Charlie the Hygienist

My gaze wanders. It floats like helium to the top of the room. The slowly spinning ceiling fan. . . was that deliberate? Was the speed of its rotation planned just like the light jazz pouring in through the speakers? Maybe not, but if it was moving any faster it wouldn't have been right. It would break the hypnotism. The white florescent lights. Clean and white. Florescent and white. Clean and bright. The overhead lamp by contrast is yellow and harsh; it blinds slightly, diverting my gaze. The window is all blue skies. I was hoping for tree tops - there are other windows here with green leafy tree tops. Relaxed, I close my eyes for a minute and listen to the sound of metal scrapping bone.

Charlie the Hygienist is like a walking ad for good dental hygiene. His smile is as white as his freshly bleached scrubs. He probably spends his down time flossing and polishing and whitening just for fun. He makes just the right amount of small talk and says comforting things like "Your not bleeding as much as usual" and "OK you can spit now." Because of this we have recommended him to many of our friends. He is just as deliberate as the spell binding ceiling fan, the flowing jazz music and the framed blue skies.

I have slipped into a sort of dental coma. Charlie is raising the chair and my head is swimming in a fog as it returns to its full upright position. Man was not meant to be suspended at such angles for extended periods of time. I feel like I have just been raised from the dead. I know where I am but it take a minute. I'm swishing mouth wash and rinsing before I feel fully free from the spell that has been cast upon me. The Hygienist's hypnotism is over. Couldn't they have kept me under until after I paid the bill?

Two stories that just so happened to take place inside of my mouth

I burned my mouth on frozen pizza - although it wasn't frozen at the time.

Fresh out of the oven and I was too impatient. Which meant that I continued to eat even though I could feel it was burning the inside of my mouth. I wasn't aware of the damage until I finished chewing and felt the roof of my mouth with my tongue. The texture had changed. The layer of skin had peeled back in a few places. I could taste the roof of my mouth. Was that blood? And why do they call it the "roof" of the mouth anyway - wouldn't "ceiling" be more accurate?

Over the days that follow I can feel that it is slowly healing. Magically repairing itself. The "ceiling" continues to be particularly tender though and I'm reminded of this every time I eat. Granola is cruel. Toasted bagels, rough. Croutons are particularly thoughtless and hurtful. On the other hand, my damaged mouth seems to favor chocolate-covered almonds (but then again who doesn't?)

..............................................

I chipped a tooth on Cream of Wheat cereal. Well, actually it wasn't really a tooth. And it wasn't really on the Cream of Wheat cereal. But it felt that way.

I had just sat down with a warm bowl of Cream of Wheat - steam lightly dancing above the bowl. The texture was prefect and smooth. I spooned it into my mouth and it felt like it was melting in mouth - my jaw was moving, my teeth were chewing, but more out of eating instinct than by necessity. And that is when I felt it. Starkly contrasting the soft smooth texture was something hard and foreign. I had bit down on it and a shock of surprise surged through my teeth. What was this? a pebble? I clamped down on it with my teeth so as not to swallow it along with the rest of the cream of wheat. I then retrieved it with my fingers, and held it up in the light to make sense of it. Smoothly domed on one side, flat on the other, white and hard. It was pretty small - felt much larger inside my mouth. I couldn't figure out what it was or how it had ended up in my cereal. So I flippantly discarded it and continued eating. A spoonful or two later my tongue discovered a sharp gap between my last two molars, upper left side. Then the flood of understanding.

The little pebble was actually a small sliver of my molar. What had happened? I felt like a great random injustice had occurred. If I had been chomping on something hard then I could understand, but the cream of wheat was too innocently soft to do this. Perhaps it was just in the wrong mouth at the wrong time. . . And as it turns out it wasn't really a chip of tooth that I had so flippantly discarded moments earlier. It was a chip of porcelain. A chip off a crown that had been installed a few years back. I wondered if crowns were covered under any kind of extended warranty. . . well it turns out they aren't - at least not at my dentist's office.

