Kevin Costner Seeking Dry Land Has Nothing on My Search for Lost Retainer
One of these days God will stop nickle and diming me and just scrag my ass. God did something to my retainer and it disappeared. The top one, the one it took forever to get used to. These are the kind of things God does to me on a constant basis. God takes my retainer. God hides my keys. God loses my personal statement in e-mail land that I sent to The New School ages ago. (Well, okay, so God tried to scrag me twice for real in the last 9 months, but (knock on wood) I keep living through it. One would think I would have acquired immunity to lesser scrag attempts by being at death’s door so many times, but noooooo….. These attempts to ANNOY me to death continue.)
If you wore braces for three years you become a bit touchy about your retainer. It feels important. You suffered so much, you don’t want to fuck it all up by not wearing it. This is why losing it is such an enormous pain in the ass. This is particularly true when you lose it on the rain soaked streets of Budapest, but you are not sure exactly on which street corner. You must understand that your retainer is your child. It is forlorn and abandoned in some filthy puddle next to some dog poo, incapable of carrying out its destiny. It is alone, without its friend and lover, the lovely Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I tried to create a psychic link with Retainer of the Upper Jaw by concentrating on Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I was unsuccessful. I retraced my steps. I get lost EVERYWHERE. For me to retrace my steps through the streets of Budapest is the functional equivalent of, say, a Shetland pony knitting a sweater. I tried to think back to where I last had it. Antique bookshop? I tried to find the antique bookshop. I could not find the antique bookshop. Where the hell was it? I opened the book I bought there and randomly stared at a poem, seeking inspiration. I am a big believer in random shit.
THE RUNAWAY BOY
Wunst I sassed my Pa, an’ he
Won’t stand that, an’ punished me, -
Nen when he was gone that day,
I slipped out an’ runned away.
I took all my copper-cents,
An’ clumbed over our back fence
In the jimpson-weeds ‘at growed
Ever’where all down the road.
(This book comes with illustrations. They are so syrupy I nearly wretched. I would include them but I fear them). Obviously, my retainer ran away because I mistreated it. It is all so clear to me now. You might ask yourself why I read this godawful shit. I am a big believer in horrible poetry. Not in mediocre poetry – anybody can write mediocre poetry. Anybody can write good poetry, when they get inspired or DUMPED. To write godforsaken crap like THE RUNAWAY BOY and get it published takes incredible perseverance and connections.
Dentist, Budapest Style
As luck would have it, I was scheduled to go and see the dentist that day. There was no formal appointment, just show up and ask to talk to him.
Hungarian dental care mimics medical care. They just don’t fuck around at the dentist. I arrived at the dentist’s office at 2pm. There were twenty people ahead of me. I said I just wanted a quick consultation. After five minutes, the receptionist called those who just wanted to talk to the dentist to go and see him one at a time. I was fourth. Within a half an hour I got to see him. I reminded him of our last encounter, the time when he yanked out all four of my wisdom teeth in a half an hour, without pain or proof of insurance, for 200 bucks.
“I lost my retainer – my top retainer only - two hours ago.” I felt like such an ASS.
Without another word, he fumbled around for a plastic tray looking thingie and shoved it in my mouth. I made mmmmphmm sounds. He pushed down on my jaw. Looking satisfied, he removed the tray and gave it to the technician. “Fill this with (whatever it was that he said was blue and looked like clay).”
He looked around in my mouth with a mirror (a clean one) as I detailed the rest of my problems. “Go get me an x-ray.”
“Okay.”
“Get it from the city, not from your mother’s town.”
“Okay.”
“I will tell you exactly where to get it from.”
“Okay.”
Without telling me that it was coming, he shoved the blue clay mold into my mouth. After it filled my soul with its blueness, he added like an afterthought: “Oh, breathe through your nose.”
I began to choke and made fashionable vomiting sounds. I did not have anything to eat since breakfast, thank god. I made very loud sounds, too. The door to the waiting room was wide open – they could not see me where I was, but the sounds coming out of my lips must have been totally disgusting.
He waited it out. I had a feeling I could have gotten sick and choked to death on my own effluvia and he still would not have removed the mold until it set. He waited.
I choked.
He waited.
Pleased, he removed the tray. “You have done well!” I added the grasshopper in my mind. I was sent on my way. Like I said, they don’t fuck around at the dentist.
You Can’t Get Blood Poisoning from Potatoes
Going home from the dentist was such an adventure. It really was. More nickel and dime shit, AGAIN.
“You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.”
I glanced over. These women were in their mid sixties. There were two of them facing each other sitting on one of Hungary’s light rail (HEV) trains. One of them, the one in the suspiciously camouflage type jacket, was holding up a torn, blood caked, filthy fingernail like some kind of power symbol.
“No. You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.” The woman in the blue coat said this in a calm, even tone. I think she would have used the same tone to say something like ‘no – you can’t die of drowning’.
A shrill whistling sound halted all conversation. After a momentary pause it became evident that gas was escaping. Somewhere. What kind of gas? Nobody seemed to know. Why was gas escaping? Nobody seemed to know. The train came to a gradual stop a hundred feet from the station. The intercom crackled to life. “We are stopping here to stop the gas from escaping. One sec.”
