Somehow, it never gets old.
Satan’s Spawn
There is a woman, a regular, whose name I can’t remember. She isn’t as much of a regular as she could be, though; lately, only showing up every few weeks or so. Which is just fine with me, and actually, the rest of the staff. She has a very pronounced limp and an affinity for oversized, baggy sweaters — but neither of those are the reason as to why we despise her so much.
Her children are monkeys. When I say “monkeys”, I mean “completely evil hell-demons that probably have forked tongues come to think of it but I haven’t gotten close enough to see yet”. They are also monkeys in the sense that it is really only a matter of visits to our store before they start flinging poo at each other. Actually, I’m genuinely surprised that hasn’t happened yet. The children in question are a boy and a girl, and they are horrible. The boy is probably ten at best, judging by his size, and the girl about twelve. Maturitywise, though, I’d say they were both three, maybe four at the most if I’m feeling generous. They have all the grace and manners of a toddler going through the terrible twos, threes.. tens, twelves. Except most toddlers can’t run as fast as they do, when they are engaged in a store-wide game of hide and seek.
Yes, hide and seek. Because that is appropriate in a bookstore. I mean, don’t stacks of literature and a nice, quiet cafe just scream, “You start counting to 100, and I’m gonna hide!” Those books are just begging to be knocked over, tossed around, left in a pile where they’ve fallen.
Now look, I’m not entirely innocent. I crawled around Macy’s before, when I was much younger, picking a different clothing rack to pop out of, anticipating the look of shock on my mother’s face when I yelled, “BOO!” I can’t say I counted on a severe reprimand afterward, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. The point is, I never, never ran around a store like the monkeys do. And neither did my sisters. Sure, we all wiggled out of our strollers at one point or another, or chucked a pacifier halfway across the misses’ department, but we were normal-level bad. We were not the spawn of Satan.
The last time the Limp brought her children in, they were yelled at by employees a total of five times. That, in my opinion, is four times too many. Perhaps even five times. If a mother can’t watch her children, then she needs to train them to behave or leave them at home. A bookstore is not the babysitter’s, unless you would like to pay me. And in that case, I prefer cash, and under the table if possible. In all seriousness, though, employees are not responsible for the safety of your child. Especially when the child in question is climbing on the furniture.
The girl was on top of the table in the Kids’ room, back in the far right corner, trying to find her brother. Nevermind the fact that there is merchandise on that table, and indeed all around if one should fall off the table one should not be on top of in the first place. A female employee, who primarily works in the kids’ room, told her to get off the table. The girl complied, and later scrambled on top of a chair. Eventually, the brother rejoined her, and the two began chasing each other around the store. They were in the process of racing up and down the aisle from Kids to the music department when I noticed them. Not only were they running, which we certainly don’t allow, but they were shoeless. And that is just disgusting. (And also not allowed, for clarification.)
I told them to stop running and that there is absolutely no running in the store. They stared at me, dumbfounded, their monkey faces unable to comprehend the meaning of the words. They actually do look a little bit like monkeys, which is a terrible thing to say, but true nonetheless. The girl has braces, but unlike mine, they make her teeth jut out more and so she has the kind of mouth that never closes properly. I think she has that mouth without the braces, personally. Also, she is extremely skinny, like her brother, and although she is about twelve, puberty has yet to rear its ugly head. She is flat, narrow, and more or less a boy, particularly when it comes to her shape and definitely when it comes to her behavior. When I was twelve, I was preoccupied with The Babysitters’ Club (ironically enough) and turning myself into Karen Brewer. Then again, I have little sisters, not brothers, so maybe I wasn’t as wild as I could have been. Whatever the case may be, she and her brother are very much alike in body-type and monkey-face. They both have long hair, hers more blonde, his more brown, long noses, and perpetually stupid expressions. Though it may be stereotypical of me to say so, his wildness makes a lot more sense to me than hers. Although, with the Limp for a mother, I can see where it comes from.
