Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Chomp Chomp - Dave Goes to the Dentist & Teeth

Episode Date: February 24, 2023

“It has been many long years since he sunk his teeth into anything.”It’s gnashers all the way on the Vinyl Cafe this week! Freezing optional. Things go awry when Dave’s neighbour Eugene struggles with his false teeth and a cob of corn; and we discover Dave has dentist issues after he bites into a hard chocolate and cracks a tooth at Mary Turlington’s dinner party. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Café. Welcome. We have two stories for you today, and both of them are about... Oh God, I can barely even say it. Both of them are about... Both of them are about... Both of them are about teeth. I know. It's kind of weird, but stick with me. I promise it'll be worth it. Like, there's stories about teeth, but funny stories about teeth. All right. That sounds even weirder. Let's just get to it. Here's the first one. This is Dave Goes to the Dentist. It was inevitable that the chocolates would have come

from Mary Turlington. She said they had soft centers, said Dave. I don't remember that, said Morley. I don't remember her saying anything about chocolate, except that they were her favorites. Her favorite creams, said Dave. She said creams. I don't remember that, said Morley. Are you trying to say this was her fault? Then she leaned forward and she whispered, do you think it's a plot? It was a Sunday afternoon, one of those sunny Sundays when you suddenly believe that you might make it to the end of the winter after all. The sky bright blue, the world all light. Dave was lying on the couch and he was clutching a hot water bottle. It wasn't sunny or light by the couch.

By the couch it was gloomy and heavy. It could have been raining by the couch. By the couch, it was gloomy and heavy. Could have been raining by the couch. Dave dropped the hot water bottle on the floor and said, this isn't helping. Morley shrugged and kept reading. Morley was reading the paper. Morley said, there's a guy here who says Lady Bird Johnson was on the grassy knoll. They were actually talking about a box of chocolate, some dark and glistening, others soft and milky, chocolates wrapped in shiny green and gold foil.

Actually, they were talking about one particular chocolate, an almond toffee crunch. Mary Turlington had brought the chocolates when she and Bert had come for dinner. She said they were creams. Imagine, said Morley, sighing as she folded the paper and headed for the kitchen. Lady Burr Johnson.

Who would have guessed? Okay, so he bit into the chocolate harder than he should have. Certainly harder than he would have if he'd known it was an almond toffee crunch. He didn't actually feel his tooth break. You'd think there'd be pain if you cracked a piece off one of your teeth. There was no pain. There was no sensation whatsoever. There was just suddenly something in his mouth that wasn't chocolate and wasn't toffee. Dave was sitting at the dinner table with the Turlington's when this chocolate moment happened

and to his credit he tried to be discreet he slipped the piece of something into his hand and from there into his pocket so he could examine it later he sent his tongue not his fingers darting around his mouth to check for damage it landed on a tooth at the back of his mouth, or more accurately, it landed where there used to be a tooth and where there was tooth no more. Maybe five minutes passed. For five minutes, Dave sat at the dinner table, smiling vacantly at the conversation around him

while he explored this strange new place with his tongue. A disturbing turn of events, to be sure, but not an overwhelming one until the idea of infection awoke in him. For all Dave knew, things could be being sucked up through this hole directly into his brain. That couldn't be good. And then he was aware that somebody was calling his name. It was Morley. Dave, Morley was saying. And he looked up and noticed that everyone at the table was looking at him. And they all seemed to be expecting something from him. Dave smiled and reached for his water. It was a stall. Dave was trying to gather it up, trying to reconstruct the conversation that would be going on around him. Had he been thinking straight, Dave would have put the water down

without taking a sip. But Dave wasn't thinking straight. So instead, still trying to stall, thinking straight. So instead, still trying to stall, he brought the glass to his mouth. When the ice water hit the exposed tooth, it fell as if someone had driven an ice pick into his brain. For the briefest instant, his brain was the only thing that reacted. Mistake, thought his brain. Then the mouthful of water mixed with what was remained of the almond toffee chocolate fire hosed out was Saturday night. Now it was Sunday afternoon and there was still a good 18 hours before Dave could call the dentist, something he hadn't done for a good 10 years. Dr. Peter O'Hagan probably shouldn't have gone into dentistry in the first place. O'Hagan probably shouldn't have gone into dentistry in the first place. Dr. O'Hagan has a bit of the Irish in him, a deep melancholic vein that would have best been left undisturbed.

Might have remained so if he had chosen a less stressful profession. Every day when he headed to work, Dr. O'Hagan knew that someone was going to have something to say that would upset him. It wore him down. That sort of thing would wear anyone down week in and week out. But Peter O'Hagan kept grinding along, surrounded by patients who seemed to think that excavating tooth decay was something anyone could enjoy. At least once a week, somebody would mutter, I can't believe I'm paying you to make my gums bleed.

