you drunk?” Mama asks. Her father doesn’t look up, focused on his pho.

“Nahh. I sikhh—”

“He’s had food poisoning since Saturday night, Mama. He’s sick!” Gina explains. “I want frozen yogurt after this.”  

“You deserve some frozen yogurt after a Monday!” Daddy asserts, slurping up his soup. Gina and her parents pleasantly nod.

I don’t want frozen yogurt - I want Gina before my vandocaine wears off!

“Nahh. I stilh sikhh…” I murmur out.

“You seem drunk. I made your favorite for you.” Mama insists. The bowl of soup steams in front of me. I haven’t eaten since my sweaty lo mein last night.

“Try and eat something and then you’ll feel better for frozen yogurt.” Gina insists. Mama, Daddy, and Gina all slurp up their soup, and suddenly, I’m the odd man out. My hands trembling, I ladle up a spoonful of broth up to my mouth and slurp it down. A majority of it dribbles out onto my shirt but some swashes through my mouth and down my throat when I feel it - a glint of feeling, something warm. I know the vandocaine is wearing off. We have to move quickly.

“Ugh, what the heck. You are drunk.” Daddy accuses.

“He told you already, Daddy! He’s sick, not drunk!” Gina declares before turning to me, broth droplets on my chin. “That’s gross, wipe your face.”

“I thihh I neee to go hohm…” I tug on Gina’s sleeve like a toddler. I can feel my mouth muscles moving again. Dr. John had said 12 hours, and it’s only been 10 and a half.

“If you were sick, I don’t know why you came.” Mama scolds me. “You’ll get me and Daddy sick. Eat some more soup!” I do as I’m told.

I scoop a spoonful of soup and try to close my mouth as best I can. I hold the mouthful of hot soup and feel, bit by bit, as the vandocaine lessens. 

Time to put my plan in motion. 

I open my mouth and let the mouthful of pho fall back into the bowl like I’m puking. I add in some dramatic retches for effect. I haven’t played this act since high school when I was trying to cut class. A mouthful of water and a dramatic rush to the toilet, maybe even a garbage can for urgency’s sake, and then really ham it up. Works every time. 

My throw-up is faux.

But Gina and her parents shudder backwards, “Ewwww!” They all scoff and scream in unison. 

“Gina! Take him home! He’s too sick to be here!” “You’ll make our customers sick - you’ll make us sick - go!” Mama and Daddy scream, hurling napkins and chopsticks at me. The sleepy patrons look up from their soup.

“Don’t yell at me!” Gina screams back. But I keep the act up and lean my entire bodyweight onto her, violently retching and dry heaving for good measure as Gina hobbles up from the table and out of the restaurant. Sensation regaining in my teeth with every dry heave. 

Our time is running out.

…

Gina and I stumble into my apartment with a grunt and gasp. Gina drops me onto the floor and plops onto the couch. And I drop the act.

I don’t care about my job or the pho or Gina’s parents or even my teeth for at least the next hour and a half - I only care about Gina.

I haven’t been able to have sex to the best of my ability for the last four months and this was finally my moment. With whatever was left of the vandocaine coursing through my blood I was going to put it to good use.

I flop onto the couch and Gina sits there panting. She kicks off her sandals, her feet dirty underneath. I grab her hand and pull her to me.

“Mmmm,” I lean into her close and pull her in, running my fingers through her hair and along her hips. 

“You smell like throw-up still.” Gina’s stiff.

‘That’s impossible!’ I wanna yell back, ‘I never threw-up, so how could I smell like throw-up!?!’ Instead, I say nothing.

“When was the last time you brushed your teeth,” Gina winces.

“Just come here.” I pull Gina on top of me and we make out, pushing the back of her head into mine. My face is still numb for the most part, like I’m kissing her with a phantom limb, but I can feel Gina’s lips. She grinds her body up against mine. Blood rushes through my entire body. I feel it hot in my veins. 

I pick Gina up and carry her into the bedroom and throw her onto the bed. She offers up a little, “Woh!” But then - it happens.