The monkeys eventually closed their mouths and walked away. It was about three minutes later when they were whizzing past the cookbooks and magazines, on the opposite side of the store, and I told them to stop it again. The employee from Kids told me what had happened, and several other employees contributed their two cents’ as well. All in all, I had a dimes’ worth of complaints, two bad pennies who kept turning up, and a mother that was nowhere in sight.
Ten minutes later, an employee spotted her in the cafe. I had only known the woman as weird previously, not as the Limp or even a mother. I had waited on her months ago, when she special ordered a book that hadn’t arrived on time and so, as per our policy, was supposed to get it for free. However, the manager she had arranged that with had not informed anybody else of that fact, and when I told the woman I had to double-check (because there are, of course, customers who lie and say it should be free when it is most definitely not), she began to freak out.
“No, no, no, it’s supposed to be free,” she spluttered. She was trembling. “They told me that, they, they they told me. I ordered it a long time agoandsomethinghappenednononoit’sfreeIT’SFREE!”
“Ma’am, I understand that, I just need to check with another supervisor, okay?” I said. “I just have to make sure -”
“No, no, it’s FREE. It is, it is,” she said, mumbling it like a mantra to herself. She was visibly shaking by that point, and didn’t stop until I received confirmation from a manager that she was, indeed, correct. Instead of apologizing for having a nervous breakdown at the register, she smiled triumphantly and snatched her bag, limping the entire way to the door. It was more than a little strange, but I didn’t give it much thought. Apparently, though, other employees are more than familiar with the Limp, as she’s been coming here for awhile now. She used to come to the cafe solo, sitting in one of the armchairs that Milkman favors, occasionally scribbling in a notebook but primarily devoting her time to people-watching. And not in a, “Oh, I’m stumped for a word for this next sentence, let me gaze around my surroundings dreamily while I conjure a mental thesaurus”. She would openly stare at people, and cafe employees, making them more than a little uncomfortable. Also, she doesn’t tip. So that’s more of a reason to hate her.
And so, it was no surprise, really, that she was sitting in the cafe and staring while her children were wrecking displays and wreaking havoc. I stood on the outskirts of the cafe, watching her, wondering if I was really brave enough to tell her how to be a parent. But if I wasn’t going to do it, who was?
As always, another employee handled the situation. It was the lady from Kids, and she found the children stopped in an area of the store (pausing for breath, I’m sure), and asked them where their mother was and suggested that perhaps they should go stay with her. The monkeys froze, gaped, and walked away soundlessly.
I don’t know where you come from, but in my house, that would mean no computer, no TV, no phone, no friends over, and no fun whatsoever. For the monkeys, it was another day in the jungle.
.. to be continued
Not to be confused with craisins, which are, in fact, gross.
I first met the Crasian when I still worked in the cafe, and she told me that God would forgive her for eating a cinnamon roll because he will forgive us for anything. So as you can see, our relationship has never been easy, but I love her anyway. I just can’t help it.
There is a lot to say about her, which I will go into detail about later when I have more time, but for now here are some recent (disturbing, weird, and strange) stories starring the one and only Crasian.
Editor’s note: Please do not be offended by my liberal use of the word ‘Crasian’. Yes, she is crazy, and yes, she is also Asian, but I mean no offense to any Asian people when I say this. It’s just a coincidence. You might be comforted to know that the co-worker who coined this term is also, in fact, Asian. But not crazy. There’s not room in this town for two Crasians.
*
I think I’ve mentioned a friend of mine who works in the cafe, a male, who is often terrorized by the Crasian. His name is Chris, and he has a fondness for the films of the late John Candy. Anyway, she actually proposed to him last year, which is a story in and of itself, but forget that for now. I think she finally gave up on the whole getting-married-in-Versailles (yes, the palace in France.. yes, that is insane.. I told you she was crazy, didn’t I?!), and she has been reduced to saying really weird shit. Here’s an example from a couple weeks ago.
Crasian: Do you believe in human-sized frogs?
Chris: No!
Crasian: Well, I saw one. Did you ever see Star Wars?
Chris: Yes!
