Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
One Man's Teeth
Tucked in neatly between cotton candy and my mortality, one of the fleeting thoughts I encountered while the dentist's fingers jammed into my mouth was the meth couple at McDonald's.
I took my older son to get ice cream (an ironic choice, I know, given the state of the aforementioned molar that barely avoided being pulled in favor of a relaxing root canal and crown double feature). My goal was to help him reconcile the fact that he's not the baby anymore, a supplanting that's generated a fair number of screaming fits in the last couple weeks since his baby brother dropped in.
Anyway, while he pressed a towering cone of vanilla into his mouth, I watched a mid-30s couple in a booth against the wall. At least, I think they were close to my age, but some habits age their prisoners so quickly. And before I sound overly assumptive, I'm confident in calling them addicts given the snatches of their conversation I overheard, all of which revolved around using.
I also saw the tell-tale sign of meth I first discovered on a site devoted to taking the romance out of using a few years ago. There are numerous ways in which this particular addiction tears down the body. The one I always come back to is what meth does to a user's teeth.
And thus the dentist. The man and woman at McDonald's were agitated. Between highs. Uncomfortable. The woman kept looking up and the fluorescent lights above and blinking as if to wipe the glare from her eyes. Each time she did, her cracked lips parted to reveal equally cracked teeth. At one point, her boyfriend asked her to fill his soda and she refused. He looked at her with what can only be described as a half-hearted snarl and his chiclets were also crumbling.
Back in the dentist chair, thinking about how even with my job and salary I wouldn't be able to afford getting my tooth fixed without insurance, I thought of their teeth. For a short moment, nothing but their teeth.
I took my older son to get ice cream (an ironic choice, I know, given the state of the aforementioned molar that barely avoided being pulled in favor of a relaxing root canal and crown double feature). My goal was to help him reconcile the fact that he's not the baby anymore, a supplanting that's generated a fair number of screaming fits in the last couple weeks since his baby brother dropped in.
Anyway, while he pressed a towering cone of vanilla into his mouth, I watched a mid-30s couple in a booth against the wall. At least, I think they were close to my age, but some habits age their prisoners so quickly. And before I sound overly assumptive, I'm confident in calling them addicts given the snatches of their conversation I overheard, all of which revolved around using.
I also saw the tell-tale sign of meth I first discovered on a site devoted to taking the romance out of using a few years ago. There are numerous ways in which this particular addiction tears down the body. The one I always come back to is what meth does to a user's teeth.
And thus the dentist. The man and woman at McDonald's were agitated. Between highs. Uncomfortable. The woman kept looking up and the fluorescent lights above and blinking as if to wipe the glare from her eyes. Each time she did, her cracked lips parted to reveal equally cracked teeth. At one point, her boyfriend asked her to fill his soda and she refused. He looked at her with what can only be described as a half-hearted snarl and his chiclets were also crumbling.
Back in the dentist chair, thinking about how even with my job and salary I wouldn't be able to afford getting my tooth fixed without insurance, I thought of their teeth. For a short moment, nothing but their teeth.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tango and Cash
"If I were a cop, this is how I'd point my gun."
The bearded man in the parking lot behind the supermarket pulls a finger pistol from the waistband of his surprisingly clean jeans and points it at me as I jog past, splaying his legs in an awkward lunge-squat and squinting his left eye. His partner - an equally-bearded but dirtier version of Officer Shooter wearing at least three hoodies - shakes his head disapprovingly.
"That's not how it goes. You gotta cock it first."
"Like this?" the guy says as I glide out of his crosshairs, tilting his head to the left.
I'm not sure he understands why I start laughing.
The bearded man in the parking lot behind the supermarket pulls a finger pistol from the waistband of his surprisingly clean jeans and points it at me as I jog past, splaying his legs in an awkward lunge-squat and squinting his left eye. His partner - an equally-bearded but dirtier version of Officer Shooter wearing at least three hoodies - shakes his head disapprovingly.
"That's not how it goes. You gotta cock it first."
"Like this?" the guy says as I glide out of his crosshairs, tilting his head to the left.
I'm not sure he understands why I start laughing.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Islands and Corners
It occurs to me as I idle at the corner of Rosecrans and Midway that there is a homeless person on every concrete island and a person one step from the streets on every corner. The only difference is the sign they hold.
The island-dwellers mark their status on cardboard by hand. The words are different; the requests the same.
“Whatever you can give helps. Thank you and God bless.”
“US MILITARY VETERAN. I SERVED AND JUS NEED SOME HELP. ANYTHING HELPS. ANYTHING AT ALL. SEMPER FI.”
“I’ll be honest. I want money for beer. Can you help me?”
“Lost everything to my husband’s cancer and the economy CRASH. Three kids need food.”
Unlike Ted Williams, the Golden Voice of Rehab and poster child of what the Internet’s 24-minute news cycle can do to a person, none of these signs promise any play for pay. The crass part of me fully expects to see more of that in the near future as I avoid eye contact with a woman I’m sure is a meth addict. Who couldn’t use job offers from the Cleveland Cavaliers and Kraft in this economy.
Mostly, the homeless hold their signs at chest level, walking slowly down the brick surface over and over while lines of cars and SUVs wait for the light to change, trying not to make eye contact while they look for any signs of compassion. Some don’t even walk. They sit, as if worn from the weight of carrying their personal chimera all day when they should be sleeping to prepare for the night to come.
The sign-holders on the corner opt for entertainment, mostly because their handouts depend on it. They twirl their neon arrows and dance, pointing to a strip club, a computer repair shop, a Thai restaurant and another strip club, this one with a buffet.
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