Toothpaste.
“Excuse me?”
“What brand and type of toothpaste do you use?”
That’s how it began. I find it slightly
humorous that it will also find its mildly fruitful end in much the same
manner.
The moment we met in that godforsaken,
prototypical, and highly unremarkable neighborhood bar was little more than a
momentary lapse in judgment. I prefer to chalk it up to the drunken
stupor I have become so well acquainted with. The bar tender, Mike (or
was it Ike? Maybe it was Keith.), was working his usual Wednesday night
shift and providing me with my usual Wednesday night tequila-straight-no-chaser
buzz when the homely man I now call my husband sat down on the stool next to
mine. There were plenty of other vacant stools and chairs and even a
couch, so I was rather irritated when he insisted on forcing his way into my
personal space. However, he bought me a shot of tequila so I opted to endure
his presence. That’s when he opened his mouth to deliver the worst pickup
line in world history. Really, who inquires into a person’s dental
hygiene upon meeting them? Burt would. With such an odd inquiry, I
presumed him to be a dentist or at the very least a dental hygienist.
Burt is neither. Burt works the line in a toothpaste factory.
Burt operates the machine that screws the caps onto the tubes. Burt
takes great pride in his work and talks of nothing more.
A few shots later, I decided to take Burt home
with me. Naturally, he insisted on examining my tube of toothpaste before
things progressed any further. Upon his satisfaction with whatever it was
he saw about the tube, things did indeed progress. Our night of
fornication was as unexceptional as Burt himself and was better left forgotten.
Yet I had not accounted for the man’s persistent demeanor. Believe
me, I tried ignoring his calls the first three days, wondering at what point I
gave him my telephone number. On the fourth day, being perhaps a
larger mistake than sleeping with him, I answered the phone in a fit of
frustration. Rather than requesting I accompany him to dinner and a
movie, Burt asked if I would take a short holiday with him. Intrigued for
what would be the first and only time in our two years together, I accepted.
That following weekend we went to a small town
in northern Tennessee that would be better off disowned by the whole of
America. No, better blasted off the earth entirely. This backwoods
town is arguably famous as the birthplace of the founder of Burt’s toothpaste
company. I would describe this “holiday” more in-depth, fortunately I
have managed to almost entirely block it out of my memory much like a victim
who has suffered through a traumatic event.
Again, Burt’s persistent demeanor overwhelmed me
and I continued to see him. For such a simple-minded man, Burt quickly
discovered the means to my heart by providing me with an endless supply of
tequila. So when he proposed three nearly insufferable months later, I in
my intoxicated state, agreed. Since I had nothing better to do, as my
appointment with my hair dresser was canceled, we went to the courthouse the
following Tuesday and were wed by a tiny little man with a beard too full and
too long for his tiny little frame.
Here Burt and I are, two years of wedded
tolerance. Burt has been a decent man to me. He never raises his
voice, he has no opinions on anything other than dental hygiene so
disagreements are non-existent in our relationship (barring I forget to floss),
and he always comes home at acceptable hours. I suppose it would be
unreasonable to hope for much else in these socially expected practices.
There is no doubt in my mind that the success
(naturally, I use this term loosely) of our relationship lies solely in my
disposition on life. I’m a realist. “Good head on her shoulders.
Real down to earth girl”, my father said about me the first time I met
him. Actually he said it about my half-sister, but some magazine whose
cover featured a beaker-toting man said those sorts of things are hereditary.
Love exists. It does. As I’ve
stated, I’m a realist, so I’m not delusional enough to believe it’s like the
“love” on the soap operas I watch while Burt’s at work so diligently putting
caps on toothpaste tubes. It’s more like one of those “Magic Eye”
pictures where you have to squint and half way cross your eyes to see the
image. Love is Burt caring enough to make me the sole beneficiary on the
new life insurance plan his company is offering.
“It’s half of one year’s pay! And it’s
completely free of charge! It’s so wonderful that a big company like that
would care about all the little people who work there by ensuring our families
will be taken care of when we’re gone”, he said one night over a box of left over
pizza. Realists don’t cook.