Crasian: Well the frog I met worked for him. (Editor’s note: I assume she is referring to George Lucas.)
Chris: Cool!
Crasian: Did you ever see Pretty Woman?
Chris: Yes!
Crasian: The frog had Julia Roberts’ job.
Chris: He was a hooker?
Crasian: Yes. (Holding up the book The Memory Keeper’s Daughter by Kim Edwards) I don’t get this.
(She slammed it on the counter and walked away.)
SEE? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME WHEN I SAY SHE IS CRAZY?
But in a good way, baby. In a good way.
About a month ago, I was fixing a table in the front of the store when I heard a feeble, “Helloooooo” from behind me. It was, of course, the Crasian.
Crasian: How are you?
Me: I’m good!
Crasian: Are you sure? You don’t seem good. You seem titchy. That’s a.. Britishism.
Me: Is it? I’ve been to England before, but only once.
(Crasian nodded seriously.)
Crasian: Look, let me tell you something. If you don’t want to do something, you don’t have to. You don’t! That’s how life works.
Me: Oh, really? Okay.
Crasian: Really. You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to. Your mother has enough money for that to be negotiable.
Me: Yeah, that’s uh.. true too.
Crasian: Good. Remember that. Okay, bye!
(She walked over to the cafe and yelled to Chris, from across the cafe, “HELLO!! ARE WE IN AGREEMENT WITH FOOD? ARE WE OKAY WITH FOOD TONIGHT?” He smiled politely in response and waved. She then came back over to the magazines, her usual haunting ground, giggled in another employee’s direction, and found me at the Information Desk.)
Crasian: Can I tell you something else? My fiancee, he.. is using.. MONACO.. as a pawn. And his stepdaughter.
Me: Oh, is he playing Risk?
Crasian: Yes. And he’s also very insensitive.
Me: Most people that use Monaco as a pawn are insensitive.
Crasian: (cackling wildly): Now THERE’S a line I can use in my next novel! THERE’S a line!
Me: Yeah, sure!
Crasian: Okay, that’s all.
(She walked back to the cafe, asked Chris for a glass of ice water in a normal tone of voice, and came back to pace in front of the magazines. She walked to the Information Desk for her third and final visit of the evening.)
Crasian: I like you. I really do. I want to tell you that.. Vogue Magazine is coming to Philly. Vogue is here. And I am going to be the new editor-in-chief –
Me: What happened to Anna (Wintour)? Is she in Monaco?
Crasian: No. No she isn’t. (She began looking around nervously at that point, to my utter delight.) She’s.. far away somewhere. But I think that there could be a position open for you. You’re sharp, and I like sharp young women. Especially ones like ME. (Cackling wildly) So, I want you to know that.
Me: Well, thanks! I’ll.. keep that in mind.
Crasian: Okay, good-bye.
(She left the building. Her reign of terror was fulfilled for the night.)
Seriously, I don’t know why the crazies are into me, but I’ll take it. It makes for good writing material.
Speaking of crazies, the Milkman has a thing for Chris. Well, not like in the Crasian way. But he loves to tell him really, really weird stuff. Because Chris is an amazing human being, much like myself, he wrote down an entire evenings’ worth of Milkman’s topics of conversation:
* Attitude of public towards U.S. Presidents vs. Prime Minister of Canada
* Pufferbelly restaurants
* Barry Goldwater campaign of ‘64
* Celebrity meetings including Dick Cavett, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Bette Davis, Jerry Brown, Liza Minelli, Marcia Clark, and Ted Kennedy
* Princess Diana
* Foie gras
* Lost celebrity status of Rock Hudson
* Founding of Rutgers College
I mean, seriously, how can you live with yourself if this is how your mind really works? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. And I bet the Milkman/Crasian don’t know, either. As another co-worker remarked the other day, “Insane in the membrane!” to which I said, “Shit, I thought I was the only person who said that!”
Anyway, I promised a certain Justin (J-Dizzle to his homies on tha harsh streets of Jersey’s finest suburbs) that I would bring him lunch, and so I shall. Nothing says love like a store-cooked meal. Mmmm.
