Fiction: Teeth

My dad was a dentist and threatened to pull my teeth out when I wouldn’t sit still for dinner. This thought rarely left my mind and I directed it at people who got in my way while completing daily mundanities: the supermarket clerk, the mom that cut me off in traffic because she was late for a parent-teacher conference, the neighbor that refused to pick their dog’s shit off my lawn, and most often, myself. 

On the day this story begins, I directed the thought at the man who sat across from me. He wore a pressed light blue shirt and folded one leg over the other. Only the two of us sat in the sterile holding room for the cattle that were to be intellectually milked. We both gunned for the same job; an entry-level position in a mid-sized advertising agency’s strategy department. The only caveat to the job was a college degree, which the man across from me clearly held. My best assumption was he attended some school in the Midwest with history and would get the position because he deserved it. 

I dropped out of college after my dad died, but not because I was emotionally distraught or anything like that. When he died, I gained a compass allowing for personal direction. So I dropped out the same day I got a tattoo. 

A degree is needed for most professions I find interesting, except rodeo clown but I could never do that because my back already has corrective metal from a boating accident that took place in the second grade. To circumvent my lack of formal education I bought a degree online on one of those websites you need a special browser to access. This website, which also sold kidneys and weaponry, awarded me a degree from the Ivy League school that rejected me my senior year of high school. A much more impressive mark than the state school I didn’t finish.

My entire resume relied on lies, or rather, half truths. It was true I worked at one of the big four tech companies– as a maintenance man, not an assistant social media strategist. My familiarity with Adobe’s platforms did not extend to an expert level, however, I could Photoshop a lewd tactile into the mouth of a smiling friend. But the hiring manager wouldn’t know any of that because they’re a trusting breed who cares only if you’re attractive or funny. 

A timid voice came over a speaker and said, “Mr. Franklin, they’ll see you now.” The man I wished to see with only gums and tongue in his mouth stood up. I said “Good luck,” as he opened the door, to which he replied, “Thanks.” He didn’t hear me mutter the word jackass after the door shut. 

I waited for about twenty minutes before Mr. Franklin came back with an ambiguous smile on his face. I wanted to ask him how it went but the gesture felt invasive and rude so I said nothing. He raised his eyebrows at me and continued out of the holding room. “Mr. Jones,” the timid voice spoke again, “they’ll see you now.” 

On the other side of the door was a long hallway with many rooms. Nobody said which one the interview would be in so I panicked and started a brisk pace and checked every room for life through the window in the door. I must’ve looked like a fool because the interview room was the first door on the left when you entered the hallway from the holding room. The interviewer came out and collected me with a face that said he didn’t believe I got into an Ivy if I couldn’t even get into an interview room. 

The interviewer had a face of melted butter and spittle sprayed when he spoke. His tie hung loosely around his neck to make room for his jowls. His occupation did not seem to inspire him. His notebook had stick figures scribbled inside instead of notes from the conversations with potential hires. Most of the questions were generic and rehearsed; the answer wouldn’t matter.

“So, Mr. Jones, what interests you about this job?” he asked with a twang of apprehension leading me to believe his company is not one any person would enjoy working for. “Well, Mr., I’m sorry, I never got your name.” 

“It’s not important.” For a second I thought he said this because the company erased his identity the moment he clocked in. I then realized he didn’t want things to be personal. “Well, sir, I’ve always liked advertising.” 

“You like being tricked into a sheep?” His tone was flat as if what he asked me were as normal and trivial as “how was your day?” His professional experience exposed how the cogs in the machine truly worked; it’s easy it is to trick the feeble American mind with a good slogan. 

“Quite the opposite, sir. I like the idea of manipulating people’s thoughts for personal benefit.” The best way to match a person posing absurd questions is to give answers that make the inquiry seem sane, otherwise, it’s impossible to leave an impressive impression. 

“And why’s that?” He began to break, signified by a subtle inflection of tone. 

“Because if you can control how people think, you can control how people live.” He smiled. 

“What was your name again?” he asked me. 

He asked a few more questions, mostly about my personal life, to which I gave phony answers because he wasn’t my therapist. He said to expect a phone call in a couple of days about the results. 

On my bike ride home, I ran into a former acquaintance of mine outside a liquor store. I rode a bike because someone stole my car, and the acquaintance asked what I was doing riding a bike wearing a suit in the summer sun. “It’s good for the heart,” I told him. “What are you up to these days? Still doing maintenance?”

“I won the lottery, actually.” 

“Oh really? That’s wonderful, you always were a lucky son of a gun.” 

“You got the son of a gun part right.” 

My acquaintance laughed and said, “Why don’t we get together for dinner one of these days? I just moved in a couple blocks down and you can come check out my place.” 

“No thank you,” I said and started my ride home again. 

Blokes like him were the reason I moved across the country. The town I left, where most of my family and former friends still resided, was meticulously compartmentalized to be nothing more than a fading memory; a dream a couple of minutes after waking up. It wasn’t personal and I doubt he understood that. I lamented myself for leaving my car door unlocked outside of a supermarket because the situation could’ve been avoided if I’d driven home. I wanted to move again. 

The company didn’t call after two days which was fine because it gave me the weekend to think if I really wanted the position. I concluded the job would suit me well and the benefits weren’t shabby. Plus I needed to get to the bottom of who the timid voice belonged to. I also wanted to talk to the man that interviewed me again, but off the clock, so he’d tell me his name. He seemed like a good guy once he slid his tie over his head after a long day of work. The professionally-repressed can be an exciting specimen if you know how to properly engage them. If I took him for a couple of pints and some chicken wings at a place we could watch a ball game, he’d probably tell me every last detail of his life. Maybe even his social security number if he got drunk enough. 

On Monday morning the phone rang. I laid in bed and listened to the answering machine because I didn’t feel like getting up yet.

“Hello Mr. Jones,” it was the timid voice, “we’re pleased to offer you the job in the strategic department. Please call back to confirm you’re still interested.” 

The job didn’t last long. I used the position as leverage for a similar position with a bigger company based in a city that I knew nobody from my hometown could afford to live in. But before my last day, I found out who the timid voice belonged to. Her name was Sherry and she was tall and skinny. She looked like a giraffe with glasses. Her voice did not match the rest of her existence. She clumsily did clerical work; I often heard Sherry dropping something at her desk or throwing a panic of excitement when she spilled liquid on her keyboard, which happened most days. She talked over the intercom accidentally often, which is how I found out she had skin cancer. She died shortly after my last day with the company. 

The day after my last at the company, the interviewer and I ate lunch together at a bar. It was a Saturday, so college football littered the screens. His name was Jerome which was the most interesting thing about him. Sometimes the work sucks all the life out of the specimen, leaving only a trickle of spirit to be spent outside of work. Such was the case with Jerome. We mostly talked about nothing, until the check came. 

“When you move, do your best to keep your teeth,” Jerome said and I laughed because he knew nothing about the popular thought my dad hammered into me. “I’m serious. People are going to want to rip them out of your gums. Especially those pretty ones you have. You’ll starve because you can’t ask for food.” Jerome reached into his mouth and pulled out a phony teeth plate. He showed a toothless grin. “It’s no joke, pal. Thanks for lunch,” he said as he finished his glass and got up to leave. “Always remember to keep your teeth.” 

I wanted to ask how he lost his teeth, but Jerome’s back faced me by the time I thought to do so.