Circa 2005
They call me “Tooths.” When they do I smirk on one side of my mouth, frown on the other: a sinuous expression that says, yeah, yeah, Tooths. I earned and reinforced the name through a series of unfortunate events and bonehead moves spanning six years, all precipitated by drug and alcohol use, but whatever, I gotta laugh.
If I would have you walk away from this with anything it’s this: never get in a car with a belligerent drunk chick at 7am. You might lose a tooth.
Freshman year in college, I attended my second high school prom as a plutonic guest of my ex-girlfriend’s. Really I should have known. The limo drivers got lost on the way to the after party and stopped at a gas station for directions. It was getting late, so I made a move. I grabbed the mushrooms out of the trunk, threw three bags at my friends in the other limo and said, “Eat these.” We got to the party, and they said, “Nah, man. It’s late. You ate yours?” I had a bad night.
The sun was coming up when I finally worked up the courage to emerge from the woods. I needed a ride to the train station, and there was a belligerent drunk chick going that way. She ran the car off the road into a grove of angry trees. That’s how I lost half of my front left tooth.
Back at college sophomore year, I woke up on a couch, not sure whose, and stumbled over to my frat through the heavy rain. My roommates made their way from the black corners of wherever the night took them. We got to talking about the night, what we could remember. We laughed. We cringed from the pain in our heads. My one roommate with a cell phone got a fortuitous call. Jesus Christ, practice was cancelled! We filled the pitchers and started up again.
By 7pm we were back in our dorm, annihilated, happy as clams, blasting music, crushing bowls. I threw that cell phone at my friend’s nuts. I thought it was hilarious, but I should have known. He retaliated, hit me in the face. I dropped my head, brought a hand to my mouth. My friends looked on, dazed and confused, not sure whether it was ok to laugh. I looked up, held out my hand. Resting in my open palm was my half fake front tooth. I smiled big, and my friends hit the ground laughing. That’s why they call me Tooths.
I dragged myself to the dentist the next morning. The admin recoiled from my breath but told me I could get the work done right away, a bit of luck. The dentist showed up twenty minutes later and said it would be three weeks before I could get the work done. “Super,” I said. “See you then.”
The women in the bars were particularly unresponsive during that period of toothlessness. You see that’s what sucks about half fake front teeth. They need to be replaced every so often.
The fall after graduation, I drove cross-country with the love of my life. Such an exciting time. Everything unknown! The future before us and for us to mold! Our last stop before San Fran was Yellowstone. Man, what a beautiful experience.
“Let’s take a hike, Love,” I say.
“Yes, Love, lets.”
“But just a moment. Let me take a refreshing sip from my water bottle. Let me just pull it open with my-.” MOTHER! I stomped that half fake front tooth into the plains of Yellowstone Park, and there it remains to this day, a fake Chris fossil.
Every new person I met in San Fran looked first at my half front tooth. I went to the dentist the second day. He told me three weeks. I held off on job interviews until after the procedure. My parents were psyched.
Fast forward three years. I broke up with the love of my life. Seemed like the right decision at the time, but I should have known. Being single again was exciting, though. I was back in the game. Ladies of the night, watch out! But wait, I forgot, I have no game. So I have a few drinks to loosen up. Still not a player. I take a shot. Ah, there it is. No wait. Slow your roll, jackass. Hang with the boys. Forget the game. Get trashed. Wake up. Do it again. This time I have the confidence. Well, maybe next time. Well, fine. Shit, Chris. You live with your parents. You’re bombed again and lost and everyone can tell.
One night I stumbled down into my parent’s basement, my bachelor pad. It was pitch black. I dropped something, bent down to pick it up, and smacked my face on the metal arm of my futon. The tooth was loose. Damn you, Tooths! I spent the next day eating and staring at the TV and feeling bad for myself. I didn’t even have the balls to get up and schedule a dentist appointment. It was 6pm, and I’d wasted another day. I was tonguing my half front tooth when I froze. Some subconscious knowledge filled me with dread. Some alarm was going off. What, other than the fact that I had once again achieved Tooths status, was plaguing me?
Fucking shoot me.
It was the other tooth.
It’s been six years. I party less often though just as hard. The love of my life took me back, thank God, and I haven’t had to replace either half tooth. I know they’ll fall out again, probably several times, and that means looking and feeling like a jackass, but whatever, I’m lucky to be alive, so I gotta laugh.