Holes in time

The valet enters the black BMW, shuts the door and turns the key. The engine fires up, the orange lights on the dashboard greet him, and the stereo turns on. He picks up where I have left off.

Led Zeppelin, Kashmir.

There is no lead in. No crescendo. It begins right in the middle of a prolonged emotional Robert Plant wail. Epic and grand but only lasting a minute before he shifts into park and abruptly turns the key shutting off the car. The music ends.

This scenario is played out over and over again throughout the day. Brief drives in a myriad of cars. Snippets of rock, and rap, and R&B, and NPR, and Sports, and inane morning shows, and occasionally a little classical or jazz. All jumbled together one after another. The valet collects them all, like the keys in his cabinet dangling on hooks in orderly rows and columns.

Tomorrow morning I will get in the car and I will pick up where the valet has left off - but it will never be where I have left off. Entire minutes of the music go missing. And it feels like little gaps in my life. Holes in time.

Like a record.

Skipping.

The Selfish Sunrise

I emerged from the pink ocean dripping as I stepped onto the damp sand. The sun was still swimming beyond the horizon but was actively coloring both sky and sea. I had been immersed in that salty sunrise. The air temperature and water temperature had meet an equilibrium where there was little difference between wet and dry. It was all the same feeling. All the same color. The humid air. The still surf. All the same. Sand caked onto my feet as moved away from the sunrise, away from the sea-swell. I sat on the blue and white striped mat - my sandy feet hanging over the edge.

There I was, staring at this incredibly colorful and dramatic display and the first thought that came to my mind was "I should take a picture of this". Then a second and more powerful thought came to my mind: "No."

It felt like doing so would steal the sunrise's soul - capturing only a fraction of a second of something that existed in a constant state of fluidity and nuanced shifting light - preserving indefinitely what is meant to be only temporary. Part of its beauty was the window of time in which it was framed. And that window was only a quarter of an hour in length and breadth and depth. It was not meant to live beyond that.

The decision was also a selfish one. I was already forced to share this with the guy fishing up the beach to the north and the couple to the distant south. Wasn't that enough? They easily faded though into periphery when I focused on the infinite horizon. . . or closed my eyes in meditation. The rhythmic sound of my breathing, The rhythmic sound of the surf. Breath and water, air and sea, one. This was just for me. This was my sunrise.

The Curse of the Grouper

It was a quick exchange of "Hello" "Good-bye" "Have a nice night" "Dinner is ready". She was out the door as I walked in. I closed the door behind her and paused for a second. Something wasn't right. Something in the air. But I paid it no attention and moved on with my evening. I gathered the kids and dished up the meal that Sharon had prepared but never got the chance to eat. On the stove top: green spinach linguine slippery with EVOO (that is what Rachael Ray calls extra virgin olive oil - because simply saying "Olive Oil" is too much of a mouthful). In the oven: breaded baked grouper.

We sat down at the table. Samuel's turn to say the blessing on the food. He remembered how to start the prayer and how to end it, but left out everything in between. After the "Amen" Kiara snickered and told Samuel, "You forgot to bless the food." . . . I shrugged it off, "That's alright," I said. And that may have been the biggest mistake of the night.

Indigo was quick to announce "I don't like it." She was referring to the fish which she nudged to the far side of her plate. The other kids didn't say anything but when I looked at their plates after a few minutes I saw that they too had only taken one bite of the fish before turning their sole focus onto the noodles. I ate the fish. It's not like it tasted bad. . . it just really didn't taste good. The best part of the fish was the bread crumbs that covered it. I began to wonder what mercury tasted like.

I didn't notice the smell at any point that evening - but I did consider the potential. So immediately after dinner the leftover grouper was sealed in tupperware and entombed in the fridge. The shunned pieces on our plates were thrown away and the garbage taken out. The dishes were all washed. But by this point it was too late. . . the damage had already been done. The curse of the grouper had been unleashed.

The smell was most potent when you were outside of the apartment for a time among the fresh air and then walked in through the doors. It was like a tangible palpable wall. Once you were in it for a while you grew accustomed to it . . . somewhat. But it was always there - in every room of the house. At random points it would gather in strength. There was no source of it. Once we had identified the problem we went to the fridge and threw out the entire fish filled tupperware coffin - taking no chances of unsealing it and compounding the problem. The smell was omnipresent.