C-c-c-c-rasian!
This is mainly to remind myself, but also for Alyssa’s sake:
The Crasian was in tonight, with her MOTHER (yes, honestly). Must not forget. V. important.
Also, a customer told me I resembled Sarah Palin. I told him I absolutely did not. He went on to splutter, “Oh, but she’s a very attractive lady!” I told him I still absolutely do not look a thing like her, sorry. I was so deeply offended and I still don’t understand why. Probably because I was going to name all of my children Willow, Bristol, Trig, Track, and Piper, but that bitch stole my idea. Bitch.
Anyway, more on the Crasian later.
Friday night, the moon is.. definitely not right.
For some reason, last night was attack of the weirdos at work. Well, it’s not like they go out of their way on Fridays; some days it’s a Monday, a Thursday, whatever. It just happened to be last night.
There’s this kid in a grey shirt and black athletic shorts that only comes in between 10:30 and 11 pm, when we close. I know he frequents the other bookstore nearby, so I suppose he prefers most of his time to be taken up there, and we’re just his sloppy seconds. That’s fine, that’s cool, but when we want to close at 11 pm, you still have to leave, sloppy seconds or no. He insists upon sitting where he is sitting, parked in the cafe with a stack of Psychology and Bodybuilding magazines (don’t even ask; this guy is fucking weird) and just won’t get out. The other night, the manager had to make three closing announcements, leading up to the eventual “we’re closed” at 11. He and his friend (he doesn’t really have friends, there’s just some occasional twit that he drags to our store) sat, mildly amused, at their table in the cafe until 11:15. Yes, 11:15. Fifteen minutes past legal. After they were finally forced out, and mind you the manager was a few minutes away from calling the police, they made several rude comments on their way out — loudly for everyone’s benefit — and left.
So you can imagine my pleasure when I saw him stroll in at 10:27 last night. Oh joy, oh rapture, oh blah blah blah. He was solo this time, but still surrounded by an aura of douche. I don’t know what it is about this guy, whose name is actually Brad but we just call him Grey Shirt, but he just oozes douchebag. By the way, I only know his name because he special ordered a few books from us before (again, from the Psychology and Bodybuilding sections) but declined to buy them once they came in. We have plenty of customers who do that, refuse an order, because it’s the wrong book, wrong edition, got it elsewhere, just plain don’t want it. But when Grey Shirt does it, we want to smack him. Because he doesn’t buy anything.
Yes, you read that right. This creature, who prowls two bookstores (at least) a day, does not buy a damn thing. Not a drink in the cafe where he takes up a table, not a magazine, not a book. Not even a bookmark. I guess it’s his way of informing us that yes, he does love to take up space in our store but no, he won’t pay the rent. Ignorant, ignorant, ignorant. He used to talk, but he’s stopped that, thank god. When I say “talk”, I mean “hit on female employees and customers”. He would listen in on conversations, nod, add a sentence that was on-topic, and immediately launch into something involving Psychology, Bodybuilding, or, once, about the company itself regarding the time we close. Grey Shirt is a man of few words, and all of them terrible.
Anyway, thankfully, he left at 11:01 pm last night. I like to think that my valiant attempts at scowling in his direction and making very pointed closing announcements were what did it, but probably not. The cafe employee, who had made it his duty to keep a sharp eye on Sir Grey the Douche, said that while he was wiping down tables for the night, he too made it a point to make it clear that it was time to leave — he scowled, frowned, furrowed his eyebrows, and looked so cross while cleaning the tables that it’s a good thing his face didn’t freeze that way. It was impressive, to say the least.
