Pulling Teeth

by Alan Ryker

  He nodded and carefully wiped tears from his eyes.

  "Rinse," I said. "Spit," I said. "Dr. Haskell, Mr. Johnson is ready for you!" I said. I patted Mr. Johnson on the chest. "Why don't you just die?" I mouthed.

  I hope one day to confuse what should be mouthed with what should be said aloud.

  ***

  We laid in Dr. Haskell's bed afterward. He wanted to go to my apartment, but I never let him. I didn't want him to feel that he was better than me. Seeing my apartment would have done that. Not that I couldn't afford a nice place. Besides, I liked invading someone else's life. I didn't want to invite anyone into mine. I lay in his spot on the bed. I could tell because it stank with the stink a man can't help but leave behind. He didn't want my scent on his wife's side. Smart.

  We watched mid-day television on the TV hanging on the wall across from their bed. Sitcoms. I watched the extras, the people in the background. I started doing it when I was a teenager and then couldn't stop. I'd lose track of the story. I didn't hear any of the jokes. I couldn't stop watching the people sitting at the table behind the main characters', laughing and having silent conversations. I began to recognize them, to follow them from show to show. Extras weren't stuck in one story. They had the entire world of television to wander.

  "Why do we watch this crap?" he said. "I hate it, and I've never heard you laugh once."

  "I like it," I said, and he shook his head and got dressed. He took his watch from atop a large jewelry box and put it on. I'd started making him take it off when he couldn't stop scratching me with it.

  ***

  I always wanted to die young. I didn't want to live long enough to disappoint my father. He was so proud of my good grades and easy intelligence. After my mother died of ovarian cancer when I was fifteen, he looked to me for companionship. We always had interesting conversations over dinner.

  I got a degree in philosophy. He thought it was great. Other people asked me what I'd do with it. He said that someone like me didn't have to study something boring like business. That smart people could study whatever they wanted and then get whatever job they wanted. He said that my intellectual curiosity would impress people.

  I don't know why I studied philosophy.

  I look through Being and Time and wonder how I could have ever understood it. They say that if you want to understand Heidegger, you don't read Heidegger. I did both. But now I don't even remember the vocabulary. I don't remember the difference between phenomenalism and Kant's transcendental idealism.

  I do remember a joke about Kant, a supposedly true story: a professor of philosophy put an unlit pipe in his mouth on the way out of the subway, and a cop told him there was no smoking in the subway. The professor replied that he was leaving the subway, not getting on it. They each repeated their positions several times, until the officer said, "Well, if I let you do it, I'd have to let everyone do it."

  To which the professor replied, "Who do you think you are, Kant?" Which the policeman misheard, so that the professor had to explain the concept of the categorical imperative to the officer at the police station.

  That's what I remember about philosophy. I've gotten pretty stupid in the past few years.

  Philosophy students do well on the LSAT. I didn't want to become a lawyer. A philosophy degree shows you have good critical thinking skills and an eager mind. If you're smart, it can land you a business job as easily as a business degree can, and philosophy students do great on the GMAT. I didn't want to go into business. Nor did I want to pursue a career in academia.

  I wanted to die before I got out of college and was forced to show the world the fraud I was. I wanted them to remember me as what I could have been. Unfortunately, you can't achieve that with suicide, though killing oneself does show a sort of determination. I could have gotten into a high-speed car wreck, so maybe I didn't mind disappointing people as much as I say. Regardless, I let graduation day come and go and continued breathing.

  I worked at a call center. Within a year I got an Associate's degree in Dental Hygiene.

  At first, I was impressed with how easy everything was for Dr. Haskell. I don't mean that his work wasn't difficult, but he knew what he wanted—a successful dental practice—and knew how to get it. His path was apparent, his actions certain. When he struggled, it was with purpose. He didn't doubt himself. He didn't question himself. He had a center, and for awhile, I enjoyed sharing it with him. I liked to listen to him talk about his practice. He was so unselfconscious. He'd go on and on about the boring tasks he'd completed, and those ahead of him. The length at which he'd talk would have been impolite if I hadn't been interested for my own reasons. I enjoyed feeling like I was part of the main storyline.

