by Kim Cayer
What better time to start than the present? In a delirious joy, I blew my day’s budget on Toothache Tamer and headed off for some serious studying.
* * *
Damage Deposit Day! I woke up early and was at the old landlady’s office before she had even arrived. Come on, lady! I need my money! I have a toothache in desperate need of a dentist! I had a huge wad of Toothache Tamer jammed onto that tooth and my tongue was aching from constantly stretching to caress the hurt.
After pacing in pain for a while, I decided to use my time constructively and dwell on my previous day’s gathering of information. My conclusion: My God, but I’m an idiot. I really knew nothing of what was going on in New York. After the dentist, I was going back to the library. There was so much learning left to do!
The Chinese manager approached and I greeted her with, “Do you have my check?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Came in last week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I roared, then realized she had no way of contacting me. I didn’t apologize. “I’m in a hurry,” I informed her.
She opened her office, went to the top drawer of her desk and pulled out my old rental agreement and a check. “You sign here,” she pointed to another space.
I scrawled my name and grabbed the check. Almost running, I went to the closest bank which just happened to be my old bank. My luck! No line-up! I approached the teller, handed her my check and said, “I’d like to cash this.”
“Do you have an account with us?” she asked.
“I used to,” I said. “It’s a good check.” The teller looked uncertain. “Look, your bank manager knows me,” I said.
That gave her an idea. She walked over to a desk in the far corner, where the manager sat. The teller barely spoke when the manager glanced in my direction. She stood up immediately and came hurrying over, yelling all the way. “I said this bank didn’t need business like you! How dare you come back here after the destruction you caused?”
“I just pulled down some Christmas decoration,” I retorted. “Big deal.”
“You’re a troublemaker!” she yelled in my face. “Take your check and leave immediately!”
“Come on, you can cash it for me, at least,” I tried. “I used to keep so much money here.”
“Now you’re poor!” she reminded me. “And you’re crazy! Leave now or I’ll call the security guard!”
“Oh, you scare me,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll take my business elsewhere. You have no idea how rich I’m going to be again.” I walked out like a snob. This time, just before the exit door, I knocked down a sign saying ‘You Can Bank on Us!’ I really don’t like being so violent but I prefer to think of it as an eye for an eye.
I headed for a bank down the street. The teller there also asked if I had an account with them. “No, I don’t,” I said.
“It’s much easier to cash checks when you have an account with the bank,” the teller informed me.
It didn’t seem she would cash it either. I thought for a second; hhmm, I’d be rich soon and would need another bank account, so why not open one right now? “I’d like to open an account then, please,” I said politely.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll use this check as the initial deposit?” she enquired.
“Sure,” I said. She did her business thing, I signed a few places and proffered all necessary identification, and before long I had an account with this new bank. After the teller thanked me for banking with them, I said, “You’re welcome. Now I’d like to withdraw $300 from my account.”
“Oh, we have to wait until the check clears,” she said. “That takes a minimum of five business days.”
“Five days!” I shrieked. “I need money now!”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Five days exactly?” I whimpered.
“About a week,” she sympathetically replied.
I staggered out. All I had left to spend was that $2 I’d carefully saved up. Right beside the bank, I saw a business called ‘ChekCashers’. There were signs blazoned everywhere with ‘Cash your check here! No ID required! Lowest charge around! Only 2% of your check!”
I turned around, darted back into the bank and ran up to my teller, who was busy with another customer. “Excuse me,” I interrupted their conversation, “could I just have my check back? Let’s forget I opened an account here.”
“I’m sorry,” the teller said. “That’s against regulations.”
“Can’t you break a regulation, just this once?” I wailed, then realized the whole bank had heard me. I didn’t think the teller would break a rule now, for all to know.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Can you break two dollars into quarters?” I sadly asked. I knew I’d now have to budget for 25 cents a day. I’d still be able to bank a quarter. The teller, obviously feeling sorry for me, served me before her other customer.