Three days after the Grouper event the smell still lingered. We had Frebreezed. We had cleaned. We had opened all the windows. We had had enough. In desperation we consulted Google. What would Google do? (WWGD?) Well Google would use vinegar to neutralize the smell. Brilliant! The answer to all of our problems! What in the world did people do before Google? I guess they just lived with foul odors in their homes indefinitely. . . So the following morning I mopped the floor with water and a healthy dose of EVWV (Extra Virgin White Vinegar). When I had finished we both breathed in heavily. The fish smell was gone - now our place smelled like. . . vinegar. Which in and of itself isn't the nicest smell but it was a nice change from the grouper.

A few hours later though the fish smell was back. By this point Sharon had vowed never to eat fish again (the overfished populations of the sea rejoicing at her announcement). She had spent the better part of the week with a stomach ache that cannot be fully explained by the smell of the fish alone, but the smell certainly wasn't helping.

On G-Day + 7 (one full week after the curse began) I was at work - far out of nose-shot from our home - when I smelled the fish again. What was going on here! I smelled my hands - the grouper smell must be in my clothes, my hair, my skin! But then something very interesting took place. It was getting close to lunch time. I was getting hungry. I brought a little left over chicken to eat that day but when a co-worker passed by and said "I'm going to Subway - you want something?" I nearly jumped at the opportunity. And my answer surprised me. "I'll have a footlong Tuna on white with American cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and green peppers." I was giving into the smell of the fish, embracing it, hungering for it, and in a way kneeling down before it and proclaiming "I'm not going to fight it anymore - YOU WIN!" The sandwich was delicious.

That same day the smell was lifted in our home. The curse was over.

Off to School

I pull on the cord that swivels the blinds that reveals the sunrise. The ocean is a turbulent mirror reflecting the red sun. I breathe in. Enjoy the moment. Then get to work.

The first task is to wake the girls. I turn on the light. Nothing. "Good morning," I say this gently at first, sing-songy. Nothing. "Time to wake up." Nothing. I peer into the top bunk. "Good morning Kiara." Something. "Good morning daddy," she struggles. One down - on to the next one. I sit on Indigo's bed and place my hand on her back. "Good morning Indigo." Nothing. "Indigo, time to get up." I shake gently. Nothing. I then put my face very close to hers, "Indigo guess what today is?" I exclaim with an undue amount of excitement in my voice. This stirs her. She lifts her head from the pillow. "What?" she wonders. I pause for effect. "It's Tuesday," I report. Her head hits the pillow again. I can tell she is disappointed that she fell for my trick.

Next is clothes. School uniforms have been kept in my closet ever since mid year when we discovered it greatly reduced my morning stress to know exactly where all their uniforms were. Before that I was sifting through their entire wardrobe only to find a green shirt with a ketchup stain on it and no more time to spare. Kiara has grown out of most of the pants and shorts that we started the school year with so there are just a few options. Indigo is rather particular with her wardrobe so I have learned which combinations just don't work out for her. I select two hunter green shirts, a pair of khaki shorts for Indigo, and a pair of gray shorts that I'm crossing my fingers will still fit Kiara. Both of them are still laying in their beds. I toss the clothes on top of them. "Come on, get dressed," I encourage.

Cereal time. I grab four bowls and place them on the counter. "What kind of cereal do you want?" I holler to the kids, "Raisin Bran, or Special K?" Our options are limited this morning. Samuel wanders in and tells me his choice, "Life." I respond with, "We don't have any Life Samuel, just Raisin Bran or Special K." He ponders that for a second and asks, "Kashi?". . . I grab the two options to show him. "No, we don't have any Kashi. Do you want this one?" I hold up the Raisin Bran. "Or do you want this one?" I hold up the Special K. He looks at me with full sincerity in his big brown eyes and responds, "This one." He doesn't point or indicate in any way which one. I realize he is just repeating me so I decide for him. Kiara and Indigo call in their orders and I pour the cereal. Samuel has already opened the fridge and is struggling to bring me the gallon of milk.

