Teeth
When I was nineteen, just about to turn twenty, I was dating a guy my age named Dave. I met him online, through the now ancient website called MySpace. He was goofy, laid back and very, very tall – six foot six at least. And he had fake teeth. You can read that again. It’s still going to be true. He told me about his dentures the third time we hung out. It was clear he had something to tell me, but he tiptoed around the topic for a while. There’s really no segue into, “Hey, guess what? My teeth aren’t real.”
Between a combination of terrible dental hygiene and one too many rough concert experiences, Dave had wrecked his mouth. When he finally saw a dentist, he was told that it made sense to get dentures. So he did. And there we were, having a conversation about Dave’s fake teeth. It was a little weird, but honestly, I couldn’t tell. We had made out before the revelation and I hadn’t noticed at all. So I shrugged and he was happy. I accepted the news, strange as it was, and we moved on.
We had several diner dates – not dinner, but diner - (this is Jersey, after all) and double dates with his best friend Amy and her boyfriend Tom. After about a month he asked me to be his girlfriend. Things were going well.
Very shortly after we made our relationship official, I found myself in a bad part of Philly with Dave, at a party hosted by a friend of his named Gary. Amy’s boyfriend parked the car a couple blocks away on a side street that was barely wide enough for the narrow Camry we were crammed into. I’d been to sketchy places before, but I’d never seen bars on entire front porches. I hung close to Dave as the four of us walked to Gary’s row home.
We were welcomed inside and offered drinks. I squeezed into the kitchen and made myself a rum and Coke, making sure I was using the public liquor and not stealing from someone’s personal stash. I didn’t want to smother Dave in such a small crowded space, so I hung around Amy, who was outgoing and made me feel comfortable around all those strangers. Maybe if I had hung closer to Dave that night, I would have noticed how much beer he’d had to drink. I probably wouldn’t have tried to stop him; it’s not like he was driving home or anything. But maybe I could have predicted what happened next.
The only working bathroom at the party was up a narrow, uneven flight of wooden stairs. I watched Dave attempt – unsuccessfully – to walk up them before I decided to help him out. And by help him out, I mean tell him he was “probably too drunk to make it up there,” and that he “should just hold it for now, okay?” He ignored me, placing each unsteady foot on a stair one by one, knocking his knuckles and elbows into the walls. Eventually he made it to the top, rounded a corner and flung himself into the bathroom. I considered Dave’s successful navigation of the stairs and use of the toilet to be a small miracle, until he banged his head on the doorframe on the way out, and stumbled to the top of the stairs.
Amy was standing at the bottom, shaking her head. “Hell, no.” she said. “Make him stay up there.” I told her to move. She wanted to help, but if a giant like Dave fell on a dwarf like Amy, she would surely have been squashed.
Ignoring my suggestions to sit on his ass and scooch down the stairs, Dave grabbed onto the splintered railing and got to the bottom without tripping. I suggested we go out to the front porch and get some air. There were several people already out there, smoking and drinking and pretending to karate chop each other on the tiny front lawn. Dave started to complain about how sick he was feeling. He was swaying like a palm tree during a hurricane. I did my best to use my five-foot-four frame to keep my date upright, but it was difficult. Drunk weight is a lot like dead weight, only wobblier.
Dave abruptly announced that he was going to throw up. I pointed him in the direction of the railing overlooking the lawn – you know, away from people. He leaned over the balcony and just as he was about to get sick, he reached back to me. I put out my open hands and he placed something in them.
It was his teeth. I stared at them for a moment, feeling the weight of a full set of dentures, gums and all. They reeked of beer but were otherwise pretty clean. They smiled up at me, happy to have escaped a session of vomiting.
I shook myself out of my thoughts and left the porch to find something to put the teeth in. In the kitchen, I spotted a stack of red plastic cups. I took one and put the teeth in it. I found Amy and Tom and told them Dave was sick. Tom said he was tired and that we could leave after Dave stopped puking. We all went outside to wait for him to finish. Gary and some of his friends came outside, too, to heckle Dave for drinking too much and to make lame offers of bread for him to eat and “soak up the alcohol.”
I stood there, holding the plastic cup of teeth. When we were ready to leave, it was clear that Dave couldn’t walk to the car without help. Some guy with a mohawk named Jeff decided to help us out. Jeff wasn’t much taller than the rest of our group, but he managed to lug Dave down the street and smush him into Tom’s car. We left Philly.
Back in New Jersey, Tom stopped at Dave’s house. The three of us got out of the car and looked at each other. How were we going to get Dave inside? Amy laughed and told me he was my boyfriend so he was my problem. I said fine, I would manage it, but she needed to bring my stuff in. I handed her my purse and the cup of teeth. She took one look in the cup and said, “You have got to be kidding me with this.”
I ignored her comment and pulled Dave out of the car. I wrapped his arms around my shoulders and very slowly guided him into his house. He collapsed onto the couch in the living room. I went into his kitchen for some water, and Amy and Tom called out their goodbyes. I filled a tall glass with water from the tap and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol out of the cabinet. I set both of these items down on the table next to my snoring boyfriend for him to find in the morning.
I was about to let myself out when I remembered the red plastic cup. I texted Amy: “Where did you put Dave’s teeth?” As I waited for her response, I looked at that sentence over and over again. It still didn’t bother me, as Dave would soon find out when I did not dump him the next morning. But it did feel as though I had fallen into some kind of alternate reality. I’d entered a strange wormhole where twenty year old men have dentures.
My phone lit up with Amy’s response. I glanced over to the dining room table and saw the cup sitting there. I picked it up and placed it next to the water and Tylenol. Then I went home, brushed my teeth very carefully, and went to bed.