Another frequent customer, a regular, is the Milkman. The Milkman, whose real name I found out last night and will not reveal here other than the fact that his last name is Klaw which cracks me up because I immediately thought of Inspector Gadget, is not actually a milkman — anymore. He let slip to a cafe employee, actually the same one I mentioned earlier, that he was indeed a milkman in the 70s. I don’t know why he felt the need to share that, but the Milkman is very, very good at sharing bizarre things about himself. For example, he’s done acid (which may or may not explain a lot). He graduated from a state school, a fact which has come up a lot because I guess he’s proud of having a diploma despite the fact he’s not all there. He spends his days and nights in the safe confines of our building, shuffling around in his velcro shoes and peering around sadly at other normal, well-adjusted customers, through his huge glasses. Think Sally Jessy Raphael-size frames, but not red.
So while the Milkman is strange, he’s harmless. He usually won’t talk to most of the employees, unless he is in a mood, and then he’ll ramble on about anything under the sun. Usually politics, which is not my strong suit, so I try to avoid him on days like those. But he actually does a better job of avoiding me.
The main thing about the Milkman is that he seemingly can’t stand being near other people. (And yet he comes to a bookstore — I know, I know. The fact that he even manages to drive is scary.) For example, if I am standing at a computer at the Information Desk, and he wants a computer, he will cough loudly and shuffle to the one furthest away from me. And it isn’t just me, I’ve seen him do this with customers as well. He prefers the armchairs we have in a corner of the cafe as opposed to the wooden chairs. He will sit there, quite placidly, until another customer wants to sit in either one next to, across from, or diagonal from him. Then he will cough loudly, get up, and shuffle away to a wooden chair — or, sometimes, out of the cafe entirely. He’ll do the same thing with the seating areas we have around the store. It’s one of the weirdest personality quirks he has. Sometimes I know he’s there because I can hear the cough (it’s that loud) or the shuffling. Oh, Milkman. Your dairy days are numbered.
Milkman was in last night too, like he always is, but he is never compelled to stay until 11. He usually sneaks out during the last fifteen minutes without anyone noticing, but on occasion nobody sees him leave, and we scour the store’s corners, thinking he is in hiding. He left last night, of course, far before Grey Shirt.
The last awful customer of the night was not actually there in person. It was a phone call. The first time he called, that we know of, was about two weeks ago. A male employee was on the receiving line of the call. It went a little something like this:
Employee: Hi, thanks for calling ______, can I help you?
Customer: Hi, uh, so.. do you have any sex books?
Employee: Excuse me?
Customer: Yeah, because, like, my dad doesn’t believe the female orgasm exists so, I wanted to know if you have books on that.
Employee: Well, we do have a section and I’m sure there’s books on that, but is there.. a specific one you want?
The customer then went on to ask explicit details about particular books, all sorts of obscene questions, gag, gag, barf, barf. We originally assumed it was some sort of a prank, but he seemed so intent on finding an answer that maybe it was a genuine curiosity. But what kind of son calls a bookstore, for his dad, and asks that kind of crap?
A son that calls twice, that’s who!
He called last night, got the same male employee on the phone, and the conversation started out nearly the same. The employee figured out who it was because of the topic at hand.
Customer: So I wanted a book on the clitoris..
Employee: Well, we have plenty of books in the sex section, so maybe you should just come in and look at them.
Customer: Yeah but like, one about techniques and stuff, like lifting the clitoral hood, you know?
Employee: Right, okay, well, like I said, there’s plenty to choose from in the section.
Customer: I was at your store, I looked, I didn’t really see anything, man. Are there any you can personally recommend?
Employee: ExCUSE ME?
Customer: You know, any books on the clitoris or techniques that like, you can recommend from personal experience.
Employee: No, I don’t really have that problem.
Customer: THAT WAS HARSH, DUDE.
Employee: No it wasn’t.
Customer: THAT WAS SO HARSH, DUDE!
Employee: ..no, it wasn’t.
Customer: HAVE A HAPPY 9/11!!!!
Employee: That was yesterday..?
(Customer hangs up.)
Now, seriously, join me in a rousing chorus of, “What the fucking fuck?”
There is a time and place for sex books, but to end that sort of a conversation with a lame attempt at a 9/11 joke just.. I don’t even know. It’s not like I’m offended, just a little concerned about a plane or two crashing into us later today. But you know, if we were under some sort of terrorist attack at the store tonight, all I’d have to do is sic the Mailman on them. He would start jabbering on about Barack Obama and roast beef sandwiches and the economic crises of the world today, and those terrorists, they would be so confused, they would probably just cough loudly, and shuffle away.