"When you are done with your cereal get your shoes on." Every morning it is exactly the same but if I don't tell them precisely what to do then inevitably Kiara will wander to the computer to play Club Penguin or Indigo will start drawing and wait for further instructions. "Get your backpacks ready," is the next command. Then we search the entire house for a brush so I can brush their hair. Again every morning it is exactly the same. We can never find the brush. Eventually we do but I always have to factor at least 5 minutes in to our morning schedule for finding the brush. For a few weeks we were using Indigo's American Girl doll brush (besides being overly small it actually worked pretty well).

Five minutes to 8:00 and we are out the door. The girls got a snack in their bags so Samuel has to have one to. He holds onto the ziploc of crackers as he waddles down the hall to the elevator. Kiara pushes the down button. Once inside Indigo pushes the "L" button. This is their system and it works pretty well - except for when Samuel is thrown into the mix. So Samuel wants a turn and when the doors are nearly closed Samuel pushes "2" - which is where we are - so the doors open again - and all three of us (Indigo, Kiara and I) simultaneously blurt out "Samuel NO!" But he is satisfied having pushed his button.

There are 5 minutes that are also factored into the schedule for the Lobby. Before he even turns the corner out of the elevator Samuel calls out "Hi Marta!" Marta works the Front Desk of our building. "Hi my love!" She says in her thick Brazilian accent, her gruff countenance softening instantly at the appearance of Samuel. "You off to School?" She asks. Samuel helps himself around the counter and begins pointing to each video camera monitor on the desk. "Pool?" he asks as he points to the black and white image on the screen. "Yes that's the pool," Marta confirms. The same thing ensues for each of the monitors - the gym, the gate, the garage . . . "Hey Sammy!" Robert the maintenance worker is now there at the front desk. "Hi Robert," Samuel says. Samuel gets out from behind the desk to come talk with Robert. "What's that? he points to Roberts Doo-Rag. Robert squats down so that Samuel can get a better look "That's to cover my head, see?" "Hair?" Samuel asks. "Yeah, that covers my hair". This could inevitably go on forever but our five minutes are almost up and we still have to get past David the Valet. "Alright Samuel time to go." And we are out the door - Kiara and Indigo are already waiting patiently in the Odyssey. "Where'd David go?" Samuel asks. David is not at the valet booth. "He must be getting someone's car," I answer.

Drive time. I am not only chauffeur but radio DJ and I am taking requests. Samuel requests "Hey Oh" by the Chili Peppers. I turn it up as we squeak out on to Collins. Indigo surprisingly knows all the words. Even I don't know all the words. Through the singing I am quizzing Kiara on her spelling words and she keeps sticking a random "H" into certain words and mixing up her vowels on others. By the end of the drive we have listened to "Hey Oh" twice and Kiara now has all of her spelling words right. We pull up to the drop off lane and I let them out. "Have a good day at school, love you," I call out to them as they scamper away. Kiara is already out of earshot, Indigo turns and offers me a wave and a smile.

Life and Fiction

Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife — chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here." I'm cleaning the windows with water and vinegar. Rhythmic straining motions. Trying to keep the names and characters and vocabulary straight.
. . .

"You will not buy us off with water," Jamis growled. I'm walking along the beach path - looking out at the boundless ocean contemplating the value of water. Water as currency. Water as jewelry. "Later," Chani said "I will show you how to tie them in a kerchief so they don't rattle and give you away when you need silence."
. . .

And that day dawned when Arrakis lay at the hub of the universe with the wheel poised to spin. I'm driving through a downpour - windshield wipers on high speed. The cars around me are spraying tall fins of water from where their tires meet the flooded roads and Paul is in hand to hand combat with Feyd-Rautha.
. . .