When I was nineteen, just about to turn twenty, I was dating a guy my age named Dave. I met him online, through the now ancient website called MySpace. He was goofy, laid back and very, very tall – six foot six at least. And he had fake teeth. You can read that again. It’s still going to be true. He told me about his dentures the third time we hung out. It was clear he had something to tell me, but he tiptoed around the topic for a while. There’s really no segue into, “Hey, guess what? My teeth aren’t real.”
Between a combination of terrible dental hygiene and one too many rough concert experiences, Dave had wrecked his mouth. When he finally saw a dentist, he was told that it made sense to get dentures. So he did. And there we were, having a conversation about Dave’s fake teeth. It was a little weird, but honestly, I couldn’t tell. We had made out before the revelation and I hadn’t noticed at all. So I shrugged and he was happy. I accepted the news, strange as it was, and we moved on.
We had several diner dates – not dinner, but diner - (this is Jersey, after all) and double dates with his best friend Amy and her boyfriend Tom. After about a month he asked me to be his girlfriend. Things were going well.
Very shortly after we made our relationship official, I found myself in a bad part of Philly with Dave, at a party hosted by a friend of his named Gary. Amy’s boyfriend parked the car a couple blocks away on a side street that was barely wide enough for the narrow Camry we were crammed into. I’d been to sketchy places before, but I’d never seen bars on entire front porches. I hung close to Dave as the four of us walked to Gary’s row home.
We were welcomed inside and offered drinks. I squeezed into the kitchen and made myself a rum and Coke, making sure I was using the public liquor and not stealing from someone’s personal stash. I didn’t want to smother Dave in such a small crowded space, so I hung around Amy, who was outgoing and made me feel comfortable around all those strangers. Maybe if I had hung closer to Dave that night, I would have noticed how much beer he’d had to drink. I probably wouldn’t have tried to stop him; it’s not like he was driving home or anything. But maybe I could have predicted what happened next.
The only working bathroom at the party was up a narrow, uneven flight of wooden stairs. I watched Dave attempt – unsuccessfully – to walk up them before I decided to help him out. And by help him out, I mean tell him he was “probably too drunk to make it up there,” and that he “should just hold it for now, okay?” He ignored me, placing each unsteady foot on a stair one by one, knocking his knuckles and elbows into the walls. Eventually he made it to the top, rounded a corner and flung himself into the bathroom. I considered Dave’s successful navigation of the stairs and use of the toilet to be a small miracle, until he banged his head on the doorframe on the way out, and stumbled to the top of the stairs.
Amy was standing at the bottom, shaking her head. “Hell, no.” she said. “Make him stay up there.” I told her to move. She wanted to help, but if a giant like Dave fell on a dwarf like Amy, she would surely have been squashed.
Ignoring my suggestions to sit on his ass and scooch down the stairs, Dave grabbed onto the splintered railing and got to the bottom without tripping. I suggested we go out to the front porch and get some air. There were several people already out there, smoking and drinking and pretending to karate chop each other on the tiny front lawn. Dave started to complain about how sick he was feeling. He was swaying like a palm tree during a hurricane. I did my best to use my five-foot-four frame to keep my date upright, but it was difficult. Drunk weight is a lot like dead weight, only wobblier.
Dave abruptly announced that he was going to throw up. I pointed him in the direction of the railing overlooking the lawn – you know, away from people. He leaned over the balcony and just as he was about to get sick, he reached back to me. I put out my open hands and he placed something in them.
It was his teeth. I stared at them for a moment, feeling the weight of a full set of dentures, gums and all. They reeked of beer but were otherwise pretty clean. They smiled up at me, happy to have escaped a session of vomiting.
I shook myself out of my thoughts and left the porch to find something to put the teeth in. In the kitchen, I spotted a stack of red plastic cups. I took one and put the teeth in it. I found Amy and Tom and told them Dave was sick. Tom said he was tired and that we could leave after Dave stopped puking. We all went outside to wait for him to finish. Gary and some of his friends came outside, too, to heckle Dave for drinking too much and to make lame offers of bread for him to eat and “soak up the alcohol.”
I stood there, holding the plastic cup of teeth. When we were ready to leave, it was clear that Dave couldn’t walk to the car without help. Some guy with a mohawk named Jeff decided to help us out. Jeff wasn’t much taller than the rest of our group, but he managed to lug Dave down the street and smush him into Tom’s car. We left Philly.
Back in New Jersey, Tom stopped at Dave’s house. The three of us got out of the car and looked at each other. How were we going to get Dave inside? Amy laughed and told me he was my boyfriend so he was my problem. I said fine, I would manage it, but she needed to bring my stuff in. I handed her my purse and the cup of teeth. She took one look in the cup and said, “You have got to be kidding me with this.”
I ignored her comment and pulled Dave out of the car. I wrapped his arms around my shoulders and very slowly guided him into his house. He collapsed onto the couch in the living room. I went into his kitchen for some water, and Amy and Tom called out their goodbyes. I filled a tall glass with water from the tap and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol out of the cabinet. I set both of these items down on the table next to my snoring boyfriend for him to find in the morning.
I was about to let myself out when I remembered the red plastic cup. I texted Amy: “Where did you put Dave’s teeth?” As I waited for her response, I looked at that sentence over and over again. It still didn’t bother me, as Dave would soon find out when I did not dump him the next morning. But it did feel as though I had fallen into some kind of alternate reality. I’d entered a strange wormhole where twenty year old men have dentures.
My phone lit up with Amy’s response. I glanced over to the dining room table and saw the cup sitting there. I picked it up and placed it next to the water and Tylenol. Then I went home, brushed my teeth very carefully, and went to bed.