  When we started our affair, it felt like a natural result of his certainty. But he started taking risks. Like I said, we fucked in his bed, even though he had guest bedrooms and the money to pay for a hotel. At some point I realized that he took risks because he wasn't satisfied with his life, and the illusion faded. He was just an insipid, soon-to-be impotent dentist going through a midlife crisis.

  ***

  The Haskells invited me to their Christmas party. When I pulled up to the big Colonial home I'd been to so many times and saw all the BMWs, Mercedes, and Jaguars parked in the circle drive, I almost continued on around and went back home. But I didn't.

  Their house had an idiot's face: huge, square, and blank. I clacked awkwardly up the walk on heels, knocked on the door, and was greeted by Mrs. Haskell. You could tell she'd been stunning in her past. At my age, she would have been prettier than me. At somewhere in her fifties (I find it difficult to tell a rich woman's age), she still looked good.

  She hugged me. "It's so good to see you again." She genuinely meant it. "We've never had you over, have we? How about a tour?"

  "I'll show her around, dear." Dr. Haskell took my coat.

  She thought that sounded like a great idea, and went to find somewhere to set the cheese basket I'd brought them while Dr. Haskell led me to the garage where he lifted me onto his neat workbench and slipped his hand up my skirt. With all of his colleagues just inside, I have to admit, it was kind of exciting.

  After the "tour", I stood near their big dining room table, quickly downing a few glasses of wine. The appetizers were good, and picking at them gave me something to do. I hoped that by doing something I gave the illusion I belonged.

  Mrs. Haskell came over to see how I was doing, and pointed out the cheese basket I'd brought. Several other dentists' wives were standing nearby, and a conversation started. I stood there, glad to have found people to stand near, but I barely heard a word until, "So tell me, is Richard a real slave-driver?"

  The room came back into focus with a jolt, and I wondered if anyone noticed that I hadn't been paying attention. "Oh. Oh no. He's very good to work for." I looked around the room. Several of the other dentists had joined the conversation, but I appeared to be the only hygienist or assistant at the party. I felt the blood pulsing in my face as the small group waited for more. Everyone was buzzed enough to want just a bit of dirt.

  Mrs. Haskell seemed to sense my embarrassment and spoke for me. "I'm always having to remind him that the world doesn't revolve around him. The way he acts sometimes, you'd think we all disappear when he walks out of the room."

  People chuckled. Another woman slapped Dr. Banton's arm and said, "Why are you laughing, John? You think you're any better?"

  Another wife said, "I think they're all about the same."

  The men laughed more and didn't try to defend themselves. They held their hands up and smiled in mock submission.

  Mrs. Haskell took my arm. In her other hand, her wine glass was empty. Her breath was sweet as she said into my ear, "I mean it. Don't take any crap from him. I know how he can be." She smiled. "We should have had you over so long ago. I'm embarrassed."

  I could only smile and nod. However genuine and friendly, I could think of nothing to say to a person like her. But she didn't suspect me at all
. I could tell. I was thirty years younger than her and spent every day with her husband, and she didn't show a hint of jealousy.

  Mrs. Haskell had guests to attend to, and Dr. Haskell could only spend so much time trying to lure me into unoccupied rooms. He wanted badly to get caught and ruin his marriage, but seemed to still respect his obligation to discuss sports with his dentist buddies. So I managed to sneak from the upstairs bathroom to the master bedroom I'd spent so much time in.

  I ran my hand over the bedspread, then lifted it and tucked a few strands of long blond hair beneath. Mrs. Haskell's underwear drawer was open a bit, probably left so in her hurry to get ready for the party. I opened it a bit more with the tip of my finger. She wore thongs. A woman her age.

  Then I saw the jewelry box, the one Dr. Haskell always put his watch on when we fucked. Gold filigree swirled around the dark wood. I opened the top and several drawers slid out automatically. Most of the items were Mrs. Haskell's, but Dr. Haskell had a drawer for his watches, and right in the center was a matching set of his and hers. I took them.