What to do, what to do? I needed a dentist! I wanted to walk up to a thug and ask him to smash me in the mouth. Hopefully he’d knock that tooth out. Oh, think logically, Alice. You need money and you know what you have to do. Write one letter and ye shall receive $200. But wait! …They’d probably pay me at the end of the week, and with a check too.
I used my street smarts and two days’ budget to call Mr. Dave Galloway, Assistant Editor, The Daily Times. As soon as I told the secretary it was Carrie D’Away calling, I was put in touch with ol’ Dave.
“Yes, Carrie!” he said and laughed, because he really knew my true name. “What’s up? Have you sent a letter yet?”
“That’s what I’m calling about,” I said. “I have a counter-offer. I think you should give me $200 to start, as a gesture of intent to use me. Do you understand? I mean, if I see actual money, then I’ll know you’re serious and that’ll encourage men to write.”
“I thought you knew we were serious,” Dave said.
“Oh, I think you are, but this would be an incentive,” I said, remembering my initial soap opera contract. “But for that $200, I will hand you a letter to the editor. If you print it, you don’t owe me $200.”
“That sounds fair,” Dave agreed. “You have a deal.”
“I can come by today, by four,” I said, “if you’ll have 200 in cash waiting.”
“Matter of fact, your timing is excellent,” Dave said. “In today’s paper, the editor shares his view on organized crime. I can’t wait to see what you’ll disagree with about that.”
“Uhh…I have to write about the Editor’s View?” I asked. I didn’t know that.
“Yes,” Dave informed me. “The same as you did the first time. A Letter to the Editor regarding his editorial.”
“Of course, fine I’ll see you by four,” I quickly said and hung up. Well, shit! That limited the amount of letters I could write to one a day. A measly $200 a day. Then the thought occurred to me that 200 bucks would be a damn sight prettier than a quarter.
I headed off to the local library to read that day’s Daily Times. I wondered on the way about the Mafia’s good points. Did they have any? They’d better, or I’d be out 200 bucks.
* * *
I was late in delivering. With money riding on it, I had no idea a letter would be so difficult to write. Why was my first letter to the editor so easy?
“I didn’t think you were coming, Alice,” Dave Galloway said when I entered his office.
“Please,” I said, “call me Carrie. I don’t want anyone else knowing my real name.” Especially when they saw how I had sided with the Mafia. I clutched my epistle to my chest. “Do you have my money?” I asked, as if I were holding the letter for ransom. I could barely enunciate, my tooth pained so badly.
“Right here,” Dave said, handing over an envelope. It looked mighty thin and I suspiciously opened it. There were two $100 bills nestled inside. What did I expect? Quarters? “It’s all there,” Dave assured me.
“Great,” I said. “Here’s my letter to the editor.” I handed it over. Dave started to read it. �
�Oh, please!” I cried out. “Read it when I leave.”
“Alright,” Dave agreed. “I hope we can use it. You’ll find out in tomorrow’s paper.”
I couldn’t decide if I should spend a tiny part of my pay on some supper. Fortunately I realized that my tooth hurt so much, chewing food would be absolute torture. I still had a few oranges that had gone soft left to eat in my frigate. I knew it was too late to see a dentist but I would get up at the crack of dawn to go see one.
I was up before dawn. I hadn’t gone to sleep. The pain in my mouth became so fierce I was almost delirious. I didn’t know if it was one tooth or all of them decaying anymore.
I walked all the way over to a finer part of town. My budget didn’t allow for a bus fare. I lurked on the stoop of a dentist’s office until I saw a lady open up the door. I waited a moment and then made like a customer.
“Hello,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage. “I’d like to see the dentist.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked. Sheesh! Accounts, appointments. No, people, I have NOTHING in this world to my name but a toothache.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” I said, still pleasantly.
“Would you like to make one?” she enquired. Yes, you dimwit!
“Please,” I replied. Oh please please please.
“We have an opening a week from today at 3:45,” she said, after consulting a datebook.