Ah, the birthday countdown.
Two weeks until my birthday! Who’s excited! Oh, wait, probably just me!
This was taken roughly 15 or so years ago, but you get the idea. Same level of excitement, but with pink glasses, sans paper plate hat. Okay, and nix the turtleneck, too. Sorry, 1993(ish).
On Teeth and Jodi Picoult.
Today is our one-year anniversary. We’re going to celebrate by going out, sitting in a special chair, having some brackets poked at and ooh, oh, I don’t know, maybe if I’m extra lucky I’ll get a packet of rubber bands. Or maybe floss! Oh, yes. Floss. Flossy, floss floss mcfloss. What sort of anniversary is this, you ask?
The anniversary of my braces, of course! Those metal delights, sent from heaven above and glued on to my earthly teeth! The contraption of death that prevents eating foods of a most delicious nature and also causes painful rubbing inside one’s cheeks! O, angels of Orajel, let me sacrifice to you another molar or three in the hopes that you will — yeah, whatever. Fuck it. I am looking forward to the day, though, but that’s only because it’s one step closer to freedom. By ‘freedom’ I mean ‘probably another year, maybe more if they hate me’, but go with me on this one. You see, none of this would be so bad, perhaps, if I was of the usual age when people, generally of the teenager variety, tend to get braces. And yes, yes, we all know that there are adults out there, poor creatures, who prefer their suffering in the form of Invisalign (they are not invisible; you are fooling no one). But when you’re 22, you’re too old and too young at the same time. It’s a whole new level of the awkward stage.
When I go to the dentist, there isn’t an average age of people in the waiting room. I’ve seen children as young as five; adults as old as “Oh, wow, they still have teeth that need to be cleaned?” But when I go to the orthodontist, I’m the oldest there. Oldest patient, anyway. There’s plenty of people older than me, but they all drive minivans and use checkbooks. I still live at home and refuse to floss. So, there’s that.
It’s funny, though, because I don’t think half the patients and the staff really know how old I am. Most people in medical professions seem to like to ask what grade you’re going in to, how was school, what’s your favorite class, and so on. Please note that these questions, dear doctors and dentists especially, would be a hell of a lot easier to answer if you waited until your fingers were out of my mouth. But I digress. When they ask me, though, it goes a little more like this:
“So, Andrea, what grade are you in now? In college yet?”
I shake my head violently no.
“Hmm?”
Like you can’t SEE ME shaking my head.
“What?”
“Ah ott ihh skooo.”
“You’re not in school? You didn’t go to college?” The eyes narrow, the eyebrows fix in a severe reprimand.
“Ah ehh-eee ooo.”
“Here, why don’t you rinse with this.” I gurgle, splutter, spit politely into the miniature sink.
“I’m twenty-two.”
“REALLY?”
“I graduated college.”
“You don’t say!”
Yeah, I do say, and shut up, these weren’t a graduation present. Look, in the long run, it could be a lot worse. I could have no teeth (which, some days, would actually be a lot better), I could have gonorrhea, I could be dead. But instead, I have braces, I am twenty-two, and I find it to be fairly embarrassing. I’ve had customers at work mistake me for someone much younger, as in somebody not even old enough to work there (???!!!), and even employees have asked just how old I am. Because I look twelve, I guess, I don’t know. I have clear braces because they wouldn’t let me get Invisalign; I can’t help this shit. I’m here, they’re clear, deal with it.
Actually, life with braces wasn’t so terrible once I got used to it. I slowly got back into the habits of eating solid food, I found I was able to eat hamburgers again without severe jaw pain (which is what started this whole metal mess to begin with), I brushed my teeth and kept my mouth shut as often as possible. Which wasn’t often, because I tend to go on for too long HOWEVER my positive bracely feelings changed one fateful night at work.
