THE OVERSEER

Am I my father’s daughter, or not? I vote ‘yes.’ Dad was a dentist, back in the 30's to the 60's–a very respected one. He gently taught me how to brush my teeth, downstrokes for the upper and up strokes for the lowers. Floss, floss, floss, go easy on sweets. What he didn’t know didn’t hurt him but hurt me. Candy and cookies were magnates for me but I was careful not to let him catch me over-doing it. I must have had more cavities than normal but Dad checked my teeth so often, I was never subjected to the long novocain needle or excessive drilling, the whirring sound making my blood run cold.

Growing up teeth were an obsession for me. My girlfriend, Helen, fixed me up with her brother’s friend just for a Saturday movie. First thing I noticed, even before the pimples, were his yellow/green teeth. What a turn off! ‘Helen, how could you do this to me? I doubt Tommy has ever been to a dentist his whole life. I bet his breath smells bad too.’

Mary, fun to be with Mary, has a broken front tooth. It is not a pretty sight on anyone, much less on a pretty face. My father would cap it right away, but then again, Mary’s father is a shoemaker. On the other hand, when my shoes need soles, mother takes them in for repair.

I watch people chew, notice their jaws are out of line, some may have TMJ and not even realize they can be helped. My own teeth are not perfect but they are straight, aligned. Two months of uncomfortably wearing night plates worked. Dad and I were both pleased with my cooperation and the result.

My dental paranoia never really left me but abated when I became the loving wife of a haberdasher. White sox with trousers make me wince. Low sox, the naked leg showing when seated disgusts me. Suspenders, even though we sell them, remind me of hicks, sitting on rotting wooden porches, chomping lazily on scratchy dried hay, ruining the enamel on their teeth.

Where are the wives of men wearing checked shirts above plaid Bermuda shorts? My god! Tasteless creeps. I silently call them, ‘Fools, if you must wear those dumb looking caps with baseball team names, or foul words, put the visor in front and stop worrying about the nape of your neck getting sunburned. You really do look like first class jerks. Wait, I take that back. You don’t look like first class anything.’

For the young and many who think they are but are far from it, pull up your torn, washed out jeans. If you think for a moment the crack in your arse is sexy, think again. Get rid of your flip flops. The sound flips me out as well as your untrimmed toe nails and dirty feet. They look stinky and if I cared to take a whiff, I’m sure I would be right.

Mohawks, baldness, dread locks, scruffy beards, belie what’s inside your head, There must be brains. Look at yourselves, keeping up with other groups, other freaks. Look slowly, carefully. Maybe you’ll understand, but I’m not placing a bet on it.

I’m getting off my soap box now because tonight is a big one, a formal party honoring my parents’ golden anniversary. Handshakes, flowers, liquor, music, gala and then I see my brother, my good-looking, stylish brother and almost die of embarrassment. His gold cuff links are antiques, his bow tie is perfectly centered. He bends to brush off his shoe and I see his white sox! I avoid him the entire evening and pray over and over that nobody else has noticed his gaff.

I try to force myself to believe it, but don’t and he’ll hear about it from me tomorrow and maybe forever.