I feel her tongue lick my teeth. Not in a sexy way - it feels slimy and dangerous. The feeling is coming back - but I ignore it and undress Gina and then myself. She pushes me off.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were sick.” Gina stares up at me. Her blushing body, cherubim on clouds of pillows, her soft curls and pink frilly panties, and my gangly, pho-stained, hairy body craned over her, blood rushing back to my red face.

“Tell me to stop then.” I wheeze. She doesn’t. I go back in for a kiss, fighting off the feeling as I do. I soothe myself by burying my face into Gina’s neck and growling. Her sweat commingling with mine.

“I have my period.” Gina whispers. And then pulls out her tampon and throws it onto the floor.

We start having sex. Gina’s breath catches as she curls her body into mine. With every pump, I lose sensation in my penis and regain it in my teeth. I don’t care whatever twist of fate has landed me here. My teeth can take my job, my life, my enjoyment of food - but they will not take Gina. I will power through.

I’m about to cum - as I thrust I take in a sharp breath through my mouth - my teeth sting and sear. I jump backwards off of Gina like a burn - sssss-ahhh! It’s official, the vandocaine has worn off, I feel my teeth sending screeching pins and needles to the rest of my body. 

If I can only feel my mouth then so be it! I shove Gina backwards and crawl onto the floor. I eat her like she’s my prey, with a ferocity I’ve never felt. Each one of my teeth firing off at insane decibels. Gina twitches and shakes, but I hold her down and go harder in spite of it all. My jaw feels like it's about to give out, like my teeth are about to parachute out of their sockets up into Gina, like a nightmare where all your teeth fall out, and the only way to stop it is bury my deeper face into her. Gina squirms, but I yank her back in - she’s not getting away. Her breathing in sync with the symphony of screams in my mouth. A ringing in my ear hits a piercing fever pitch. The metallic taste of blood all over my tongue. I’m drenched in sweat, my entire body tingles and crescendos up out of my mouth to Gina - she moans in ecstasy - and stinging pain becomes too much. I push Gina off of me and jump up, pacing.

I cover my mouth to muffle my manic screaming. Each tooth touching the next is stronger than ever. The tingles have escalated to a sharp searing pain, and I can’t stand still.

To Gina, this is crime. She props herself up on her elbows and looks at me like I’m a monster. 

“What the hell’s the matter with you!?” Gina screams over my screams. Before I can answer, a rush of nausea floods my system, the last of the vandocaine being expelled - I race to the bathroom just in time to hit the toilet with a hot spew of acidic vomit, a nasty mix of pho and bile. With each throng of puke, I feel a layer of enamel erode away. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them flew out of my mouth - or worse I swallow it and it rips open my intestines and I go septic. I lurch and retch over the bowl. 

After a moment, I poke my head back into the bedroom, covered in blood and vomit. Gina squirms, a doe eyed deer in the headlights. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“Oh my God!” Even speaking hurts my teeth, but I muster an, “Of course not! I’m still sick!” I rush to the bed, but Gina jumps up and starts dressing.

“You shouldn’t have done that if you were still sick! You…sicko!” Gina throws on her clothes. “I told you to stop because it was gross, and you didn’t! You always have something wrong with you - ugh!” Gina flings on her dirty, little sandals and storms out. I scramble after her.

“Gina, wait! I love you—” but she slams the front door in my face. Her flip-flops already smacking down the stairs, leaving me with a parting thought:

“You’re disgusting!” 

…

“I’m not looking for opiates. If I was looking for opiates, I’d say so, but I’m not.” I insist. I’m covered in Gina’s blood, in the same strung-out Nirvana t-shirt. 

“Can you give me a little insight into your pain?” Dr. Maiya calmly asks.

The light in the ER seems brighter, or maybe I’m just dimmer. “My whole jaw is in pain - I am overly aware of my teeth. It’s like being on fire in my mouth.”

