"You miss them at first, then your gums harden up. After a while you don’t even notice that they’re gone": a dental conversation by Ahipara writer Karen Phillips
I’m third in a queue of shoppers waiting to pay for their purchases. The sales assistant, whose name is Tania, according to her badge, slides a customer’s items across her scanner.
“I’m getting my teeth extracted,” Tania says to her. She pronounces extracted carefully, as if it’s a word she’s just discovered. She doesn’t greet the customer by name, but already I have a sense that this is the sort of place where people might know each other.
“Extracted?” The customer repeats the word as if unsure of the meaning.
“Pulled out. All of them. Dentist said they’re not worth saving.”
“How much’ll that cost then?”
“Over five thousand dollars if you get a full set of false ones.”
“What? Are they gold-plated?” a man behind me asks.
The quiet chatter of the other customers waiting in line fades, possibly out of respect for the large sum of money Tania has to find. She’s surely on the minimum wage. The woman at the front of the queue squeezes her purchases into her shoulder bag. It’s too small, but an overcrowded bag might be better than buying the expensive eco-friendly ones offered in lieu of plastic bags. I can’t judge anything here. I’m far from the upmarket apartment blocks and café culture where I lived two days ago, although in reality that life is only a few suburbs away.
The customer smiles at Tania. “See you later. Good luck with your teeth. Will you get the new ones right away?”
“No. I can’t decide how many I need.”
The next customer steps up to the till. Tania smiles. “Hi, Tess. That boy of yours, he swims like a fish. He did well, eh?”
“Sure did. That’s why he’s getting this wetsuit. Hey, I didn’t know you were getting your teeth out.”
“Can’t put it off any longer.”
“It took Mum forever to pay for hers.”
Tania shrugs. “I know, but when forever comes, that’s the end. No more pain in the mouth or pocket.”
I run my tongue over the chipped edge of one of my own teeth which, thankfully, is not yet causing me any pain. I knew Justin would lock me out of our apartment but I didn’t know that the lock-out would extend to our bank account. I didn’t think he could do that.
The small boy in the arms of an older woman behind me starts to cry. As she tries to shush him, he flings himself backwards so that his head hits me on the shoulder. I look at the single item in her hand.
“You go,” I say. “I”m not in any hurry.”
I’ve nothing else to do and Tania’s pain and future financial ruin are much more interesting to me than my purchases – a knife, fork, spoon, saucepan, detergent, a pack of two tea towels and two coffee cups. I thought hard about buying two coffee cups. That might be one too many but all I took with me when I left was a small suitcase of clothes and the part of my life that lives in my phone and laptop. That’s the problem when you run away. There’s no manual for it. It’s difficult to know what to pack.
The woman with the child steps in front of me and an elderly man shuffles into her place. He leans his walking stick against the counter. The woman might be the little boy’s grandmother – they have the same eyes. She sits him on the counter and produces multiple purchases from a large basket on the floor. She throws me a smile that might be an apology. The boy picks up a toy figure and jiggles the arm up and down so that the sword in its hand emits flashes of light. His laugh lights up his face. I love watching little kids play. It amazes me how they work things out so easily, as if a special technology-deciphering gene is part of their DNA.
“Hi, Susu,” Tania says, “how’s it going?” She swipes Susu’s purchases across her scanner.
“Hi, Tania. I heard you say you’re getting your teeth out. I finally got my new ones. What do you think?” Susu turns towards the light and opens her mouth.
Tania studies the teeth. “They look good.”
“Let’s see,” the man behind says. Susu turns and smiles widely for us all. Six large teeth along both the top and bottom of her mouth gleam under the cold grey fluorescent light. Dark gaps bookend the rows of teeth.
“Didn’t ACC pay for a whole new set?” Tania asks.
“Nah. Just the ones Rob knocked out,” Susu says. “Bummer, eh?” She pushes her purchases into her bag. Then she brightens. “Doesn’t matter though. You don’t need the rest. Well, you miss them at first, then your gums harden up. After a while you don’t even notice that they’re gone.”