“Really, I feel so much better knowing my little
Sugar Cookie won’t have to worry about money after I die”, he continued.
“I get a little too intoxicated and eat two
twelve count boxes of large sugar cookies ONCE, and now I’m ‘Sugar Cookie’?”
“This really is a wonderful thing the company is
doing.”
Now squinty and half cross-eyed, I’ve been
formulating a means to give love a little nudge in the right direction.
Half of Burt’s yearly pay makes a beautiful three dimensional image on
the page. With what he’s worth, I could buy a gently used SUV, like the
one the woman next door owns. We chat outside every afternoon about the
day’s soap opera drama. With my gently used SUV, we could talk about our
vehicles too. Or I could make a sizeable down payment on a brand new
mid-range sedan, though that wouldn’t be much of a conversational piece with
the neighbor.
With half of Burt’s yearly pay, I could buy a
large diamond ring. I would show it off to the neighbor lady. She
would silently stare at my finger and envy my ring while we discussed which
woman had an affair with which doctor/lawyer on television that morning.
She could never have a ring like that with all those kids in the house.
One of them would undoubtedly sell it for drug money. The diamond
would be so large that the ring would come with one of those little people—like
the kind they show on the family network dealing with various adversities—to
hold my hand up. Society really does exploit those little people.
Love’s not easy. Even the delusional
romantics know that. It takes work, patience, and a set of sharp knives.
Unfortunately, the “sharp knives” part poses a bit of a problem.
Damn out-sourcing and cheaply made knives. Burt’s thick skull would
bend the ones in the kitchen.
I’m not without common sense. I know
smothering him with his pillow is an option. I did consider it, but Burt
has issues with his sweat glands and he would surely sweat profusely during the
suffocation process. I would hate for his stench to stain and ruin the
pillow case. It’s a really lovely case that matches the 200 thread count
sheets quite nicely.
The other day I decided to treat Burt with some
homemade lemonade. He told me it tasted like bitter almonds and wouldn’t
drink it. I called him an ungrateful bastard. He sheepishly
apologized, but still wouldn’t drink his arsenic lemonade.
This leads me to my current brilliant plan.
Arsenic is hard to come by. I had to buy it from an obese man with
pit stains. I’ll bet Burt’s life insurance that arsenic man’s wife can’t
smother him with his pillow either. So I couldn’t let the leftovers go to
waste. I’ve thrown all but one of the toothpaste tubes in the medicine
cabinet away. The one remaining has been laced with the lemonade leftovers
and awaits Burt’s nightly oral hygiene ritual. Bitter almonds won’t keep
Burt from brushing his teeth. It had better not, at least. Creating
poison toothpaste was more difficult than making a poison beverage.
“Sugar Cookie?”
“Don’t call me Sugar Cookie.”
“Sugar Cookie…”
“If you’re going to complain about the
toothpaste like you did the lemonade, you might consider a trip to the doctor.
Don’t they say you taste bitter almonds before you have a stroke?”
“Sugar Cookie…”
Burt ever so slowly walked into the bedroom
holding my toothpaste creation. Damn it. I thought this one was
fail proof. The man must really have a thing against bitter almonds.
“You left the lid off of the toothpaste and it’s
been squeezed from the middle. I told you in the beginning of our
relationship how that makes me feel.”
Burt continued his melodramatic gait as he laid
the toothpaste container on our night stand. He then made his way to the
closet where he pulled out a suitcase.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to stay at my mother’s for awhile.
I think I’ve got some soul searching to do. I love you but I just
can’t live like this. I never thought our marriage would end like this. I
thought we’d always be together. You think you know someone…”, he trailed
off.
“What are you talking about?!”
“The toothpaste.”
***
Rosie Picone was raised in Lexington, KY by a couple of kindly wolves until she ran away to join the circus. She currently lives in Lexington and fancies herself a fiction writer.
Rosie Picone was raised in Lexington, KY by a couple of kindly wolves until she ran away to join the circus. She currently lives in Lexington and fancies herself a fiction writer.
