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Obsession, by Calvin Coyne

By Mick Rainsford

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Calvin was examining a blister on his tongue when he realized his teeth were rotting. He pulled his lips wide and peered into the mirror. All the molars on the left were spotted. At least three on the right were as bad.

He brought his face right up to the glass. Tilted his head left then right then back. He opened his jaws until it hurt and tugged his lips this way and that.

There were pairs of black dots on practically every molar. In the indentations on top. The big back one on the left was the worst. Its whole center was yellowy brown. Like he’d bitten into a wad of tobacco.

“My mouth is rotting! My fucking mouth is rotting!” The rest were yellow as a rat's and the bottom ones in front looked all crooked. He’d never noticed that before.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he whimpered at the prospect of a mouthful of dentures.

Nights he went to bed without brushing were jerky impressions in his mind. A film without a plot, edited by a madman. Memories loomed, blacked out and were instantly replaced by others.

All those trips he forgot to pack a toothbrush. Using other people's. His girlfriend’s. Or a friend’s if he was staying over. The brushes he replaced only when the bristles were flattened out. He never brushed after meals. A bloke in a pub told him once – swore he got this from a dentist - that brushing too much wasn’t good for your teeth. Stripped the enamel. He used a page of a book or a newspaper to get tricky bits of food from between his teeth. A glossy magazine, like those women’s magazines his ex was always buying, was better still.

He’d been really lax since his girlfriend dumped him. Drinking a lot more than usual. Smoking more too. Surviving on takeaways of toxic waste. There were periods he didn’t clean his teeth for days.

He thought about a barmaid he was trying to shift. Her behind the counter, he on a high stool.

Did she catch an eyeful of his rotten teeth every time he opened his mouth to sweet talk or smile or laugh at one of her corny jokes?

He flung his old toothbrush in the bin. Wrestled on a jacket and went out into the rain. Maybe my teeth aren’t rotting, he told himself. Maybe those spots are just bad stains. “Please, please, please, God!” he pleaded, although he wasn't religious.

He bought a new brush in the local Londis. One of those long springy ones. Small snakelike head. The bristles stiff and tight. It was white with a black stripe down the back but he hardly noticed that.

He picked up a three-for-the-price-of-one pack of paste and a large bottle of mouthwash. Original Beach the label read. (“Original” sounded reassuring) Kills germs that cause dental plaque and bad breath.

He looked around for dental floss. “Try a chemist,” the woman behind the counter told him. He was careful not to show his teeth when he talked to her.

The nearest chemist was a good two-mile walk – no bus connection - and he was eager to get home and begin. It was spilling rain. They might not even have dental floss. He could use paper if he had to, check out the chemist as soon as the rain eased up.

In spite of all the stuff he’d bought he felt bad about the dental floss. As he hurried home, though, he began to think he'd made the right decision: he didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. He resolved then not to go out socially until he did something about his teeth.

Armed with a full tube of paste, the bottle of Beach and his new brush, he attacked the inside of his mouth. He remembered the advice of a dentist from years before: Do the gums and all. Even if they bleed. They’ll soon toughen up.

He brushed fiercely and yellow tinged paste and saliva foamed out of his mouth. It dribbled over his knuckles and ran down his forearm. His gums hurt. The big molar at the back was impossible to do without excruciating pain. He kept at it though. Then he took a gulp of Beach and sloshed it around for the best part of a minute before spitting it out.

“Good fuck!” His tongue tingled. His mouth tasted like poultice. Khaki flecks went down the plughole with his spit.

Afterwards he rinsed thoroughly with water.

He repeated the procedure half a dozen times that day. He brushed after every meal. Sometimes after only smoking or coffee. He worried about the enamel but he had to try to get rid of those stains, if, please God, that’s all they were. Maybe the enamel would build up again, or something.

He used newspaper to clean between his teeth. It was a fair substitute for flossing. A sort of poor man’s dental floss. He checked his mouth after every rinse. And any other time he found himself in front of a mirror. He pulled his lips out and up and down and poked around inside his mouth.

He wasn’t sure but he thought his gums looked pinker. His teeth seemed a little whiter. The canines were still pretty yellow. The lower part of his teeth, near the gums, too. Black pinpoints remained in the indentations on the small molars. The big one at the back was a brown crevice.