“Mm-hm. I will not be giving you any opioids today.” Dr. Maiya is less malleable than Dr. John, I can tell. Her scrubs coiffed and fitted. Dr. Maiya wouldn’t dare to sit on that low rollie stool like Dr. John, rather she lords over me like a praying mantis. She’s got a head on her shoulders - but so do I - and I wish someone would cut it off!

“I want a shot of vandocaine.” I demand. 

Dr. Maiya laughs.

“If I gave you vandocaine for teeth sensitivity, that’s like Michael Jackson taking propofol to fall asleep.” She shakes her head and makes a note on my chart. “You’ve been here three times in the last two days?”

“Please just give me the vandocaine, nothing else has worked, and Dr. John gave me the vandocaine—”

“Dr. John gave you vandocaine?” Dr. Maiya immediately sobers up, even I sit up straight. “Look, vandocaine is used by orthopedic surgeons when they have to remove somebody’s jaw - it’s for when they have to saw off an elephant’s tusk at the zoo - it’s not for teeth sensitivity. That’s what toothpaste is for. I’m going to give you a Tylenol, prescription toothpaste…and a lorazepam—”

“Please—” I grab Dr. Maiya’s arm - wrong move -  she yanks away. “Could I please just see Dr. John? I explained the situation to him, he understands—”

“Dr. John’s not here.” And with that Dr. Maiya sternly sashays out, swishing the curtain shut behind her. 

Leaving me. Alone.

Vandocainless.

…

I tiptoe out of the ER. The wee morning hours have nothing to offer me.

I drag my feet. The weight of my teeth dragging my head down. Raw tingles shoot from my tooth sockets down my spine. Maybe if I walk slow enough Dr. Maiya will rush out after me and proclaim for the entire parking lot that she was wrong, and I was right, and I deserve that hot shot of vandocaine straight into my pulsing pink gums. And she’ll say, ‘Yes! Yes! I absolutely believe you! I believe you 110%! I totally believe that you are absolutely constantly becoming—’

“Increasingly aware of my teeth!” Someone yells at me.

I jerk around to see Dr. John trip off the curb, ambling towards me, out into the fluttering ambulance bay. His scrubs are wrinkled under a ratty zip-up hoodie, his thick golden retriever hair tousled. He flings his meaty arm around me when - WHOOP-WHOOP!

An ambulance almost hits us, but Dr. John doesn’t care. He blows a raspberry and pummels us both down to the curb. 

“What in the hell are you doing here? Three nights in a row - that’s a streak! What the hell’s even wrong with you?” Dr. John smells like salami and booze.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask curtly.

“Yeah, fuck ‘em! They said ‘John go home-John go home’ so fuck ‘em. They said, ‘People die, that's part of it. You can’t help everyone,’ and then they threaten me with malpractice so fuck ‘em - right?!” Dr. John’s voice breaks, but he recomposes himself. “But tell ‘em. See-see, I helped you, and what the hell’s even wrong with you?”

“I am constantly becoming increasingly aware of my teeth—”

“Yeah! Right! And I helped you. Screw ‘em…I helped you...” Dr. John trails off. I notice a hint of dried vomit on his shoulder and a splotch of dried blood on the front of his scrubs. It’s clearly been a long night for Dr. John - and this was my moment to pounce.

“Yes! You helped me! But they won’t help me! I asked for you and got Dr. Maiya, and she wouldn’t give me the vandocaine!” I plead. Dr. John scoffs.

“Screw her sideways.” He spits a wad of phlegm. “She’s a rule follower - she’s afraid - all that shit is is fear. Point blank fear. You’ll never do anything great with fear in your heart.” 

“Ok, well, I-I still need help. Your help! For my teeth. Can you write me, like, prescription or something - for the vandocaine or-or something - like, just do something?!” I'm sweating. 

Dr. John laughs, manic, booming and wild.

“Ok, champ. Let’s have some fun.”