We blinked at one another. Apparently, this was not a cause for blind panic. The shrill whistling was coming from the cockpit in the back of the train. A conductor looking person forced his way through the electric doors. He was old and kind looking, sort of a country bumpkin in a uniform. God, he was blushing mightily. He disappeared in the cockpit and the shrill whistling sound cut off.
We started moving again.
If you wore braces for three years you become a bit touchy about your retainer. It feels important. You suffered so much, you don’t want to fuck it all up by not wearing it. This is why losing it is such an enormous pain in the ass. This is particularly true when you lose it on the rain soaked streets of Budapest, but you are not sure exactly on which street corner. You must understand that your retainer is your child. It is forlorn and abandoned in some filthy puddle next to some dog poo, incapable of carrying out its destiny. It is alone, without its friend and lover, the lovely Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I tried to create a psychic link with Retainer of the Upper Jaw by concentrating on Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I was unsuccessful. I retraced my steps. I get lost EVERYWHERE. For me to retrace my steps through the streets of Budapest is the functional equivalent of, say, a Shetland pony knitting a sweater. I tried to think back to where I last had it. Antique bookshop? I tried to find the antique bookshop. I could not find the antique bookshop. Where the hell was it? I opened the book I bought there and randomly stared at a poem, seeking inspiration. I am a big believer in random shit.
THE RUNAWAY BOY
Wunst I sassed my Pa, an’ he
Won’t stand that, an’ punished me, -
Nen when he was gone that day,
I slipped out an’ runned away.
I took all my copper-cents,
An’ clumbed over our back fence
In the jimpson-weeds ‘at growed
Ever’where all down the road.
(This book comes with illustrations. They are so syrupy I nearly wretched. I would include them but I fear them). Obviously, my retainer ran away because I mistreated it. It is all so clear to me now. You might ask yourself why I read this godawful shit. I am a big believer in horrible poetry. Not in mediocre poetry – anybody can write mediocre poetry. Anybody can write good poetry, when they get inspired or DUMPED. To write godforsaken crap like THE RUNAWAY BOY and get it published takes incredible perseverance and connections.
Dentist, Budapest Style
As luck would have it, I was scheduled to go and see the dentist that day. There was no formal appointment, just show up and ask to talk to him.
Hungarian dental care mimics medical care. They just don’t fuck around at the dentist. I arrived at the dentist’s office at 2pm. There were twenty people ahead of me. I said I just wanted a quick consultation. After five minutes, the receptionist called those who just wanted to talk to the dentist to go and see him one at a time. I was fourth. Within a half an hour I got to see him. I reminded him of our last encounter, the time when he yanked out all four of my wisdom teeth in a half an hour, without pain or proof of insurance, for 200 bucks.
“I lost my retainer – my top retainer only - two hours ago.” I felt like such an ASS.
Without another word, he fumbled around for a plastic tray looking thingie and shoved it in my mouth. I made mmmmphmm sounds. He pushed down on my jaw. Looking satisfied, he removed the tray and gave it to the technician. “Fill this with (whatever it was that he said was blue and looked like clay).”
He looked around in my mouth with a mirror (a clean one) as I detailed the rest of my problems. “Go get me an x-ray.”
“Okay.”
“Get it from the city, not from your mother’s town.”
“Okay.”
“I will tell you exactly where to get it from.”
“Okay.”
Without telling me that it was coming, he shoved the blue clay mold into my mouth. After it filled my soul with its blueness, he added like an afterthought: “Oh, breathe through your nose.”
I began to choke and made fashionable vomiting sounds. I did not have anything to eat since breakfast, thank god. I made very loud sounds, too. The door to the waiting room was wide open – they could not see me where I was, but the sounds coming out of my lips must have been totally disgusting.
He waited it out. I had a feeling I could have gotten sick and choked to death on my own effluvia and he still would not have removed the mold until it set. He waited.
I choked.
He waited.
Pleased, he removed the tray. “You have done well!” I added the grasshopper in my mind. I was sent on my way. Like I said, they don’t fuck around at the dentist.
You Can’t Get Blood Poisoning from Potatoes
Going home from the dentist was such an adventure. It really was. More nickel and dime shit, AGAIN.
“You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.”
I glanced over. These women were in their mid sixties. There were two of them facing each other sitting on one of Hungary’s light rail (HEV) trains. One of them, the one in the suspiciously camouflage type jacket, was holding up a torn, blood caked, filthy fingernail like some kind of power symbol.
“No. You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.” The woman in the blue coat said this in a calm, even tone. I think she would have used the same tone to say something like ‘no – you can’t die of drowning’.
A shrill whistling sound halted all conversation. After a momentary pause it became evident that gas was escaping. Somewhere. What kind of gas? Nobody seemed to know. Why was gas escaping? Nobody seemed to know. The train came to a gradual stop a hundred feet from the station. The intercom crackled to life. “We are stopping here to stop the gas from escaping. One sec.”
We blinked at one another. Apparently, this was not a cause for blind panic. The shrill whistling was coming from the cockpit in the back of the train. A conductor looking person forced his way through the electric doors. He was old and kind looking, sort of a country bumpkin in a uniform. God, he was blushing mightily. He disappeared in the cockpit and the shrill whistling sound cut off.
We started moving again.
posted by Balázsy András at 6:02 PM
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