  ***

  "Jason, did I read the file right? Are you sixteen?" I said as I looked at the sutures left from his wisdom teeth removal. Jason nodded.

  "That's unbelievable. I'd have guessed eighteen, nineteen. You look so mature." I rested my hand on his bicep and watched him squirm.

  I jabbed at his numbed gums. "Does this hurt?" I asked. He shook his head no. "Good. You're going to feel a little pulling, but I promise I'll be gentle." I'd unbuttoned the top buttons of my blouse, and, leaning over, I gave him a show. I could see him trying to discretely adjust. Teenage boys are not attractive. As a general rule, they disgust me. But being desired gets me going, and Dr. Haskell and I were going to his house over lunch. I needed whatever help I could get. I took longer than necessary pulling the sutures, and leaned in closer than necessary. I watched him stare, and knew that he was probably already leaking. "You wouldn't take an hour, would you?" I mouthed. "And you'd certainly finish."

  As I left to go tell Dr. Haskell that Jason was ready for inspection, I saw Jason aggressively rearrange his crotch. It took some work.

  After we returned from our session, I quickly ate my sack lunch. I still carried a brown paper sack. It reminded me of the lunches my dad packed for me after my mom died. He always stuck a note with a smiley face and a "Have a Great Day!" to my tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. It's funny that he thought that was the sort of thing you do for a teenage daughter. It's funny that he knew. I never ate the lunches, but I kept the notes. I miss getting new ones. I used to pack the old ones with my lunches, but that got to be too sad.

  After lunch, I cleaned Mrs. Haskell's teeth. Dr. Haskell said it would have been suspicious if he'd asked another dentist's hygienist to do it. He could have cleaned her teeth himself, but he got off on it. He liked watching the two of us together. I'd see him lurking in the doorway.

  I usually pulled my hair back to keep it out of my face as I cleaned. I left it down for her. I let it brush her face. "Don't you recognize this?" I mouthed behind my mask.

  After I finished, I asked, "So how are things at home? Anything new?"

  "You won't believe it! Our housekeeper stole our good watches."

  "Really? Are you sure?" I asked as I arranged my tools.

  "She's the only one who could have. I told David about it. I thought maybe we should give her a raise or ask her if she was having financial trouble. She's been our housekeeper for twelve years, but I couldn't talk him out of firing her."

  "That's really too bad." I saw him standing silently in the doorway, watching us. I could tell the hand in his pocket was working a rare second erection. That was why he had me clean her teeth. I ignored him.

  "What would you have done?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I can see both sides of the situation." I turned from her to the doorway. "Dr. Haskell, your wife is ready to see you. Her teeth are looking great."

  "David makes sure I take good care of them," she said, flashing her smile.

  "You're very lucky to have a dentist like him all to yourself," I said.

  After she left, I went into his office.

  "Mrs. Haskell said your housekeeper stole from you."

  He glanced up from the patient file he was flipping through. "Yeah, can you believe it? I paid her kid's way through college."

  "How do you know it was her?"

  "Couldn't have been anyone else."

  "You just recently had that big party. Lots of people drunk and unsupervised."

  I sat on the desk in such a way that he could just see up my skirt. That gave him a moment's pause, then, "Come on. Those are our friends. Besides, none of them would need to steal a couple of watches."

  "None of them?"

  He raised an annoyed eyebrow. I left his office.

  ***

  When I was fourteen, my mother and I got in a huge fight. We screamed at each other. My father didn't know what to do. He tried to calm us down, but we kept at it. She was accustomed to saying whatever she wanted and getting only silent resentment from me. She told me that I should start dressing like a human being. She didn't like my baggy sweaters. She wanted me to wear makeup. I had recently decided that it was time our dynamic should change. I'd grown bigger than her. I had my dad's athletic build. I told her to shut her mouth about things that didn't concern her. She told me that she'd thought she was getting a daughter. I told her that I wish I had gotten a mother. She slapped me. I didn't hit her back. Our dynamic hadn't changed.

