A big man in a blue oxford leaned back in his chair under towering ceilings. Every time he inhaled, the room expanded to fit his frame. A plaything sat beside him, eyes bright behind glasses. I swung my sour ale ’round in the pint glass and listened to his advice.
I Was Bummed Out When I Had To Replace My Crowns, he told me. I had pointed one, two, three at the front upper left central, lateral and cuspid that were glorious fakes.
He, too, had front tooth forgeries. They Last Fifteen Or Sixteen Years, Man, he bemoaned. I did quick arithmetic: ten years since I was mowed down by a Ford Explorer, five or six more years of frontal incision. When They Put The New Ones In It Just Wasn’t The Same.
What a drag it is, getting old and contemplating the buggery nature of my own disintegration.