Smile, Goddamnit.

     

     Another trip to the Dentist today. Dentist appointments are coming up too often. What the hell?

I broke a tooth eating a salad the other night and have to get it repaired, replaced or removed. Nothing like those options to limit my desire to smile pleasantly at everyone I meet.

     People keep bitching that I don’t smile enough. Screw them. What is that all about? What’s the big deal about smiling? I watch people, a lot, and very few are actually in a constant state of “smile”. When I run into an acquaintance and the first thing he says is “Smile!” it makes me want to throw a punch. It’s like saying, “Wow, you look tired.” Yep, that’ll help to get a friendly conversation started.

I saw a photo of myself taken 13 years ago. Nice big white smile, black hair, tanned and relatively unlined.

     Well, Smilers, things change. The hair is thinning and graying. I still have some, but graying nonetheless. I’ve just returned from three great months in dark, crowded Paris, France, and the tan has faded to a fine urban pallor. I was beginning to blend in. The only tans in Paris are the fake ones that are sprayed or smeared on. The colors range from Cirrhosis Ocher, Tangerine, up to and including Tomato Soup. Match that with eggplant-hued hair dyed in the kitchen sink and you’ve got a really colorful and horrifying vegetable sub-species of misguided insecurity.

     The smile? Hah. I’m on the way to the dentist to discuss that issue. I floss, brush, have regular cleanings but the teeth are no longer white. They look natural, but not the white-white that can only be obtained through prescriptions or expensive treatments. They’re like abs. Hard abs and snow-white teeth are the first steps to a career as a celebrity look-alike, a personal trainer or a German porn star. Why would I spend a lot of dough on whitening a tooth that may not even be present in six months?

     And that’s the issue. I’m missing a couple of teeth in the back so my smile, which I used to use as a manipulative or threatening component of my confused progress through a difficult and sometimes dangerous day, is disappearing, Cheshire-cat-like, one tooth at a time. Today, I’m being fitted for a temporary replacement so that I can chew, which would be a luxury, and also so that I can, perhaps, begin to smile again.

     But I don’t feel like smiling. Not that I can’t or don’t want to. I’m not depressed or angry. I smile when I’m happy. I’m happy sometimes, but mostly I’m striving for neutrality, contentment. Benignity. And the more dentistry I am subject to, the less benign I feel. I have a great dentist, Dr. T, he has a clean office, friendly staff, but hell, it’s not a place to go for good news. Even my primary physician, Dr. L, the guy who will, eventually, give me the bad, bad news, occasionally he says, “You’re looking good. All the numbers are in the healthy range. Keep up the good work.” Wow. What a high. I usually head right for the grocery store and buy a frozen pizza and a gallon of ice cream. That’s one of the reasons I don’t try to achieve acute happiness or expect joy to be a constant. I just can’t manage it very well. Fear of failure has always been a threat, but success has often led to hedonistic behaviors far beyond the norm, way out on the edge of the bell-shaped curve of indolence; events and activities and indulgences that can never be reported to anyone.

     Good news at the Dentist’s? Nope. Never. The most I get is, “That one will probably last another year or so. We can wait.”

     Or, “As I look at these x-rays, I see that you have two options. Pain and discomfort and disfigurement, or extremely expensive treatments that will take all of your disposable income and may or may not be successful. No more trips to Paris, no more computer upgrades, new clothing or movies. Ever. So, what do you want to do?”

     The Dentist Office. Where to go when you really need bad news.

I’m a realist. Hair is a variable; the color will continue to move away from the darker range on the spectrum, into an indeterminate dullness and the texture will become more feathery; some days it looks ok and on others it is thin, wiry, and sparse. My scalp will become available for public viewing. Skin will sag, crease and eventually flake off, exposing bone and organs. I look all right in certain light, but not for long.

     Smile! Show us your teeth! Say Cheese!

     Nope. For now, I’m satisfied with a moderate, tight-lipped grin that doesn’t stray too close to joy. That is where danger lies.

     But there is really nothing like a big, fat, fake, toothy smile when someone I would rather avoid appears.

     “Hey, how the hell are you. Great, really great to see you. Oh, shit, we absolutely have to get together for lunch or coffee but I need to be somewhere right now. Man, I am gonna be late for my dentist appointment. Good to see you. You look tired, though.”

Brian, My Friend.

Brian died this week.

For a while, we were inseparable.