  That night I took the voodoo doll my best friend had gotten me as a joke and put my mother's watch around its waist. The small instruction pamphlet said that the watch was the best personal item with which to work any type of magic, as its ticking marked all aspects of the owner's life. I stabbed pins into the doll's pelvis. She died of ovarian cancer a year later.

  First one, then the other, I put the Haskell's gold watches on my voodoo doll. As I jabbed the doll with needles I watched a sitcom. The main characters all went to a Bruce Springsteen concert. The Boss performed up on stage, and the group of friends danced in the crowd, rocking out and looking ridiculous. Unlike the standard scenes in a restaurant or coffee shop, you could hear the extras. Not as loud as the main characters, but you could hear them. They made the generic, background noise of a concert. Lots of whooping and cheering. But one extra looked right at a main character and—I swear this—shouted, "Fuck you, cunt!" It was unmistakable. I could read it on her lips, and just barely hear it over the sound of Springsteen and the cheering crowd. The hatred in her face was so different from the false smiles around her, so sincere. You could see the actor's wasted years in her furious expression. I wondered how the editors could miss something like that, something so blatant and hostile blazing in the middle of something so phony.

  It was sad. Her anger was about to burn her alive, and yet her futile little revenge wasn't even worth editing out.

  INVASION OF THE SHARK-MEN

  I hook the hard drive to my laptop and click on a random video file. Leroy's mustached face fills most of the screen. His age isn't as inscrutable as most homeless people's. He looks to be somewhere between forty and fifty. His hair is buzzed down to salt and pepper speckles across his scalp. Except for the big mustache, his face is smooth-shaven. His deep pit eyes stare through the camera and into our living room. His mouth carefully metes out his words. "—new instincts programmed in, instincts that tell them to wear clothes. Instincts that tell them to smile at certain tones, nod at certain cues. But these responses mean nothing. They're just reflex."

  Carla walks through the door of our tiny Harlem apartment, hoists her heavy messenger bag over her frizzy head, and says, "Isn't that Marcus's footage? David, how'd you get it?"

  Marcus was filming a documentary about Leroy, before Marcus disappeared.

  Leroy says, "These creatures, these shark-men, feel no fear. They have no pity, no morality, no self-reflection whatsoever. Even if sharks feel some kinship with othe
r sharks, we're not sharks. We're prey."

  I pause the video. "I got a hard drive from Marcus."

  "So he's back, huh? I knew he was fine, just stirring up drama like always. Where's he been?"

  "No, his neighbor brought this over. Said Marcus told him to if he didn't hear from him in two weeks. It's been two weeks." I hand her a cereal box and a letter. "The hard drive was in the box." On it, our address was scrawled in black marker. She reads the letter. It says:

  David,

  If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. That really sucks.

  Watch the footage on this drive. You need to know what's going on in this city. It's not safe here. And they've seen you.

  Be safe. I love you and Carla.

  Marcus

  Carla says, "Dramatic little rich boy. But maybe something on the drive will tell us where he is."

  But he's never told me he loves me. This isn't good.

  The police won't look for him. He's disappeared before without telling anyone. Showed up months later with some exotic tattoo or disease and a bunch of stories to tell. The police point out that he's an adult, and free to come and go as he pleases. The last time I spoke to him, he refused to let me up into his apartment. He cursed me out. I was pissed about that. I waited, gave him a chance to call me and apologize. Eventually I called him, but he wouldn't answer his phone. I've talked to people in his building. Nobody's seen him since that day.

  I'm a graphic designer. Carla is a grad student, Urban Studies. Marcus is, in Carla's words, "a spoiled-rotten rich brat who'll crash hard once the world pops his overinflated sense of entitlement." But we were all once members of the same writing crew, a graffiti crew. We used to write in Freedom Tunnel, one of the most famous graffiti spots in the world. Last we knew he was shooting a documentary in Freedom Tunnel. Not about the graffiti, but the homeless population that lives there. The tunnel people.