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Story | Sep 19 2006

I read the first half of the story on the train to and from my dentist’s office—or rather, to and from my dentists’ offices, for I now have two dentists: a general one, if that is what those are called, and a periodontist. I liked it, the story, very much. I read the beginnings of many stories but finish very few. This one I liked but did not finish, for unknown reasons.

This morning, on my way to the bathroom, I spotted the magazine where I must have left it, on K’s desk, open to the story. I started reading again, backpedaling a few paragraphs to get re-oriented, as I continued to walk to the bathroom. There I brushed my teeth (tongue included), flossed, and gargled with a prescription rinse. I’ve been doing this twice a day for the past week on the recommendation of my periodontist, a moon-faced man who, again for unknown reasons (there are so many things I’ll never know), reminds me of Werner Herzog.

I went to this man because of bad breath. My general dentist, his sister, referred me to him, wanting to rule out gum disease as the cause of my bad breath. As mentioned, my periodontist made me think of Werner Herzog, despite being, like his sister, Chinese. After a perfunctory examination, he pronounced my gums healthy but said that my tongue seemed an odd color and prescribed the prescription rinse. At home, K said that my tongue looked almost furry to her, particularly in the back. Embarrassed, I haven’t shown her my tongue since, although I don’t believe it’s furry anymore, if it ever was. Also, K reports that my breath is fine now, so clearly the routine is working.

But this isn’t the point; the point is what happened in the bathroom. I was reading the story as I entered, and didn’t want to stop, so I completed my routine while reading. Brushing and flossing were simple enough (I placed the magazine at the edge of sink), but gargling was tricky, as I had to hold the magazine in front of my face as I periodically tilted my head back to gargle (I’ve taken to gargling in ten-second intervals). It wasn’t until I spit out the rinse, holding the magazine a foot or so to the side so I didn’t spit on the story, before I realized what I was doing. I laughed then, imagining myself as a character in a film—a man who reads compulsively as the world collapses around him—before returning to the story.