Random Dialogue

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Long in the Tooth

Today while changing in the gym, I took advantage of the spotless full-length wall mirror to take a good long look at myself. Normally, I'd be grimacing at my love handles or flexing my biceps to see if all that working out has made me any more visibly buff, but today was different. Today, I was fixated on my teeth.

At first, it was sheer narcissistic curiosity that had me staring at my own teeth under the bright fluorescent lights. But it was while I was appraising the color of my teeth and evaluating the landmarks of past dental work, I noticed that something was odd about a spot on my front right tooth. This spot of matte whiteness, which several dentists have hemmed and hawed over before declaring it a calcium deposit stain, had once been flush along my gumline. It had also been the source of self-conscious pre-pubescent angst, because the whiteness of the spot cast a dingy, yellow tinge on the rest of my front teeth by contrast. Though my subsequent discovery of teeth whiteners helped some, in the end, I gave up and resigned myself to my funny calcium spot. Who cares? After all, it was only noticeable when I yawned. Or laughed. Or smiled. Or any normal activity that involved me opening my mouth.

But on this particular occasion, that is to say, self-absorbed half naked examinations of self in the women’s locker room, I realized that my spot was no longer flush with my gum line. In fact, it would be more accurate to say the spot had somehow migrated one-third of the way down my front tooth. And then I noticed that the rest of my teeth, though whiter and better cared for than in earlier years, seemed to have a lengthier quality to them. I smiled experimentally. Yes, that grin was quite a bit toothier than I remembered. Years of negligent dental care, a smoking habit I had only managed to kick a few years ago, and a general fear of dentists (and their bills) had taken its toll on my teeth. There was no way around it; I was getting long in the tooth.

GASP.

Long in the tooth? Who uses that phrase any more? My penchant for Agatha Christie (reference Aimee Griffith in The Moving Finger) was starting to bleed over into my every day speech patterns.

I don't flatter myself that I possess any secret fund of knowledge when it comes to language, idioms and what-not. But I'm reasonably assured that that phrase is outdated and become more so. To prove it, I tested the phrase on my boyfriend to see his reaction.

"Wait, what? What does that even mean?" was the predictable response.

Before we jump to conclusions about my possibly questionable taste in men, the boyfriend is a brilliant artist, but also one of those guys whose eyes glaze over when required to read anything not an instruction manual. So it may be that my population sampling is a bit skewed, but hey, he was close by and I needed an immediate test subject.

But my lesser half's question raises some crucial issues: what does it mean? What does tooth length have to do with age? And is there a reason beyond blatant sexism that explains why that phrase is applied to women, and not to men? In my stream-of-consciousness loopy fashion I always thought of the saber tooth tiger when the phrase came up. Considering the prehistoric era in which that long-dead kitty roamed the earth, was it a reference to age? Or perhaps I’m overthinking the science-history part and the phrase is just a reference to the modern day cougar of the two-legged variety? But then again, I don't think Dame Christie was around when they came up with that one, so that washes that idea right out.

Undaunted, I opened my mouth to take another look. Yes, the signs were unmistakable. I could trace the original, smaller shape of my tooth by the white stain, as if someone had spray painted a patina of dingy and removed the stencil, leaving several millimeters of clean, virgin tooth untouched right below the gumline. To me, the contrast was like looking at the marks of waves on a beach, where the tide has left behind waterlogged driftwood and wet stretches of sand. Only in this case, my gums had receded, leaving me with gleaming lengths of tooth.

I stared at myself in the mirror again, but this time with my mouth closed so I could study my face in the glass. As silly as it sounds, I’m one of those women who can’t help but feel a little bit smug every time I’m mistaken for a high schooler. I always titter with embarrassed self-satisfaction when servers make a fuss about how I don’t look like I could possibly be old enough to drink alcohol. (Note, I am also far from what anybody would consider old.) What can I say, we all have our pathetic vanities, and mine is that last little bit of smug youth. But I couldn't help feeling just a tiny bit sad as I stared at my face. Somewhere, at some point, while I was completely unaware, the first flush of youth had slipped out from underneath me. Sure, my friends jokingly called me Grandma, mocked my early-to-bed habits and my tendency to pass out first at parties. But nobody could actually call me an older woman.

But now, there, unmistakably etched in my TEETH of all places, was proof positive; I should probably pay more attention to taking care of my gums and yes, I was getting long in the tooth.

Note: I actually went back and edited the post!

A la Noir? I think so.

Jerry had always been a big name in the industry. He'd headed up a lot of big projects, wrangled some big game, and talked the talk with the best of 'em. Really driven the bottom line if you know what I mean. I had a lot of respect for Jerry. He was always a man who walked too close to the line, but he watched out for his guys. I know he generally tried to do the right thing, but in this crazy world, sometimes you got to watch out for yourself first. If his nose wasn't as clean as it should have been, we were all willing to look the other way. After all, business is business and a man's gotta feed his family.

