Conor Christofferson

Tooth

Day 1:

And just like that, the pain is gone.

It’s magic, really. Absolute agony, followed by a little snooze and – voilà! – I'm cured. Sure, I can't feel my face and I’ve got a wad of gauze jammed into my mouth like Big League Chew, but that seems like a relatively small price to pay.

They won’t let me drive home seeing as how I’m doped to the gills on whatever it is they give you for things like this, so the pretty little dental assistant with an asymmetrical haircut wheels me outside to my waiting dad. Dad’s in the parking lot smoking a cigarette and looking surly, as per usual.

“Jesus, you look like hell,” he grunts and mindlessly flicks his butt into a bank of manicured shrubs.

We don’t talk on the way home. The sun is just turning in for the night, leaving behind sky the color of an orange Creamsicle. I listen to Billy Joel on the radio and rest my face against the cool window, letting the warm nothingness of medical grade narcotics wash over me.

Day 2:

I'm a bit of a wreck. One side of my face is shiny and comically swollen, as if I’ve been stung by a bunch of bees. Pain radiates from my jaw in waves. The aftercare instructions say this is probably normal, so my panic level is just a 3 out of 10 at this point. Curiosity gets the better of me and I use the bathroom mirror to take a quick peek inside my mouth. Good lord, what’s even happening here? It’s a mess of swollen, discolored flesh the color of an overripe plum. A misshapen lump of gum is visibly throbbing, with teeny tiny clots of dark red sludge pumping out of the hole where my tooth used to be. It’s all pretty disconcerting, to say the least, but I'm going to trust the process. I was even able to get in a few hours of work this morning. Thankfully, online customer service doesn't require you to be in tip top condition. It's mostly reading comments about how some product or another was a massive disappointment and then replying with something like, "Wow, that's really frustrating. Here at (multinational corporate entity) we value your business and want to make sure that every (random product) meets our own high standards. Please fill out this quick questionnaire and we will be happy to send you a new (random product)."

Day 5:

Good news, bad news. The good news is that the swelling has gone down a bit. The pain is better, too, thanks to the Percocet mom picked up for me – finally, I might add, after two days of excruciating pain. But that's neither here nor there. Dad says I'm lucky they even let me live here and when he was 25 he was already married and owned a home. Yada yada yada. I’d like to tell him that you could buy a home with 50 bucks and an old potato when he was 25, but I think better of it.

The bad news is that the hole in my mouth hasn't healed. If anything, it's worse. I've gotten into the habit of running my tongue along my gums and into the chasm where my tooth used to be. The tip of my tongue just slides in there, going much deeper into the hole than what feels natural. What the fuck is happening? The aftercare instructions say nothing about your tooth hole morphing into a frightening abyss. Panic level: 7 out 10 and climbing. I have a Zoom check up with my dentist tomorrow. Please, God, let my mouth heal.

Day 6:

The hole is getting bigger. I'm sure of it. Yesterday I measured it using an old piece of Hubba Bubba bubble gum I found on my dresser. It was three quarters of a Hubba Bubba wide. I measured again this morning and the hole could have easily fit the entire Hubba Bubba. Can the hole be growing? And a quarter Hubba Bubba a day? I'm no expert, but that seems like a lot. Panic level: Off the charts. 

I'm waiting for my Dentist, Dr. Slorak, to show up in this Zoom and hopefully tell me everything's alright, very normal, totally not a concern that the purple, hideous disfigurement in my mouth is growing at a quarter of a Hubba Bubba a day. Fuck. Fuck. 

While I wait, I log into Twitter. I search for Eric Trump, and then carefully type "Hey, @EricTrump, you're a troglodyte fascist with a mouth that looks like a prolapsed anus." I hit post and take a deep breath. I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. When I open them, I type "@BrunoMars Is your mom still blowing truckers for cigarette money?" Post. I see a tweet from Greta Thunberg in my feed and hit reply, then frantically type the words "midget feminazi." Post. I'm about to unleash a tirade against John Stamos when I hear Dr. Slorak calling my name from the open Zoom. 

"So, how are we doing today?" Dr. Slorak asks while looking down at what I presume is my chart. 

"Well, I'm getting a little concerned that the wound doesn't seem to be healing very well," I tell him.

"Hmm. Okay. Let's have a look. Can you open your mouth into the camera?"

“Ahhhhh,” I say, giving Slorak full access to the mayhem unfolding inside my mouth.

"Yes ... okay, that doesn't look right, does it?" he says with a wince. "Pam, can you come here?"