I knew Brian’s family most of my life. He was the youngest of nine children and we served mass as altar boys, went to the same schools; we were from the same neighborhood and were Italian/Irish-American Catholic. I had never actually met Brian personally, though, until we were in our twenties. I’d just graduated college and he was finishing up at Saint Mary’s and we were both employed at Marin General Hospital. He was an Emergency Room technician and I worked in the warehouse and Central Supply department. In my capacity as a clerk in the supply department, I was responsible for forwarding messages to the technicians. Move a patient, deliver surgical supplies, help with an overburdened Emergency Room. Brian was an amazing worker and when he was in the ER he saved lives. He had been trained in the Army and had just completed an undergraduate degree in pre-med and he never hesitated getting into the thick of the trauma. He saved lives. He brought people back from the dead. In an Emergency Room that’s a goddamned good asset. It didn’t matter that he drank a bit, was late for his shift and was sometimes unkempt. When Brian appeared, the nurses and docs and other techs breathed a sigh of relief. They knew that they had a smart, knowledgeable guy with guts and experience working alongside them.

He liked working three shifts in a row in the ER. It was grueling, exhausting, but he was making double- and triple-time-pay and only had to work one twenty-four hour stretch to make enough money for the rest of the week. Medical personnel often burned out with those kinds of hours, but the supervisors knew that Brian thrived on the stress and they were grateful that he had the desire. They gladly paid him premium wages for the extra hours.

I was answering the phone and taking orders in the Central Supply Department in the basement of the hospital when we met. I think it was Christmastime, when hospital employees who had a few minutes downtime went from department to department enjoying Christmas goodies, parties, and sometimes, drinks. I kept a bottle of brandy my desk. I didn’t advertise it; I thought I was being pretty discreet; the bottle was hidden in my lower right hand desk drawer all year, not only for the holidays. I’d just been introduced to Brian; we recognized each other from the neighborhood but it was the first time we’d worked together. He sat down, reached over and picked up my Styrofoam cup of fortified coffee, smelled it, wiggled his eyebrows and held out his own cup. I looked around, cautious, poured a healthy shot for him, and we became friends. When I found out he also enjoyed cocaine, our friendship was cemented.

Brian had a baby face with an ironman’s body and his appearance was deceptive. His eyes were shifty blue marbles under light brown curly hair. He had a loose-lipped smile and a fast, easy manner, but he was tough. He’d played college Rugby, was a balls-out fearless skin diver and river rafter. I once saw him throw himself out of a raft that was charging over class four rapids on the American River above Sacramento. He swam across the river, splashed the people in another raft, stole a couple of beers and swam back. The rest of us were just trying to stay onboard and not drown or die or be crushed and sucked under by the fast moving water, and he was bouncing around like a drunken otter.

He could punch, too. One of the two best short right hands I’ve ever seen.

We were in Matteucci’s bar. I was drinking and talking with the bartender and he was playing darts with some loudmouths he’d just met. There was noise at the dartboard. One of the loudmouths was accusing Brian of cheating.

And he was right; Brian cheated. He knew how to cheat at cards, dice, and darts. He even cheated at trivial pursuit.

In the Bad Eighties we’d get high on blow and booze and play Trivial Pursuit for hours. It was my turn to ask a question; I held the card and read, “What actress waited for the postman to ring?” or something equally dopey and stupid. Brian and I watched a lot of movies and had pretty good memories, but, trashed on coke and brandy, we often found that the word was on the tip of our tongue, we knew the movie, the record, the book, but couldn’t get the answer.

Brian said, “I have to piss.”

He went into the small bathroom across the hall and I heard him pee and flush. He came out and said, “Lana Turner, The Postman Always Rings Twice.” I gave him the point and when it was my turn to go to the restroom I saw that he had the 1500 page copy of Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide propped on the back of the toilet. He’d pissed with one hand and looked up the title of the movie with the other. I wondered how many times he’d done that. I knew we were pretty evenly matched, but he always found an edge.

The noise at the dartboard escalated and I turned around. Everyone in the joint was watching. Brian, animated and chatty, was showing how his darts had actually landed over the line and how he had won the game. I know that he had moved them, quickly, deftly, when he rushed to the dartboard to count up his points. He blocked his opponent’s view with his broad back and held the darts in one hand and gestured with the other, distracting the players with his chatter, the same way that he’d done when he cheated at dice or cards. This time he’d been caught.

One of the loudmouths approached. He was about Brian’s size and he was yammering about cheating; he wouldn’t let up. They’d been playing for money and he wasn’t letting Brian get away with it. He stood close to Brian, chest to chest, and I knew that he was getting ready to swing but a half second before he did I saw Brian’s fist shoot up in a short, jabbing arch, clip the dude, hard, on the tip of his chin. The guy went down, dropped, and, with the momentum of the punch, rolled up against the jukebox and stayed there, dangerously still, like a log.

We were regulars at the bar, but they threw us out that night. They said we were “troublemakers”. The bartender made us stay away for two days and then we went back.

We would hit two or three bars in a night, sometimes just drinking and talking, but other times, tough times, we were there to buy dope. There were several days a year, Christmas, Easter, whatever, when it was hard to score. Then we’d just drift through the bars until we found someone who wanted to sell us some. It always worked out.