It’s hard to convince myself that I’ll harden up and not notice Justin’s absence. I was the one to leave, but I still look for him as often as a tongue pokes at the space left when a tooth is extracted. I check my phone for missed calls, texts or emails. I search for him in streets where I know he’ll never walk, streets where large families amble slowly along the footpath and cramped shops spill their contents from their doors.
I dragged him to this part of town once a long time ago in search of a particular spice. Justin wasn’t interested in listening to the music of different languages, wasn’t tempted by the smells of exotic foods. The slow-moving traffic fuelled his road rage. “I feel I should have a bloody visa to be here,” he said.
No doubt he’ll stay in our apartment, which is all polished surfaces and wide spaces with art on the walls and a rich man’s view of the city, and no room for a baby because he doesn’t want one – has never wanted one – and where did I get the idea that he would change his mind?
Near the exit on the other side of the check-out counters, a tall teenage boy takes empty cartons from a trolley and stacks them on a table. A girl in school uniform stops to talk. He says something then dismisses her with a flick of his head and turns back to his work. The girl’s smile disappears and she stands there as if unsure what to do next. Another customer reaches across her for one of the boxes. The girl looks at the boy again then heads for the exit. The boxes remind me that I need something to hold my kitchenware.
I also need a cardboard box for my food. I didn’t need boxes in my kitchen at the apartment. The kitchen there had every utensil required for every imaginable type of cuisine. On the rare occasions we ate at home the noise was from shiny gadgets not voices.
My room at the hostel contains a narrow bed, a table but no chair, a long thin cupboard with three coat hangers and a television not much bigger than my phone. Light from the tiny window high on the wall beside the door dies on its way to the floor. The hostel’s kitchen cupboards are sparsely stocked with utensils, while the walls are heavily stocked with messages like “your mother doesnt live here clean up after yourself”. Maybe it’s the lack of punctuation, or perhaps it’s simply the single smelly tea towel and lack of detergent that stop people from washing up properly. In the evening the room is filled with sound and movement as people cook, laugh and share stories of their day, completely unconcerned about the bacteria hiding on the dirty utensils.
I place my purchases on the counter beside the till. Tania pulls them towards her and the knife, fork and spoon glide across her scanner in a smooth continuous motion, followed by the tea towels and the detergent. The scanner flicks red light over the saucepan and the first coffee cup.
Tania reaches for the second cup. She picks it up, examines it carefully then frowns. “This one’s damaged. See that crack along the bottom?” She hands me the cup and when I squint, I can see a thin, almost invisible fracture. It’s a pity because I like the pattern. I turn it around to look at it again. “This batch of cups had a lot of faults,” Tania says. “Do you want to wait until we get the next lot in?” Her eyes look tired but her voice is gentle.
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” I say.
“These small cracks are harmless in the beginning but then they get worse. If the bottom falls out someone could get burned.”
I place the cup in Tania’s outstretched hand. “I”ll wait for a new one,” I say.
“Good choice.” She smiles and I see that two of her top front teeth and several of her bottom teeth show black decay. Her gums are puffy and red. I wonder how she can bother to care if an unknown woman wastes four dollars on a flawed cup. Tania is all business now. She places the damaged cup on the shelf behind her, totals up my purchases. “Would you like to buy a bag?” she asks.
The previous customers didn’t buy a bag so while I’m here I’ll do as they do. “No thanks,” I say. I pay her and scoop up my purchases, which don’t all fit into my shoulder bag. The saucepan handle almost hits me in the eye as I swing the strap across my shoulder.
“Have a nice day,” Tania says.
“You too.” I hesitate then smile at her. “Good luck with your teeth.”
The story appears in Karen Phillips's short story collection Glass Houses (The Cuba Press, $25), available from the publisher or selected bookstores.