Pam, the dental assistant with an asymmetric haircut, wanders into the frame and leans over Dr. Slorak's shoulder to get a better look at the screen. 

"Oh, wow!" she gasps, recoiling back. 

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Dr. Slorak asks her, sotto voce.

"God, no," Pam says. "What is it?"

"I have no clue," Slorak says, his voice barely registering above a whisper.

Dr. Slorak tells me something is very clearly wrong. He says he's never seen anything quite like it. He looks befuddled and mumbles something about a possible flesh-eating bacteria. He orders me some antibiotics and schedules another Zoom check up in a week. 

Panic level: I'm fucking panicking.

Day 8:

I feel like I'm in a Kafka novel. I admit I've never read a Kafka novel, but this situation certainly seems Kafkaesque. That's the phrase that keeps popping into my head: Kafkaesque.

To sum things up, here's what we know: We know the antibiotics aren't working. We know the hole is growing. It's officially two Hubba Bubba's wide. I woke up this morning and realized the hole had swallowed the tooth next to it. Just ... swallowed it. It's gone now. Where it went, shit, I have no clue. Down into the hole, would be my guess. I tried to show my mom, but she told me she's not a doctor and wouldn't even know what she was looking at.

I'm trying not to panic. I'm trying not to think bad thoughts. I'm trying not to envision a swirling darkness overtaking me and pulling me further and further into a pulsating, bottomless pit. 

I grab my laptop and log into Twitter. I see The Rock has Tweeted an uplifting message about the importance of exercising and eating right. I call him a roided up asshole. I tell Jeanine Pirro she has mashed potatoes for brains. I threaten Frankie Muniz that it’s "on site” if we ever meet IRL. I unleash a vicious string of invective on Lin Manuel Miranda that I won’t repeat here.

Am I proud of myself for these things? Absolutely not. I hate these things. I hate myself. And yet I continue, daily, because it scratches some invisible itch, some bizarre desire to hurt people, to be noticed, to matter in some teeny tiny way, even if only as an annoyance. And I'm lonely. There's that. I'm so fucking lonely. 

Day 10:

The hole has taken another tooth. This is not a huge surprise, as that particular molar felt like it was hanging on by a thread last night when I ran my tongue along my gum line for what must have been the 10,000th time. I'm too depressed to see how many Hubba Bubbas wide it is. I'm guessing at least three Hubba Bubbas wide. I'm living a nightmare. The antibiotics still aren't working, and on top of that they're giving me a fairly vicious case of diarrhea. I'm popping Percocet like candy to stay ahead of the constant pain, but I only have five pills left and Dr. Slorak won't give me a refill.

Yesterday I did a Zoom with an emergency clinic. After waiting in the clinic's virtual waiting room for what seemed like an hour, an exhausted looking nurse finally popped up on the screen. She made a little small talk and then asked me to show her the problem.

"Fuck me," she said under her breath after seeing the horror inside my mouth. "That's ... that's ... you should probably ... what do they have you on, Azithromycin? Yeah, okay, just keep taking that and ... and ... yeah, you should probably get in to see a specialist."

What did I do to deserve this? Did I kill someone? Did I, I don't know, kick an old woman in the shins as she tried to carry a heavy bag full of groceries to her car in a parking lot? No and no. I didn't do those things because I'm generally a pretty good person. I smile if someone smiles at me. I always say thank you when a waiter refills my water glass at a restaurant, even if it's, like, the fifth time they've refilled it because they keep refilling it even if I just take a sip of water. I don't deserve this shit. This is the type of shit that Jeffrey Dahmer deserves. 

Day 11:

I dream I'm being eaten alive by a pulsating, amorphous slug creature with razor sharp teeth. I wake in a panic with sweat dripping from my face and a weird, dark red goo oozing out of my mouth. I spit the goo onto my nightstand and it sort of foams up and quivers. The smell is horrendous, like rotting flesh. I don't dare look in my mouth, but I run my tongue along what's left of my gum line to take stock of whatever havoc last night wrought. It's not good. I have no bottom teeth on the left side of my face and my lower jaw seems to be disintegrating.  Just melting away. I rattle my Percocet bottle and find a single pill left inside. 

I debate finding a large bridge to jump off and then open my laptop and log in to Twitter. Mindless scrolling. Elon Musk is calling the Pope a pedo. An influencer famous for eating 5,000 pennies is lecturing his followers on the difference between genocide and ethnocide. One of the Kardashians is touting a new partnership with the Department of Justice to create a line of lingerie for prisoners. 