Worked out. Maybe not. There are hundreds of stories about Brian and me, but in 1994, at the end of an almost thirty-year run, after some bad times and big trouble, I quit drinking and using drugs. I stayed out of the many bars we frequented and Brian and I stopped seeing each other as much. A little while later Brian got married. He asked me to be best man at his wedding and I agreed. During the ceremony, I scanned the guests and realized that I was Brian’s best man because most of his other friends were becoming uncomfortable around him. His drinking and drug use was a problem. He was losing respect, was sometimes foolish and embarrassing, and was always trying to get something for free. The marriage failed disastrously.

I moved to New Mexico and Brian called a few times but his voice was mumbling and unintelligible. About six or seven years ago he stopped calling and I heard that he was drinking more, hanging out with aging dope dealers, scrounging for freebies.

And then, Monday, a mutual friend emailed me his obituary. He died in the tattered little house that he’d bought when he had a bit of money. The roof leaked and was draped in a thick blue plastic tarp and there was an old station wagon in the carport with four flat tires.

Brian was the funniest, fastest, smartest and strongest and he died. It's really only an assumption on my part that he died as a result of too many years of drinking and drug use. I quit; he didn’t. 

I’m lucky. God damn. I wish he had been lucky, too.

Hungover at 30,000 Feet

Five years ago, leaving Oakland for Albuquerque on Southwest Airlines, I decided that I was going to win the seating lottery and get the exact best seat. I had carryon luggage, was familiar with the aircraft and airport, and had obtained my “A” boarding pass. It was before they numbered each pass and if you had an “A” you could stand in line when you arrived and get to your seat first. I was first. I was at the Oakland Airport three hours before my flight. Checked in easily and was the first in line. Yessir, Number One, my choice of the very best shitty seat on the plane. Heading up the “A” line, I sat on the dirty carpet and read my book for two and a half hours until we started boarding. I bounced up, looked behind me at the second place people, sneered and entered the Jetway. The seats are three across and I sat in the second row, right side, aisle. No uncomfortable bulkhead, I could recline my seat and once we landed, I’d snatch my bag and be out the door in seconds. Hah.

The plane filled up and a nice quiet guy sat at the window. The seat between us remained empty. We smiled, knowingly. Soon everyone was seated and I was not only perfectly positioned, I was buffered by the only vacant seat on the plane. The crew was whispering to each other, pointing in my direction and pretty soon they stepped aside and a sweating 400-pound man entered the plane. He was wearing lots of jewelry and I could smell his cologne. When they led him to the empty seat next to me, I blanched. I stood up, docilely,  and he slid into the middle seat, overflowing, and asked for a seat-belt extension. No shit. After several minutes he was settled, rolls of fat overlapping the armrest and falling into my lap. His loud breathing was labored and wet. Take-off was difficult with the extra weight and as soon as we were airborne the fat guy reached into a plastic bag and took out a Gatorade bottle filled with cheap wine and sipped it for first hour of our two-hour flight. The rest of the time he spent sleepily pressing up against me as I leaned into the aisle.

I’ve given up trying to outwit the Airlines.

Every time I enter an airport, anywhere, I am positive that there will be screw ups, anything from a short delay, nasty counter personnel, security issues, to spending three nights on a filthy floor due to weather conditions or, possibly worst case, a two minute drop from 30,000 feet into the ocean and death. I’m not afraid of flying, though, I’m afraid of not flying. Long delays, canceled flights. It never helps to complain or worry. That only draws attention from unhappy, underpaid, unrested and unlaid airport employees. With all the trouble the airline industry is having, along with the fear, crappy food, bad seating, expense and unusual odors, there is nothing I can do other than stay home, but I enjoy traveling too much. Before we departed Paris I had a talk with a friend who was leaving for the states for the holidays and he said he was terrified of flying. He had a therapist, mantras, tapes, pamphlets and anti-anxiety meds, but was still terribly frightened; I could see it in his eyes. Fiery death, terrorism, turbulence. I tried to be of assistance. I told him that turbulence was just like a car riding on a rutted frontage road for a few miles, terrorists were looking for other ways to kill him, and if the plane went down, he had to die sometime, didn’t he? Might as well suck it up and be grateful he didn’t have cancer. He might not die, either. Had he ever watched “Lost”? I could tell I wasn’t helping.

I once flew from Las Vegas to Denver in storm and there was a lot of violent motion in the cabin as the weather manhandled us; the plane bounced and rocked and plastic cups flew around the cabin. Worse, though was my seatmate, who had Tourettes Syndrome. Much worse. The dude just clicked his teeth and muttered and smacked his lips and snapped his tongue. It was like riding through the desert on the back of a flatbed truck with a Mariachi band.