Over 20 hours have passed while walking, while driving, while cleaning. Now there is just 6 minutes left. I'm running into Publix to pick up a few things. Do you know so little of my son? A loaf of bread. See that princess standing there, so haughty and confident. I'm in the frozen food section deciding on garlic rolls. They say she has pretensions of a literary nature, let us hope she finds solice in such things, she'll have little else. I pass the spice aisle. Grab rootbeer, and some Sunchips. Think on it Chani, that princess will have the name yet she'll live as less than a concubine never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she is bound. I'm at the check out counter now. While we Chani, we who carry the name of concubine, history will call us wives. And then the audiobook ends. Just like that. Now I'm fully surrounded by reality - the fiction gone. And I pay for the groceries.

Flamingo Park

The sun is pouring in through the thick leaf-filled boughs of the great trees above. Even in the shade it is getting hot. Beads of sweat are forming on the brows of the children.

Trista rides a dolphin. The dolphin rides a big yellow spring.

The children are color coded to help the parents identify them in the melee. Mine are Red, Pink and Pink. All accounted for. None have slipped past the perimeter.

Bryant is . . . wait where is Bryant?

Park dads follow a few feet behind their wandering toddlers. Park moms gather under the great tree where the strollers have parked in a haphazard semi circle. The strollers spill with kid clutter.

Kate is sitting in her stroller devouring a cupcake - green frosting smeared across her face.

Food has been pilled onto the small table under the great tree. A random collection. Fried Chicken next to Apples next to Cookies next to Watermelon next to Cupcakes. We all take turns collapsing into the center to grab and then retreating to eat. Like the rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of a living organism.

Samuel wanders like a pinball from one end of the playground to the other - juice box in hand (his third in less than ten minutes).

The playground is well equipped. Bars and Slides and Swings and Steps and Platforms and Trees and Sand and Sticks and Leafs. No kid has yet to find an end to the possibilities.

Kiara, Kade & Taylor have control of the train.

I wonder if you could stick a genius mathematician on that blue park bench with a pad of paper in hand and let him devise the complex equation that explains the movements of the forty children.

Pheonix zig-zags (or is it Ashton?). Grant does a loop. Will runs straight through.

Personalities surface on the playground. Social and Physical and Mental skills are developed. Friends are made.

Indigo is on the monkey bars forming blisters.

Now exhausted. . . the parents take their reluctant kids home.

Drowsy appendages

Occasionally I will awake in the morning. . . but my arm or hand will remain asleep - having been kinked or gently crushed in the night. Usually this is when I have been pulled a little too abruptly through that tunnel connecting sleep with awake and it feels like my arm or hand was left behind. The upward journey out of the depths of sleep taking just an instant. Dreams too suddenly crash into reality and it hurts just a little. The suddenly aware mind does a quick inventory and assessment of the situation. Where am I? What time is it? What day is it? Am I late for anything? Did I really just dream I was selected to replace Howie Mandel as the new host of Deal or No Deal? Wait, was it just a dream? Why is my arm tingling and sluggish? How come I can't feel my hand? I'll flex my fingers and move my arm into a position more conducive to proper blood flow. . . then wait.

I'm thinking of this because I took that abrupt journey this morning at 6:47am. And left behind was not a hand or an arm - not even a leg or a foot. This morning I woke up and the first thing that I became aware during that instantaneous mental evaluation were the pins and needles near the foot of my bed - my big toe had been left behind. How odd.

May 10th 8:45 am

She lays there encased in the flowing black & white, floral-print cocoon. Her breathing rhythmic. Hair covers her face - one leg is bent at the knee, the other fully extended - one arm is lost under the pillow, the other reaches for something unknown. Airy sunshine spills through the blinds covering her in soft light. Without even having to think - as if by blind instinct alone - she has sensed my absence and in a just a few slight unnoticed movements has sprawled onto my side of the bed. I ponder this instinct knowing that I do the same when the roles are reversed. The grass is always greener. . .

I enter with a plate: two eggs golden centers. . . then white. . . then light brown. The nooks and crannies of the English muffin filled with yellow butter and red bubbly jam. The smell of bacon is somehow even better than the taste (which alone is always something to write home about). And Freshly-poured orange juice.

"Good Morning," I understate.