I work in a bookstore, a “chain”, if you will, and generally the customers are nice people. There are always idiots, though, crazies, weirdos, perverts, and the like, but any store has those kinds too. Regardless, one slow night I was at the register when a lady approached.
“There’s nobody at the Information Desk,” she said. I glanced over her wild, frizzy hair and saw that she was indeed correct. Generally speaking, if you are stationed at the register, you do not readily volunteer to help a customer in need find a book — because that usually requires leaving said register. However, it was slow, and there was nothing else to do. So I said, “Yes?”
“Well, I was looking for, uh, this book — HEY, ARE THOSE BRACES?”
I froze.
Now, firstly, who says that? What kind of a person asks another person for help and then starts commenting on their toothly appliances? I’m no stranger to going off on a tangent, but this was a bit much.
“Yes, yes they are,” I said, slowly backing away from the counter. She smiled excitedly, baring her yellowed, crooked teeth, and adjusted the perch of her unusually large frames. I add here, for your imagination pleasure, the fact that she possibly was sporting a fanny pack. I didn’t get close enough to confirm.
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she gushed. “They’re like.. like jewels, shining on your teeth! Little, shining jewels!”
Because fluorescent lights are terribly flattering, especially when reflecting off of one’s teeth. Hm.
“Well, um, thanks,” I said. “So what book were you looking for?”
“You know, you look just like that boy on TV! You know the one, from that show?”
I groaned inwardly. At the time of this incident, season four of Project Runway was currently on the air, and three of my co-workers had mentioned, in passing, how I bore a slight resemblance to Christian Siriano. I am sure he is a lovely person, that sweet little Princess Puffysleeves, but we share nothing except naturally dark hair and fancy glasses.
Exhibit A, as fierce as ever.
So while I knew exactly who this woman was referring to, she was wrong. Plus, he’s a guy. I’m a girl. This was all a bit insulting.
“You mean Christian from Project Runway,” I gently reminded her.
“YES, YES! That boy! Of course!” she squealed. “And your braces, they’re so great! I used to have braces, and then they gave me a retainer, but I don’t wear it anymore, I wish I was wearing it for you now so I could show you.. it’s because this tooth is crooked, see? This one here? Yeah, they were trying to fix it, but then I had to have these other ones pulled, and starting having all these problems..”
Please further note that this woman was in her 40s and growing more excited about our collective teeth by the minute. Teeth are fabulous in their own right, sure, but not in public, and not when you asked me for help to begin with. The time for teething was not then, and with this woman, not ever.
But then I started to feel bad. I’ve had my share of dental nightmares too, lately — as I mentioned earlier, the whole “severe jaw pain” is actually something called TMJ and not very pleasant at all. I had been on a steady diet of liquid children’s Motrin and avoiding most chewy foods, actually, until I finally went to the orthodontist. I, too, had had teeth pulled only a few months prior and the gaps still hadn’t closed up. (And as I write this today, nearly a year after the surgery, the gaps are much more noticeable than they should be at this stage. Here I go, digressing again.)
I heard myself saying, “Yeah, I’ll probably have to wear a retainer too, when this is all over, but for now I’m wearing rubber bands at night, sometimes during the day, and my jaw pain is nearly gone but occasionally I still get headaches..”
We never did find that book she wanted, as I had to cut the woman short (she kept referring to me as “that boy” and enough is enough) and call someone over to the desk to help her, but I learned something that night. Never kick a gift horse in the mouth, because they’ll probably need braces afterward. And that shit’s expensive.
But that brings me to another fond memory, also involving my job and stupid questions I am asked by doctors and the people who surround them. This story, however, brings us to an office far, far away, but just down the road, really, from my orthodontist. I was at the dentist for my every-four-months cleaning. Yes, every four, not the every six like the rest of you normal people. They love me so much that they want to see me three times a year! Isn’t that wonderful? My filthy teeth give them such joy, such pleasure, that when they come charging at me with drills and scrapey things and silver glinting, pointy objects, I just can’t say no. I really can’t, actually; they insist on seeing me more often than usual because they don’t trust my brushing abilities. Sometimes, I just want to ask what they would do if all of their patients brushed their teeth properly — would they be out of a job? But then they’d probably start finding nearly-invisible cavities, any excuse at all to cause me more pain than usual.
