Unwelcome Dental Advice

Sometimes I forget to post updates or new content, but know that it’s because I’m always busy with something. A-B-C: Always Be Creating. And that’s just what I’ve been doing the last few weeks. I recently entered NaNoWriMo (https://nanowrimo.org/dashboard) for the first time, after talking about doing it for years. Well, this year I am doing it. I’m writing a book of short stories (a few of which I’ve posted here, but will be polished up for the final copy) called Bathing in Cyanide. You can view my progress here: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/unwelcomedentaladvice

That said, I’m going to post a small excerpt from the first story called “The Last Six Hours.”

It was a typical Wednesday at 11 a.m., because that’s how these stories always start out: a blustery morning, overcast and chance of rain. Eric Grantham sat at the shabby bar – typical for him – with a half-eaten club sandwich, a basket of soggy onion rings to one side, and three empty lowball glasses on the other. A vinegary pearl onion, run through by a toothpick with a frilly plastic piece on the end, stood silent vigil in each of those glasses while Eric fiddled with the toasted wheat bread on the uneaten half of his sandwich.

The bar, a little hole-in-the-wall simply named “Greg’s,” was otherwise empty. On a typical day, Eric was Greg’s only customer at this time. Today seemed like a typical day. A commercial played on the old cathode ray television, held up in the eastern corner of the bar by some ancient T.V. stand. The display, grainy with a tinge of vertical hold issue, showed a famous cartoon lizard attempting to sell car insurance at a baseball game. Cars passed the bar slowly on the street and only a few people walked by. Those who did paid little mind to the hole-in-the-wall as it prominently displayed its “B” rating from the health and safety inspection in its window like a badge of honor.

This wasn’t the kind of place one would attempt to pick up women at, even on a busy night. The only women that came here were a few college girls with their boyfriends who might drop by on a pub crawl, or 70-year-old bridge players who came because Greg still allowed them to smoke in the bar. Eric didn’t come here for the women. Nor did he truly come here for the food. It was greasy and otherwise tasteless. Eric didn’t really know why he came here, but he did. Every day. Every day he’d order the same club sandwich, the same soggy-ass onion rings, and the same three gin Gibson cocktails with a pearl onion that he never ate.

He and Greg weren’t friends. Hell, he didn’t even really like Greg. Greg was a boring man with a boring job and boring hobbies. The extent of their conversations was typically Eric’s order and payment. Occasionally, Greg might ask how he was doing, or inquire about Eric’s work, but when he refused to give an answer Greg stopped asking. One time, on a day where Eric was feeling non-typically talkative, he and Greg had a long discussion about baseball cards. Rather, Greg wouldn’t shut the hell up about baseball cards and Eric was forced to listen to the aging bartender go on and on about autographed cards and the difference between on-card autographs and sticker autos, then shift to something he called “relic cards,” which were apparently baseball cards with pieces of player uniforms in them. As if you would want some sweaty player’s piece of jock strap as a collectible. The entire conversation – which was woefully one-sided – made Eric want to shove glass in his eyes.

Remembering their conversation completely nullified what might have remained of Eric’s appetite and he stood. Eric wasn’t exactly the most handsome man. Bad genes, and all that. He often thanked his mother for his male pattern baldness, which resulted in him having to shave his head since the age of 25. Better a shaved head than that stupid toilet bowl of hair around it. Now he was 41, and the only thing he could do to hide the ugliness of his shaved head and dinosaur footprint birthmark on his cheek was to grow a shabby looking beard. Unfortunately, like his father, his beard didn’t grow straight or in a solid color. Instead, it looked like a pubic hair bird nest with patchy dark brown and gray hair growing in a skunk stripe pattern on his chin. If it weren’t for his clean clothes and demeanor, he might have looked homeless.

“I’m out,” he told Greg, who was hand cleaning the three lowball glasses Eric had drunk from. Eric tossed two twenty-dollar bills on the grimy wooden countertop, expecting no change back, and turned to walk away.

Greg, who had his back to Eric when he stood, turned. “Same time tomorrow?”

Without verbalizing a reply, Eric merely donned his faded gray fedora and tipped it with a grunt and a nod. He wore a gray tweed coat that draped over him almost down to his knees. Because of the chilly weather, he was forced to pull it tight around himself instead of leaving it loose like he typically would. With a gentle shove, he pushed open the bar door, which made a loud creak, and stepped onto the sidewalk of 23^rd Street of Oklahoma City. He hated this city, yet fate willed him to be here not once, but twice.