Just then I'm struck by a jolt of panic. 

"Holy shit," I say. "Holy fucking shit."

I click on my profile, @BigDickEnergy69, and begin scrolling through old Tweets. 

"Where is it? Fuck. Where is it?"

I keep scrolling, faster and faster, the words cascading madly down my screen until, like a slot machine, they slow and then stop on a Tweet from three weeks ago.

– Taylor Swift is an overrated piece of shit

I stare at this simple string of words, index finger hovering over my mouse, then click on the Tweet to reveal a single response, from the account @WitchySwifty. 

– Taylor is god, you fucking troll

I feel a bead of sweat forming on my forehead as I move my cursor over that Tweet and click on it, revealing my reply.

– Fuck you and fuck Taylor Swift. You're both stupid bitches

The thread continues like some sort of digital Russian nesting doll. Just when you think it’s over, there’s one more ugly Tweet and one more response.

– You better watch your mouth asshole. I'm a witch. I'll fuck you up

– Lol. What are you gonna do, you fucking loser?

– Fuck around and find out

– Stupid bitch

– Okay. Have it your way. I put a curse on you. You will die on the night of the next full moon. Bye bitch!

I swallow hard, open a new tab on my computer and type "When is the next full moon?" I click on the first result, which reads, "The next full moon will be on Monday, August 31." I fumble around on my bed for my phone and then tap the screen and read, in abject horror: August 30 9:24 p.m.

Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. My heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest. I close my eyes and take two deep breaths and picture vast empty spaces and soft pastels encompassing endless sky. I open them and type @WitchySwifty Please, please, I beg you to stop your curse. Oh my god I'm so sorry, just please let me live. I promise I won't ever say anything bad about Taylor Swift ever again. I just want to live. I post it. I wait, tap tap tapping on my mouse to hit the refresh button every two seconds. 

Nothing. Oh, God, please reply. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Oh, fuck. All Witchy Swifty's Tweets are now gone. I click on her profile: @WitchySwifty has blocked you.

"Fucking bitch," I mutter under my breath as I log out of Twitter and log back in using a burner account, @PipeLayer420. I quickly find Witchy Swifty's profile and scan it for useful information. 

It reads: "Welcome to the #1 Taylor Swift fan account made by and for Swifty witches! It's me, I'm the problem. (Taylor liked one of my Tweets on 06/23/21 and I've never been the same!)" Location: Missoula, Montana. 

I read hundreds of her Tweets, nearly all of which pertain to various Taylor Swift songs, outfits Taylor has worn, men Taylor has dated, food Taylor has eaten and liked or disliked, videos of Taylor petting stray dogs, pixelated photos of Taylor standing on a boat, looking forlorn. And then, just as I'm about to give up – bingo. I focus on a Tweet featuring a giant, sloppy hamburger under a message that reads, Best part about working at Five Guys is the free burgers. Yum! 

"Gotcha," I say.

Day 12:

I sneak into my parents' room at four in the morning and find them both fast asleep. Dad's snoring violently and mom looks comatose, mouth agape, her tongue dyed purple from boxed wine. I tippy toe to her nightstand like a burglar in a silent movie, careful not to displease the creaky floorboards. The nightstand is a mess of prescription bottles, dogeared romance novels, a wine glass with a dollop of cheap merlot congealing in the bottom like a blood clot. And then I see them. Thank fucking Christ. I grab the car keys and slink out of the room undetected.

I'm on the road by 4:15, Missoula bound. It's a seven hour drive from Seattle, per Apple Maps, and Google tells me there's only one Five Guys in town, so the plan is to be there by opening and pray to God that Witchy Swifty is working and willing to listen to reason.

I'm officially out of Percocet, so I pop a handful of dad's baby aspirin and white knuckle it down the empty highway into the predawn darkness. There's an odd buzzing in my ear and my eye won't stop twitching. My jaw is literally rotting off my head, giving me the lopsided look of a cubist Picasso portrait. I drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand on my decomposing face, just in case the entire thing decides to cleave away. A viscous maroon sludge oozes out of my mouth and onto my hand, but I can't be bothered with that at the moment and continue on, petal to the metal, with my mom's 2004 Hyundai Tucson rattling and clicking as it strains to stay above 80.

I'm climbing Snoqualmie Pass just as the sun begins to crown over the eastern peaks of the Cascades, creating brilliant golden sunbeams that spread out in front of me like the fingers of God. I'm suddenly struck by a jolt of absolute peace and serenity. For the first time in weeks, nothing hurts and my mind is still. Everything gets very quiet and I find myself weeping hysterically. I let my hand slide off the steering wheel and the Hyundai drifts to the right, heading for an 18-wheeler.

