I had intended to dial my dentist, Dr. Valentine, but in all the
excitement I called Rodolpho Villafuerte instead. My first thought was
to hang up but for some reason I froze. Hanging up seemed rude, it
seemed confusing. Rodolpho Villafuerte. How strange. We had been
preadolescent bunkmates at Camp Armstrong, estranged by decades but in
proximity through social media. I only had his number because my phone
links to my Facebook. Maybe it would be nice to check in? The phone
began to ring, summoning Rodolpho Villafuerte out of almost 20 years of
unobjectionable silence.
I remembered Rodolpho as the kid who first introduced me to
hand sanitizer. He carried a small bottle of the stuff on a string
around his neck. He was always washing his hands. I remembered seeing
him perched between two branches in a tree, sanitizing his hands before
climbing back down and sanitizing them again. He squirted some onto my
hands once before dinner in the mess hall. I remember the wave of cool
that came over my hands as the liquid evaporated and moisturized my
skin. That was Rodolpho. After two rings he picked up. I hastily
recounted these memories, trying to speed the reminiscence along in
light of all the pain and bleeding.
"Yes." Rodolpho replied dryly, "I remember that." And he
sighed heavily into the phone so that it sounded like an airplane
landing in my earpiece, "But we both know that's not why you called."
Then there was silence on the line. Maybe he expected my reply, but
I was hypnotized by the absurdly swollen face in the bathroom mirror
with the molar in my bloodsoaked hand.
"Because," he sighed again, "I've started getting calls from
parasites like you on a daily basis. You people once ridiculed my
sanitation preoccupation, but now that I've created the first moon
powered cleansing magnet that you keep in your pants pocket and prevents
100% of unwelcome bacteria, you decide to come calling and see if maybe
I can send you a couple bars for free. You think that even
though Pocket Dial retails for two thousand dollars, Uncle Rodolpho
probably has an entire pool house full of promos just waiting to be
scattered among his flock of converted naysayers and name callers! Isn't
that the idea? So go ahead, tell me what good pals we used to be!"
Pocket Dial. I'd never heard of Pocket Dial. I was getting
dizzy. A crash and shattering glass could be heard in the living room.
Sheila was still destroying things. My mind was sorting information at a
panicked clip.
"I've just been clobbered with what appears to be the handle of
a plunger. It washed up in the Gowanus Canal and she knocked out one of
my teeth with it. I'm concerned there could be some horrible bacteria
running around in my gum line. If I don't get it all cleaned up soon I
could lose more teeth. My whole grill might rot and fall out. I'm
reaching out to you as a friend, Rod, as an Armstrong Armadillo."
______________
After arrangements had been made with Rodolpho I dropped
my displaced molar in the toothbrush cup, removed my bloodstained
clothes, and laid in the tub. I must have fallen asleep because when I
opened my eyes Sheila was standing over me. Her eyes hollow and black,
her hair wiry with tears in it.
"What did Dr. Valentine say?"
"Dr. Valentine... Yea." It was hard to move my jaw. "Well...
it's good news. He's sending me, um, magnets. It. Moon power. Kills
bacteria."
Sheila tilted her head. It was so quiet in the bathroom. I glanced
at the window. It was night time now. "You mean Pocket Dial? That
breakthrough in sanitation technology from Johnson&Johnson?"
I nodded. And she nodded.
"That's good news for your mouth." She
spoke quietly, pushing my hair behind my ear with her pinky, "Too bad
no amount of moon power can wash the blackness from your tired, feculent
soul."
And she cried. And I cried. To this day I don't know why she
was crying. But I know why I cried, I cried because the bitch was right.