Two days later he became convinced the brushes bristles were softening. He went back to Londis and bought another. They didn’t have any of the springy type.

He chose a cheaper turquoise one instead. It was shorter than the first with a long rectangular head. He still had more than two tubes of paste, nearly half a bottle of mouthwash.

His hand hovered over a second bottle. He was brushing so frequently though he hardly needed mouthwash. And the stuff tasted like piss. He’d use up what he had. Cut it down to the mornings and before going to bed. Or maybe just use it before going out on the town.

The woman behind the counter grinned when he handed the money over, “Hot date coming up?”

His face pinked up, he spun around, put his head down and shot along the toiletries aisle. He kept going until he reached the traffic lights on the next corner. Wouldn’t have stopped there only the lights were red.

He thought about walking to the chemist but the rain was still bucketing down. He decided to leave it for another day. The rain was bound to ease up soon.

He followed the same procedure as before, but he scrubbed the molars, near the gums and the canines especially hard.

The new brush turned out to be a lucky choice. Difficult to hold when he brushed hard but the bristles were tougher than on the first. He made up for not using the mouthwash by rinsing twice with water.

When he checked, the spots were gone from the molars. They gleamed like wet ivory. He realized the bottom teeth in front had always been a bit crooked but you’d hardly notice it when they were clean. His gums now were pink as a baby’s. Even the big molar at the back had more white in it. And it hardly hurt at all to clean around it.

He squeezed more paste out and worked on that tooth for over a minute. After rinsing he checked again. There was a ragged, needle-thin star on the crown.

Three days later he binned the second brush even though he was only cleaning now after proper meals. Never after smoking or coffee (still worried about the enamel). Once or twice he delayed brushing, savoring the taste of a meal, and before he knew it, it was time to eat again. He had to peer hard now at the big molar but that little brown star was still there. If he couldn’t shift it soon he’d make an appointment with a dentist.

He couldn’t go back to Londis, with that smarmy cow behind the counter. It was still raining so the chemist was out too. He’d catch a bus into town!
Maybe walk over to the General Post Office. Look up a dentist in the yellow pages. There was a chemist just down the street from the GPO.

As the bus bounced up to the shelter it occurred to him he’d forgotten to gargle the mouthwash. The realization filled him with guilt. He told himself gargling mouthwash was just something he’d have to get used to doing. And really, he’d only meant to use it if he was trying to shift a woman. Today he’d be into town and back in a couple of hours.

He bumped into a friend minutes after getting off the bus. They tried talking on the street but his friend kept moaning about the rain and asking him to go for a pint. “Nah. I want to pick up a few things, Barry” Calvin told him.

“Come on,” Barry said, making for Gorgon’s. “I’m only having the one, I swear. I have to meet Tina in an hour.”

They wound up staying in Gorgon’s all day. I won’t get the floss now, he told himself, as Barry argued with Tina on a mobile phone that was about three years old and as big as a shoe. I can forget about making that dental appointment too. Today anyhow. At least, he thought, I can grab a new toothbrush on the way home.

He thought about ducking out when Barry went to get another round in. Finding a chemist (there was one on South Ann Street. Wasn’t there?), cleaning his teeth in the toilets when he got back. Then Barry returned to the table with two foamy pints in his interlocked hands and launched straight into a rant about Tina.

At closing time Barry talked him into taking carryout back to his place. Calvin remembered he didn’t have a toothbrush. He knew too there were no late shops on the way. One night wouldn’t hurt. Surely? He’d get a new brush in the morning. Dental floss as well. Make that appointment. He could even buy a tube of paste, duck into a Jake's someplace and clean his teeth. Fuck it, he’d even get another bottle of Beach. Take a swig of that.

The lager and cigarettes had left a sour taste in his mouth though. And hours of drinking and smoking lay ahead. All that nicotine, he said to himself, as he and Barry stumbled with their cans through a puzzle of dark streets. All that sugar lying on your teeth.

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Mick Rainsford has had stories and poetry published in quite a few publications in Ireland, including Poetry Ireland and the Sunday Tribune. He has also had work published in two anthologies(including Sunday Miscellany) and is a regular contributor to Irish radio. He was short-listed for a PJ O'Connor Award and is in the running for A Hennessy Award in January.

© 2004 Me Three