And for the record, my teeth are not that filthy. They are not. With braces, you see, food does get stuck. And I can brush and brush and brush as often as I want, I can floss, I can poke around with picks and all sorts of miniature devices, but I will never get my teeth as professionally clean as they do at a dentist’s office. Let’s face it. That’s what the dentist is for. So they shouldn’t get all accusing and nasty when I go for a visit; instead of “Andrea, you really need to brush nearer to the gum line, okay? Do you want gingivitis? Do you?”, I should be hearing rounds of applause, cheers, “Thanks Andrea! You’re our best patient! Why, you’re keeping us in business!” Yeah, you’re welcome. Where’s my free toothbrush?
So I was at the dentist, on a fine and lovely spring day, and my mouth was undergoing a fat-fingered invasion. I always have the same hygienist, a woman with dark hair and a nice enough face but shit, she has some fat fingers. Nobody likes a toothly professional with fat fingers. Everything feels more crowded than usual, you gag, she gets annoyed — both parties go home miserable. I honestly don’t remember her name; my sisters and I just refer to her as Fat Fingers. It’s terrible of us, I know, but it isn’t like I mistake her for a member of the opposite sex, unlike some customers I know..
Anyway, Fat Fingers was giving me the usual Spanish Inquisition. Except she at least remembers that I’ve been out of school for a little while now, and also that I work in a bookstore.
“So, how’s work?” she said, prodding around a molar.
“It’s — ahhhh — okay,” I winced.
“Which one do you work at again?”
Well, I never said she was perfect.
“The one on rooo-owwwww! Roo.. route __,” I said.
“Oh, that one. Right. Hey, do you read Jodi Picoult?”
It was all I could do to stop myself from laughing hysterically and gagging on the sharp metal object in my mouth. I have nothing personally against Jodi Picoult, or her fans that I’ve heard refer to themselves as “Picos”, or the official e-newsletter called “Pi-Cult”.. no, I’m sure she’s a lovely woman; it’s just her books that suck. They’re all relatively the same to me, though I have never read a single one, and I never intend to. They just aren’t for me. I prefer books with substance. And hey, maybe her books have substance — I’m just never going to find out. Cheesy, sentimental, keep-the-Kleenex-nearby kinda stuff. In other words, no thanks, keep it to yourself, call me when you’ve read something that’s not going to show up as a Lifetime movie one day.
Imagine my simultaneous delight and horror, then, to discover that Fat Fingers is a fan. A “Pico”, or whatever, if you will.
“..I know that she’s very popular,” I countered, which is what I often say when a customer asks about a book that I either don’t like and know nothing about, except that I don’t like it.
“Oh, I’ve read almost all of her books. They’re fantastic,” she went on. Fat Fingers, who usually never has a nice thing to say (because she’s usually too busy complaining about my teeth, the teeth that are KEEPING HER EMPLOYED, DAMMIT), sounded surprisingly positive, upbeat, cheerful, even. Maybe Jodi Picoult was worth a try, after all.
“Yeah, they’re, um, big sellers,” I said. “One of them’s going to be a movie soon, with Cameron Diaz.”
“Well, you should really read them sometime,” she said. “Also, you need to floss more. Your gums are just so inflamed.” She sighed heavily, all happy feelings completely disappeared.
I closed my eyes, and as she kept scraping, prodding, and poking, I repeated a mantra in my head for the rest of the visit. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books..
So, braces, here’s to you! Here’s to us! Here’s to another year, filled with mashed potatoes, Carnation Instant Breakfast, and pudding by the truckload! Thanks for all the great memories! I love you, babe. Let’s never break up. Until my teeth are straight, that is, and then I’m dropping you like it’s hot. And in the immortal words of Paris Hilton, “That’s hot.”