Our return travel day started December 31, 2012 at 8:00 a.m., the perfect New Year’s Eve, and got us to Albuquerque 24 hours later. It was a crowded flight, as they all are, but the screaming kid was in the front of the plane (sorry business and first class), the fat guy was on the other side of the aisle, back about ten rows. The two twenty-ish young women behind us were curled up in their jammies, sleeping, or pretending to. From time to time the one behind me would get restless and kick the seat for few minutes before drifting off. Probably wanted me to read her a story. A stout woman directly across the aisle had an iPod, an iPad, a smart phone and a laptop and was busier than hell for the whole trip switching from one personal entertainment device to the next. Her tote bag, gigantic and polished, buckled, zippered and snapped, looked like real alligator and contained all of her crap. She, of course, got a special meal, which I’m sure was yummy, and she was the first person on her feet the minute the plane touched down. She had to be reminded to stay seated, seat belt fastened, until the plane came to a complete stop and the captain turned off the seat belt sign. This is another thing that probably shouldn’t have to be repeated, again and again, on every goddamned flight, every day, everywhere in the world, but it has become part of the soundscape of travel. A message for the confused, unconscious and stupid.

Aside from being an hour late for takeoff, it was a seamless flight. Calm, steady and relatively quiet and aroma-free for a small tube containing 250 people. Food was served at precisely the time I was ready to eat pages from my notebook, so I enjoyed opening the little plastic bags of strange, organic substances and chewing on them. The reason we were an hour late was because, according to Captain Higgs, a friendly straight shooter, we were waiting for a passenger who had a “Ticketing Problem”. I love that. There’s always a euphemism for the reasons  the customers are being insulted. What the hell is a Ticketing Problem? I had mine in hand plus boarding pass and passport; I went through security with only a few minor slipups. It looked like everyone else had, too. So what was the truth? Why do they think for a second that I’ll believe, in this world of paranoia, overamped security personnel, long lines, recorded warnings, myriad signs, checks, double checks, groping and questioning looks anyone could have a fucking Ticketing Problem?

“We’ll be opening the door and reconnecting the Jetway,” said Captain Higgs. Pardon? Did that mean that we were all ready to leave, had disconnected from the umbilical of the airport gate, had shut and sealed the door, strapped in, revved up and now we had to reverse the departure process because some dimbulb had a Ticketing Problem?

After nearly an hour of watching Alligator Bag Lady switch from iPad to laptop and back again, I noticed the flight attendant quietly, with her eyes averted, lead a man to his seat in the back of the plane. Not a first class passenger who had paid through the nose for a warm towel, but some schlub, like me, like the rest of us in coach. He looked pissed off but resigned. Then I got it. It was the Air Marshal. Another relatively new addition to the confusing world of travel.

I play games at the airport. I watch people and wonder how they can live. What sustains them, keeps them alive, who dresses them and why are they still married to that guy. It’s fun and keeps me occupied. I have a paperback novel, a comic book and an iPod in my carryon, but I get bored and uncomfortable unless I’m monitoring and criticizing others. One of my games is “Spot the Cop”.

There may be an air marshal on every flight, or only on five percent of them. The government keeps that information confidential so that, I guess, we can never be sure. Helpful. I figure there’s an air marshal on every flight I’m on and I try to guess who it is. It’s pretty easy. A slim man or woman in good physical condition, conservatively dressed and well groomed. They don’t stand out, and they are unusually comfortable in the crappy onboard environment. They have the same look in their eyes as the flight crew, a look that says, “I hate my job but I have to keep coming back in order to pay my mortgage, my alimony, my health insurance and these needy, ugly, badly behaved people are cattle and why should I care if they don’t like the food or are uncomfortable and afraid of flying? Frigging airline is about a week from bankruptcy, again, anyway. Hope something kicks off today. I need the bonus.”

The air cops are the only passengers carrying nothing but a small bag, no bigger than a wallet. Gun?

Mr. Ticketing Problem was not young, though. He was near retirement, burned out, in his mid-fifties, and rumpled. His graying hair stuck up on top of his head and he was wearing faded Levis, a sport shirt and a quilted down vest; an odd ensemble for a flight from Paris. I watched as he plopped in his seat in the back row. Hungover. Badly hungover. So the story was that the captain thought an air marshal was onboard, but when the crew did their head count they noticed an empty seat, discovered that the air cop was not present, called into the terminal for a replacement and got the old guy who had crashed in the break room after a rough night on the town. I’m generally wrong about this stuff, but it keeps me busy during the inevitable delays. I also play Spot the Hooker, Spot the Entitled Prick, Spot the Person Going Home for a Loved One’s Funeral.

I settled down, relieved that I had figured out the truth. It was simply a late arriving, exhausted, hung over, highly pissed off and heavily armed government worker.

I felt good when I identified the marshal, I even said, aloud, “A-ha!” Which drew some nervous looks from those around me. They were worried that they were sitting near the guy with Tourettes Syndrome.