…

Dr. John’s apartment is messy and lit only by cheap colorful LED lights he operates from his phone. They’re strung along the ceiling, and he makes them a deep red and blue, like we’re being ambushed by the police. Dr. John plays chopped and screwed rap music from booming speakers, ringing in my molars. The impacted one reverberates against its gum encapsulation. A Dennis Rodman poster watches over us from the corner, the picture of him in those sunglasses that make him look like an alien. Dr. John lights incense, and then some sage, and then hits the largest clunkiest vape I’ve ever seen. The room fills with smoke.

“I know vaping’s bad - but it’s, like, my one thing.” Dr. John pulls out a number of vials, potions, and syringes from a plastic drawer and begins assembling them. 

“That’s not heroin, is it? Or-or like fentanyl?” I croak. 

Dr. John looks at me like I’m some asshole.

“No. Of course not. I’m a doctor.” he sternly adds. “I’m not really a doctor,” he then cheekily whispers to himself. “Have you ever had vanq?” Dr. John sucks some liquid from a vial into a syringe.

“Uh, no. What’s vanq?” 

“Vanq is pure vandocaine. The kind they give to animals, boiled down to its purest form.” Dr. John flicks the syringe and turns to me. “But it goes into your gums just the same.”

I gulp. This needle is longer and dirtier than the one at the hospital. This is how people get sepsis and abscesses and blood-born viruses. But my teeth are throbbing like sharp pins and needles. My mind is buzzing, and it’s all coming from my teeth. Dr. John rips his clunky vape again, covering me, frozen, in a plume of purple smoke. Everything moves in slow motion.

“Do you believe everything happens for a reason?” Dr. John is now sitting next to me on his sunken couch, fingering the syringe. 

“I mean, I don’t know… Like, why do my teeth hurt? I don’t think it’s for anything great.” I wish he would stop touching the syringe and just stick me.

“I mean, like, do you think people die for a reason, like everything, eventually, it all works out? Like, my patient earlier was a kid who just bled out and died. For no good reason. But, like, do you think there is, down the line, like…a reason?” Dr. John hits me with a look so earnest. Grasping for something that is clearly not in this room with us.

“Oh, no.” All I can think about is the syringe.

“Are you spiritual? Or do you believe in the miracles of Jesus?” Dr. John asks.

“My girlfriend says she’d never date a man who worshipped Jesus because he would let another man tell him what to do - and I just do whatever my girlfriend says.” 

“Right on, king. Right on. That’s what’s up.” Dr. John sighs. We sit there for a minute, in a heavy silence. When finally—

“Why do you have the vanq here? At your house?” I ask.

Dr. John just looks at me haughtily. “Because everything happens for a reason - lie down.”

Dr. John lies me down on his sunken couch and opens my mouth with his fingers. “This is field medicine,” he says, “like what they do in war zones. Nothing fancy, no numbing wax. Hey, what’s that—”

I look up when - Dr. John jabs me full force in my gums. I scream! Dr. John loads up another syringe and jabs himself into his thigh without even a flinch.

“Give it a little to kick in.” Dr. John falls onto the couch.

I’m screaming - but I’m not. Someone in this room is screaming and it sounds like me, but it surely isn’t my body that’s making this noise. The screaming doesn’t stop, but I settle in, and close my eyes, and within moments a tingling sensation takes over my gums. Then, finally - nothing. 

The thumping of the speaker’s base shakes the apartment in its purple haze, and I sink deeper into Dr. John’s couch.

The next hours felt like nothing. My head and body and limbs all detached from one another, the hours and minutes and seconds all detached from one another. Everything is light, effortless. A wave of gratitude washes over me and I hover in its warm glow. All the beautiful things in my life, my job, my beautiful girlfriend, my health, and my apartment, even my Monday night pho dates. Dancing in the park in the fountain on the first hot day of summer. All the blessings that remain in my life, despite my teeth. 

“How long will it last?” At least, I think that’s what I said to Dr. John, but who knows what came out. Eventually, Dr. John’s head floats up to greet mine.

“Not as long as the other shot,” he says with a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Not as long as the other shot?!” I snap back to earth as much as I can. “Not as long? Why not? I can’t let my teeth come back.” 