I had a moment of stunned silence. I stared at her and softly, in pain, pleaded, “I need an appointment TODAY.” More like yesterday, but I didn’t have the strength to add that.
“I’m sorry,” she oddly giggled. “The dentist is booked up.”
“May I speak to him?” I asked, on the verge of tears.
She wasn’t moved in the least. “I’m sorry, he’s fully booked. Besides, he isn’t in yet.”
I left without a word but I didn’t give up. Excruciating pain drove me to take a more drastic measure. I sat on a bus stop bench and waited for a dentist to appear. It didn’t take long. A meek, balding man showed up in a cab, carrying a bag. If he wasn’t the dentist, I’d have mistaken him for a doctor. I gave him five minutes. I gave myself strength to carry out my plan.
I stormed back into the dentist’s office. The receptionist glanced up and frowned. “Did you want to make an appointment after all?” she asked uneasily.
“The dentist is here,” I growled.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“So yeah, I have an appointment,” I said mysteriously and walked into the dentist’s workspace. He was busy brushing his teeth. He glanced up and looked surprised.
The receptionist came running in behind me. “I told her you couldn’t take her!” she cried. “She just barged in!”
“Helllooo?” a voice called out from the waiting room.
“See?” the receptionist accused. “There’s his first patient!”
“Look, Doctor,” I said as he spat out his toothpaste, “I have a very, very bad toothache. I can’t stand the pain. You have to help me.” I felt faint even as I said that much.
“I’m very busy with patients all day,” Dr. Spalding said.
“I KNOW! I’ve HEARD!” I yelled. “I am going crazy with the pain! Can’t you PLEASE spare five minutes to just pull the fucking tooth out of my mouth!”
“I’m sorry….,” the dentist began.
I grabbed a drill and wielded it. “If I don’t get help in the next minute, I’m going to stab myself right here. I MEAN IT!” And I really did mean it.
“Gina, call…,” the dentist again began.
“Don’t call anyone or I start drilling!” I screamed.
“Hello?” a voice timidly repeated from the waiting room.
“Doctor, listen, all I want is that tooth pulled. I also have 200 dollars you can have. I don’t need anesthesia, I don’t need my teeth cleaned, just get that tooth out of my mouth. I’m dying!” I felt like blacking out already.
The doctor put on a face mask. “Tell Miss Beazley to wait,” he said. “I’ll take care of this lady.”
Grateful, I staggered into the dentist’s chair. I whimpered a bit as he forced my mouth open. “What tooth is bothering you?” he asked. I couldn’t tell but obviously my tongue knew. It darted immediately to the source of my pain. “Oh, my, yes, it is in bad shape,” he said. “Quite the cavity. Now, normally, I could just give you a filling and that would cost you about 100 bucks. But…since you wanted it pulled for 200, here goes…”
With that, he wrenched my tooth free. I didn’t see it coming; my eyes had been clenched shut. And if I thought I had known true pain before, well, this was on a much higher plateau. “YEEEOOOWWW!” I screamed. I rose four feet out of the chair but the dentist restrained me from going through the ceiling. I fell back and started crying.
“That’ll teach you from trying to terrorize people!” my mild-looking dentist yelled, now wielding the drill himself. “And I’ll take that 200 dollars now.”
I fished it out of my pocket and handed it over. Beat by a fellow New Yorker, this one more seasoned. I spit out a load of blood. The receptionist, Gina, walked into the room. “Everything alright?” she asked.
“Hunky dory,” Dr. Spalding replied. “Please make an appointment for this young lady as soon as possible.”
“What?!” I yelled. “Are you nuts? You’re a maniac!”
“You, young lady, have a mouthful of cavities,” he sternly reprimanded me. “I don’t know what you’ve been eating or if you’ve been brushing, but I counted at least nine. I told you my price – 100 bucks a cavity, plus you need your teeth cleaned. That’s another 100. If you can come up with a grand, I’ll clean them and fix any cavity I find.”