"Jesus, take the wheel," I slur.

The semi's booming air horn jolts me back to reality. I yank the wheel and wildly overcorrect, nearly slamming into the jersey barrier separating east- and westbound traffic.  

“Fuck. Get it together, man,” I say to myself.

It's just before noon when I finally coast into Missoula on fumes feeling punch drunk and irrationally optimistic. I've never been to Montana and, even in my pathetic state, I'm struck by its beauty.  Missoula is a small town tucked into a small valley bracketed by impossibly large mountains that could probably feel either cozy or claustrophobic, depending on your state of mind. I find the Five Guys easy enough and park cockeyed in a handicap space near the entrance. Quick glance in the rearview mirror. My face is an absolute horror of drooping, oozing flesh. I scan the interior of the car until I find a small towel to cover my hideous disfigurement, then push through the restaurant's front door. There’s line of customers at least 15 deep, which I bypass and head directly to the front counter.

"Excuse me, sir, there's a line here," a woman says as I scoot by.

I wave her off and continue to the counter, where I weasel my way in front of an elderly man just as he's about to order.

"Is Witchy Swifty working?" I ask and immediately realize how crazy I must sound.

The boy working the till, who appears to be about 12, gives me a stern look. 

"Sir, you have to wait in line like everyone else," he says.

"Just one second. I need to find someone who uses the handle Witchy Swifty. She works here," I whine.

"Sir, you'll have to go to the back of the line," the boy says again.

"Buddy, get your ass to the back of the line," someone chirps from behind me.

Sensing a possible viral moment brewing, several people take out their phones and begin filming me. 

"Fuck off, Karen!" someone shouts, causing a few others to snigger. 

I offer the boy a pleading look, hoping for mercy. Nope. He just sits there looking bored and annoyed until I turn around and slink my ass to the back of the line. A few customers clap and someone calls me a douchebag as I pass them. So I wait, feeling humiliated and now sort of hungry, as each and every customer places their order. The towel pressed to my face is covered in slimy red sludge by the time I reach the front of the line. 

"How can I help you," the boy says as if he's never seen me before.

"Witchy Swifty," I say into the wet towel, my voice muffled and weak. "Someone who works here goes by Witchy Swifty on Twitter. I need to talk to her."

The boy stares at me with dead eyes, looking thoroughly confused.

"Witchy Swifty!" I scream.

"So, uh, sir, you need to order something or leave."

"Did you say Witchy Swifty?" a red headed girl working the fry machine asks. "Tyson, doesn't Becky call herself Witchy Swifty on Twitter?"

A big meathead of a boy holding a mop looks at the ginger girl and shrugs. 

"I think so," he says.

"Becky?" I say. "Okay, where's Becky? I really need to talk to her."

The young boy working the till lets out an exasperated sigh. 

"Does anyone know if Becky is working today?" he asks his coworkers.

"She's off today and tomorrow," someone chimes in from the back of the kitchen. The woman walks to the counter still holding a container full of chopped lettuce. "Remember? She went to Seattle for that Taylor Swift concert."

My heart stops. I shit you not. It stops beating for a moment as the words Taylor and Swift and Seattle and concert reverberate in my head, bouncing around like a bee in a glass jar. She's in Seattle? She's in fucking Seattle at a Taylor fucking Swift concert? How did I miss this? How is this possible?

"So, yeah, she's not here," the boy says. "Do you, like, want something else? There are customers behind you."

I stare at him, my eyes tearing up. I want to tell him my story. I want him to fix it, to fix me. I want my life to have meaning. I want to be  5-years old again. I want to squeeze myself so tight that I implode and blow away in the wind. I want forgiveness. I want peace.

"I want a bacon cheeseburger and fries," I finally say.

The ginger girl who brings me my food says I'm grossing out the customers and asks me nicely if I could take my burger to go. Yes, of course, I say in a daze as I grab the bag from her hands and shoulder through the exit and stumble to my car. I drop the towel in the parking lot and it lands with a wet thud.

I start the car and turn on the radio. Billy Joel is playing. I shove a few fries into the side of my mouth that still functions and take out my phone. I open Twitter and thumb through the timeline, stopping at a Tweet from Kevin Sorbo decrying our government's inflationary spending. I stare at my phone through a soft focus.

"You piece of shit. You worm. You dickless coward."

Conor Christofferson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest.