The Exploding Tooth
The highway is dark and twisted, if only because highways must be so in the mountains at night. There are presumably pitfalls on one side of me or the other, however not even my bright headlights can reveal their exact location, depth, or contents. Am I by a lake or a cliff, or a forest? There are no city lights for at least 60 miles, and invisible clouds bar the entry of any starlight or moonlight. I know I am still in Canada, I know I am heading east, but for all I know I have entered a cave and just not noticed. My headlights catch a cluster of trees, snapping me back to attention. I had little time to sleep this morning but I need to keep violently reminding myself that there is even less time to sleep now that I am in motion - unless I want to wake up glued to a bed for the rest of my life.
The bread is not quite stale but it is impossible to chew, like some sort of Gummi bread that they only bake in Canada. It tastes like packing chips but is the only food in the car, if not in the 30 mile radius surrounding it. I haven't had anything to eat since the delicious cinnamon toast of breakfast, at a little place in the mountain town of Lillooet. The restuarant was called Lou's, I remember, and my photo of the sign would make a good desktop image at my similarly-named place of employment. Watch the road. Right. The daylight was spent winding by snowcapped mounts, big flat lakes, rocky cliffs, and a pathetic excuse for a city called Kamloops (Canadians like double oo's, it seems). I spent the drive marvelling at the scenery and letting my mind drift to "Shadow Of The Colossus," and wondering what massive stoney creatures would be shambling through these waters, shuffling through these fields, bounding over these hills, if I only was lucky enough to inhabit that wonderful universe. Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road.
The sound is a sharp crack followed by a pained moan. Both come from my mouth, one from a tooth which has just been split into two by bad bread, the other from my throat. Not again. Not HERE. These are not my original teeth - those were chipped at age twelve when I was hit in the face with a guitar, and worn down over the years of neglect that followed. These are replacement veneers - cosmetically beautiful but not so good for biting. I have cracked them once before, while sleeping, and now wear a mouthguard at nights to protect my toothfulness. I had a dream once that Andrew was cruelly pulling them out. I thought it was just a dream, and never expected them to actually break again. And for them to do so here, half a continent from my home, in a foreign country that I'm not sure even recognizes my dental insurance plan... God. Am I going to have to call this whole thing off and return home to have this tiny white thing I now hold in my hand reattached? I'm not looking forward to spending the rest of this trip as a gap-mouthed drifter...
I hurl that goddamn breadloaf out of my goddamn window and I hear it hit the goddamn street. "Good riddance to bad rubbish" I shout after it - damn thing has brought me nothing but trouble. I hope a raccoon finds it and, unable to recognize it as edible, shits upon it. I stick the tooth shard back into place and dig my mouthguard from my "bathroom supplies" case, placing it over my upper jaw to ensure everything stays in order. Now fully awake and painfully alert, I give up on all caution and floor the gas, praying I hit the border before this frightened rush of adrenaline wears off.
Will I make it to the US before one o'clock? Will I be able to find a cosmetic dentist to save my smile? Will the long, long voyage be forced to an early end? Find out in next week's exciting installment of "The Man Of Suit"!
Bonus photographs:
The bread is not quite stale but it is impossible to chew, like some sort of Gummi bread that they only bake in Canada. It tastes like packing chips but is the only food in the car, if not in the 30 mile radius surrounding it. I haven't had anything to eat since the delicious cinnamon toast of breakfast, at a little place in the mountain town of Lillooet. The restuarant was called Lou's, I remember, and my photo of the sign would make a good desktop image at my similarly-named place of employment. Watch the road. Right. The daylight was spent winding by snowcapped mounts, big flat lakes, rocky cliffs, and a pathetic excuse for a city called Kamloops (Canadians like double oo's, it seems). I spent the drive marvelling at the scenery and letting my mind drift to "Shadow Of The Colossus," and wondering what massive stoney creatures would be shambling through these waters, shuffling through these fields, bounding over these hills, if I only was lucky enough to inhabit that wonderful universe. Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road.
The sound is a sharp crack followed by a pained moan. Both come from my mouth, one from a tooth which has just been split into two by bad bread, the other from my throat. Not again. Not HERE. These are not my original teeth - those were chipped at age twelve when I was hit in the face with a guitar, and worn down over the years of neglect that followed. These are replacement veneers - cosmetically beautiful but not so good for biting. I have cracked them once before, while sleeping, and now wear a mouthguard at nights to protect my toothfulness. I had a dream once that Andrew was cruelly pulling them out. I thought it was just a dream, and never expected them to actually break again. And for them to do so here, half a continent from my home, in a foreign country that I'm not sure even recognizes my dental insurance plan... God. Am I going to have to call this whole thing off and return home to have this tiny white thing I now hold in my hand reattached? I'm not looking forward to spending the rest of this trip as a gap-mouthed drifter...
I hurl that goddamn breadloaf out of my goddamn window and I hear it hit the goddamn street. "Good riddance to bad rubbish" I shout after it - damn thing has brought me nothing but trouble. I hope a raccoon finds it and, unable to recognize it as edible, shits upon it. I stick the tooth shard back into place and dig my mouthguard from my "bathroom supplies" case, placing it over my upper jaw to ensure everything stays in order. Now fully awake and painfully alert, I give up on all caution and floor the gas, praying I hit the border before this frightened rush of adrenaline wears off.
Will I make it to the US before one o'clock? Will I be able to find a cosmetic dentist to save my smile? Will the long, long voyage be forced to an early end? Find out in next week's exciting installment of "The Man Of Suit"!
Bonus photographs:
posted by BG | 1:48 PM
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