My teeth felt loose just from his speech. “I’ll see you a week from today,” I said.
* * *
I went back to the strip joint…I mean, my apartment. My mouth was in agony, I was weak from hunger, but most of all I felt tired. I felt like I had been dragged through the mud. I fell into a deep sleep.
I woke up late in the evening and felt a million times better. My mouth barely ached and I felt refreshed, with a healthy appetite. I opened my tiny fridge and saw an orange and a loaf of week-old bread, bought two days before for only 25 cents. (I had never been so aware of money; I was turning into a miserly penny-pincher, literally.) Suddenly, with delight, I remembered I hadn’t spent my quarter yet for the day! I donned my jacket and went to the convenience store down the street.
Wandering the aisles, my mouth savored at the TV dinners and coils of garlic sausage. Then, looking at the quarter in my hand, I went over to the counterman. “What can I buy for a quarter?” I asked him.
“Aisle two,” he suggested. I turned into aisle two and saw the section for the preschoolers. All sorts of candy. I carefully priced everything and selected two nickel caramels and a ten-cent licorice pipe. For dessert, I selected a five-cent chocolate jawbreaker. Well-balanced meal, I thought. And so what about what candy would do to my teeth. I was getting them fixed next week anyways.
I paid for my meal and then unwrapped one of the caramels. I hadn’t chewed more than five times when a huge chunk lodged into the empty space my tooth had once occupied. My overworked tongue struggled to remove it. As I stood there, I happen to notice today’s newspapers.
Oh yes! The Daily Times! My letter…did it get printed? I didn’t have the funds to buy a newspaper and the library would be long closed by now. I pondered a moment and glanced up when a group of teenagers walked in. The clerk became instantly alert; he hawk-eyedly watched them for possible shoplifting.
And paid no attention whatsoever to me. I opened up the News and immediately went for the ‘Letters to the Editor’ page. OHMYGAWD!! There it was! Lead letter and with a heading to itself even! ‘Reader Believes Society Has Need for Mafia’. They had printed my letter in its entirety. Upon rereading it, I cringed. It was so amateur! A high-school English exercise.
Then I realized I had better read the editor’s view-of
-the-day while I had the chance. It was opposite the Letters to the Editor page. Today he decried fast-food chain outlets. I was just concluding the article when a voice boomed above my head. “You gonna buy that newspaper?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” I said and hurried out. I went straight back to my room. Time’s awastin’, Alice. There’s letters to be written, money to be made, teeth to be fixed. Fast-food outlets. That should be easy enough.
I labored long into the night. At 8 a.m., starved and cranky, I scrawled ‘Carrie D’Away’ to the end of my letter. I wasn’t proud of it. Of course a nice fancy dinner at a cozy restaurant is better than a gobbled meal at Burger Thing. But I had to find an opposing angle and I based my letter on the fact that you didn’t have to tip at fast-food joints.
I hand-delivered it to Dave Galloway. Again, I walked the entire distance. I was bedraggled as I entered his office. “Hi, Dave,” I said.
“Congratulations, Carrie D’Away!” he greeted me. “You’re in print again!”
“I noticed, and here’s my…uh…rebuttal to the Editor’s view from yesterday,” I said, handing over my rejoinder.
“Fabulous,” Dave said, taking it from my hand. “You’re for fast-food outlets then?”
“Sure,” I said, not giving a damn one way or the other.
“Well, if it’s printed, there’ll be a check waiting for you here the next day,” Dave said.
“Uh…couldn’t we make a deal like before?” I asked. “Where you give me the money first?”
“Al…Carrie, we prefer to do it with check,” Dave said sadly. “It’s easier than taking it out of petty cash.”
“Aw, sh…Look, Dave.” I said beseechingly, “I’m really broke. Can’t you just LEND me 20 bucks until I’m printed? I promise to pay you back out of my first paycheck.” I felt terrible asking a next-to-total stranger for money. I never borrowed money in my life. Next thing you know, I’d be panhandling on the street.