Nobody was surprised when he left to do his own thing. Jerry was a man with big ideas and sometimes you could see him getting impatient-like trying to squeeze things past the big cheeses upstairs. So when he walked, we all wished him good luck. So it was business as usual and from time to time we would hear from little Jimmy that he was doing ok with his new gig. Funny business, poor Jimmy. That kid was pretty cut up when Jerry walked. I think he really depended on him and it broke his heart when Jerry left. Jimmy wasn't really a bad sort, reminded me of a scared little rabbit, but with a good head on his shoulders. He'd been here a long time but I think he was real happy just dishing out stuff. He never wanted to be a big mover and shaker. So when Boss called him into his office and told him to start taking on some of Jerry's old duties, that poor kid turned three shades of pale and came out shaking like an autumn leaf.

That kid didn't want to be Jerry. Hell, I think he would have given anything to have Jerry back. He didn't want to have to get up and tell every Tom, Dick and Harry on the floor what to do. The thought terrified him, all of us could see that. None of us could figure what the Boss was aiming at, pulling a stunt like that with Jimmy. Yeah, so what if the kid had been here a long time. But anyone with half a bean upstairs could see the kid was scared shitless. But if there's one thing you learn at the Company, you don't question the boss.

Now me, I just keep my head down and my eyes open. I've been around the block, so to speak, and I'd done all sorts of crazy shit in my time. Coming to the Company was like coming back home to say howdy-doody to the folks. I knew I had a sweet deal and I wasn't going to sour the pot by jawing in, so to speak.

Dirge of an Unhappy Troll

Nasty, nasty, gnashing of teeth! Bits of bone and crumbs of stone, and so I hide, a loathsome, loathsome troll.

An angry, angry thing I am, and sure to eat whatever I can. Rue the friend or foe that dares, to cross me, and my loathsome stare!

I know not when I started here, always cold and hungry, an ugly smear, on this fresh and verdant 'scape, I am ugly, full of sins, with nothing to put on the plate.

The church it spits on me, but more because I mock it for what it stands, for what god in pitiless sky, could love a troll like me.

So under bridge, under stone, I make my home, and mash these bones.

I suck the marrow bits dry and pick my teeth, and look for something more to eat.

For feed my soul I must, a shriveled, dessicated husk, unspoilt by the warmth of friendly touch.

I hate and hate but don't know what I hate. Bitterness, dull and cold, lies heavy, blank and unrepentant on my head.

But hate cannot endure, it's the emptiness more that I fear.

And fear it is that keeps me alive, for what happens to me if I were to die?

Or perhaps death doesn't bother here, where it's cold, wet, and to me, no one ever speaks.

Random Daily Writing 02/17/10

[I've been watching a lot of film noir and reading a shit ton of Agatha Christie novels on my iKindle. Love it. Agatha Christie was a master of character development and dialogue. If I could write a fraction as well as she did, I could die happy.]

I think I'm one of those people who doesn't know how to let things go.

I swiveled in my chair and nodded to Harry as he walked in.

"What's up?" I asked, casual-like, as Harry slid into an armchair near me.

"Same old rum bullshit," Harry grinned, as he reached for a cigarette. I offered him a light, but he waved me away. He pulled out his battered old Zippo instead and set himself up.

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," I replied, taking a deep drag of my own. I motioned to the cocktail waitress to set Harry up with something, along with round two for myself.

It was a rough few days for me and I just wanted to sit back and relax. Some days I wasn't sure what I was so jumped up about, but I could feel the muscles in my neck taut like piano wire. I reached back and rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. I winced at how tight it was. They say that stress can be a habit. They say stress can kill. Whoever "they" are. Jesus fucking Christ I just needed to get some decent rest. Things were going good as long as nothing fucked up. Well, I guess that's always the catch, isn't it.

It was at that moment, that she walked in. I felt every muscle in my body tense up, a fight-or-flight response all the way. I felt Harry's hand involuntarily on my shoulder, but I shoved it away gently.

"I'm cool," I said, without taking my eyes off of her, "I'm cool."

Harry looked at me doubtfully, but he knew better than to interfere.

I watched her slither across the open floor like the poisonous snake I knew her to be. But goddamn did she look gorgeous tonight. I wasn't the only one looking and she knew it. I could see her take it all in appreciatively as her rightful due. Fucking bitch. Harry was getting nervous, poor guy, he never knew what to do around her and she knew it. Made that poor man as uncomfortable as she could, smiling sweet as sugar the whole while. I had a theory as to why Harry jumped like a rabbit every time she showed up and an even better idea why he couldn't look me in the eye when she was around. I didn't blame him. She had that effect and he was just a poor dumb bastard. Like me.

She stood poised at the door, surveying her kingdom so to speak, until her gaze rested on me. She stared at me with those sultry green eyes and I stared right back at the bitch. I wanted her to know just how much I hated her. Her eyes widened at the intensity of my glare, and she smiled. How predictable. She started coming toward us. Somewhere outside my field of vision, I vaguely heard Harry's muttering voice.

"Don't do it, man, it's not worth it. Just let it go. "

Fuck that bitch. She ruined my life and I couldn't forget it. Here I was, trying to catch a little R&R in my favorite joint with my best bud, and that witch spawn somehow knew exactly where to find me. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit if she had called around to find out exactly where I was. As far as I knew, none of my friends would give her the time of day. But that isn't to say there's not a crack here and there. Nobody's perfect.