“Then, you gotta do something about it…” Dr. John drifts off.

I need another shot, but I can’t move. I try to turn my body sideways, but I can only turn my head.

“I hate myyy teeth…” I watch from outside my body as tears stream down my face and the couch swallows me whole. 

Dr. John flutters above me and whispers in my ear. “I used to have a friend and he was fearless. He was a surfer and adventurer, he dropped out of school to go live in a van and surf or ride his motorcycle through the mountains. He was so funny, charismatic, and bold - just bold. And handsome. Smart, he wasn’t a prick either. Like, totally perfect dude. The women threw themselves at him but he had this one girl who he would, like, die for. Drop dead gorgeous, perfect life. But then one day, he was surfing, and he wiped out and hit his head. He wasn’t, like, messed up in the head from it, but they said that it could affect his nerves. And for a while he was fine, he got a job running a bar and settled down a little to recoup. But then he started having, like, a foot thing. Like, his foot would hurt sometimes or it would feel like it was on fire. It was the nerve thing. And that’s what screwed up his life. 

“His girlfriend left him, he couldn’t surf or do his adventures anymore, he lost the job at the bar ‘cause he couldn’t stand for that long, and so he was broke. And then, he got scared. He was scared something else bad was gonna happen. And he's totally down and out, he’s, like, drunk, and on all these pills, and this was all while I was in med school. So, I’m hanging out with him, and he tells me all this stuff. And at a certain point I just looked at him, and I asked—”

“What!?” The word escapes my lifeless body—

“‘When are you gonna cut the foot off?’” 

Dr. John said it in full seriousness. “‘Are you gonna let this thing ruin your life?’” I knew what he was telling me to do. 

At that moment, I did believe everything happened for a reason. I had been guided here this night for this exact reason. And if I was going to move, I’d have to move quickly before the vanq wore off.

I found myself floating through Dr. John’s apartment like a ghost. Hovering above the couch, rifling through Dr. John’s messy cupboards until I found what I was looking for in a pile of tools under the sink.

And in a blink I was in his bathroom mirror, spattered with toothpaste and spit, the bathmat damp, the light flickering and whirring above head. My eyes bloodshot, gums bleeding, vomit on my chin, the blood on my face, neck, and shirt a mix of mine and Gina’s. I had spent my entire life afraid - and tonight I would not let fear win.

“Don’t let the fear win.” Dr. John appears on my shoulder. 

The music is louder, the room fills with smoke, the adrenaline and the vanq course through my veins, and I pull out Dr. John’s rusty pliers, and in a feat of manic strength and bravery—

I rip out each of my teeth. 

One by one. 

And I feel nothing.

…

In the low dawn light, I had been walking for hours, when I finally reached the park. A late summer dewy gloss over the morning. The last truly hot day of summer. I stared at the fountain where Gina and I had dipped our toes and danced. Globs of blood stain my shirt. Pools and sticky clots forming in my empty tooth sockets.

I’m alone but for a lone ice cream man pushing his little cart. And I have no excuse to not buy myself an ice cream bar. It’s honestly just what the doctor ordered. 

The ice cream man hands me my ice cream bar with a stoic look. I unwrap it slowly, with great care, before I gum it, sucking the cold down. No brain freeze this time. Vanilla ice cream dribbles down my chin as I stare directly into the rising sun and offer it a gummy smile.

“What would you do for a Klondike bar?” asks the lone ice cream man. 

Me? 

I’d rip out all my teeth.

Mary Egan is a Los Angeles based screenwriter and producer. A Boston native and graduate of Emerson College, Egan primarily writes punchy, provocative thrillers, twisted dark comedies, and cerebral theater-pieces, specializing in book-to-screen adaptations. Egan was the winner of the 2022 ScreenCraft True Story and Public Domain Screenplay Competition for her adaptation of Crime and Punishment, HOT GIRL $UMMER, currently in development. Her film SIMP is currently in post-production and will be released in 2026. Egan is also the host of the pop culture and humor podcast, BROWN HAIR BARBIE.