There were all sorts of whiners and flinchers, like Mrs. Struthers, who carried a bottle of eucalyptus to sniff while Dr. O'Hagan was working on her. She said it helped her gag reflex. It didn't. Or Leora Moore. Dr. O'Hagan just had to take a step towards Leora Moore and she would start to shake, even if she was there just for a checkup. And there was Dave. Dr. O'Hagan brought his melancholic streak to the Union. Dave brought fear. Fear that was sown into his soul when he was a child. When he was a child and a patient of the infamous Dr. Regin Tom. Dr. Tom was the only dentist in the town of Big Narrows where Dave grew up and Dr. Tom was a bully. up and Dr. Tom was a bully. It was Dr. Tom who told Dave he had soft teeth, made it sound like an accusation as if soft teeth were a sign of moral weakness. It was Dr. Tom who waved pliers

in front of Dave's mouth and said, if you don't do a better job brushing your teeth, I'm going to have to yank them out. It was Dr. Tom who didn't believe in anesthetic and always said the same thing whenever he hurt Dave. That didn't hurt now, did it? It was Dr. Tom who'd laid the battleground between Dave and the melancholic Peter O'Hagan, a relationship that had more lows than highs. The lowest moment being an appointment that had begun so hopefully. Dr. O'Hagan fitting Dave with his new audio headsets. That was 10 years ago. Dave lying back with the headsets over his ears, his eyes closed, cranking up Creedence Clearwater Revival as high as he could

crank them. So absorbed with the novelty of the headsets that he actually forgot he was with the dentist. He actually drifted off. Then he woke up abruptly when he realized that somebody was stuffing things down his throat. Well, sadly, that's not quite true. Dave didn't actually wake up. Well, sadly, that's not quite true. Dave didn't actually wake up. What happened was he thought he woke up, but he was actually dreaming. He was dreaming that someone was stuffing things down his throat. It was Dr. Tom. Dr. Tom was wearing a goalie mask in the dream like that kid in the horror movie.

And he was stuffing a full set of bath towels down Dave's throat. It was when the nurse said, get the washcloth in there too, that Dave woke up. Or he thought he woke up. If he had actually woken up, he might have still bitten Dr. O'Hagan. But he wouldn't have clamped down the way he did. He wouldn't have got his finger between his teeth and started shaking his head back and forth like a dog fighting for a bone. You would have thought he would have been woken by Dr. O'Hagan's scream.

But remember, Dave had the headsets on and he had them cranked up loud so he didn't wake up there and he didn't see the nurse running in to Dr. O'Hagan's side or hear the other patients fleeing from the waiting room. That was the last time David Bean to Dr. O'Hagan, 10 years ago. But now he needed a dentist and he didn't know anyone else.

So last Monday evening when Dave arrived at Dr. O'Hagan's office with his broken tooth, both of them were anxious. Dr. O'Hagan was surprised to see Dave's name on the appointment list. Ten years is a long time between appointments. He had assumed he was never going to see Dave again. Dr. O'Hagan's secretary knew this. She always scheduled Dave at the end of the day. And she did that last Monday, too. She knew after Dave, Dr. O'Hagan would be finished for the day. Where did he get our new address, he asked his secretary peevishly. By lunchtime, Dr. O'Hagan's back was aching.

And then he missed lunch. So by the time Dave dropped reluctantly into Dr. O'Hagan's chair at 5.45, Dr. O'Hagan was starving and cranky. Dave was already lying on the chair when Dr. O'Hagan came into the room. They had both decided independently it would be best if they didn't mention their last appointment. And neither of them did. I have a broken tooth, said Dave, pointing with his forefinger. Dr. O'Hagan picked up a prod.

You aren't going to touch it, said Dave, pulling back. It's the one that hurts. Dr. O'Hagan arched his aching back and he took a deep breath. Short time later, Dave's mouth was frozen and Dr. O'Hagan was working on the broken tooth with his drill, cleaning up the decay so he could patch it. When the drill was running, Dr. O'Hagan could ignore Dave's flinching and thrashing. But each time he stopped, Dave would begin mumbling. His mouth was full of cotton, so he was totally incoherent. To Dr. O'Hagan, Dave sounded vaguely threatening. Dave and Dr. O'Hagan were half an hour into their ordeal when things took a dramatic turn. One moment, Dr. O'Hagan was pressing the drill

into a soft patch in Dave's tooth. The next moment, Dave's tooth was falling into pieces right in front of his eyes. Dr. O'Hagan gasped. Dave heard the gasp and gripped the armrests harder, but he didn't open his eyes. Dr. O'Hagan could feel the muscles tensing around his neck and shoulders.

He still had a pleasant smile plastered on his face. How do you tell a patient that the tooth you were working on just self-destructed? How do you tell them that you just made their tooth worse instead of better? Ah, said Dr. O'Hagan, this might take a little longer than we thought. There's not much tooth to work with anymore. Dr. O'Hagan's back was throbbing. Dr. O'Hagan was faint with hunger. Dr. O'Hagan needed to pee.

This wasn't going the way he wanted it to go Dave was now clenching the chair tightly enough to leave an imprint of his fingernails in the imitation leather he seemed to be whimpering Dr. O'Hagan said let's put a little more freezing in he was going to do a nerve block it would freeze a quarter of Dave's face and half his tongue. Dr. O'Hagan began to drill again. Dave winced. Dr. O'Hagan wiped the sweat from his brow.

Dr. O'Hagan said, maybe you'd like a bit more freezing. I want it, slurred Dave. Nodding his head up and down. Keep it coming. Dr. O'Hagan was fighting for his life here. He had started this thing and it had gone wrong, but there was no stopping now. They had to finish. Dr. O'Hagan looked at Dave and tried to judge whether, in fact, Dave could take more xylocaine. He drew up a needle. And then he thought, what the hell? And he bent over and he stretched his arm behind him and he plunged it into his own aching back. And then he drew another one and gave it to Dave. And soon enough, it was

over. It's over, said Dr. O'Hagan. We're finished. He sprayed Dave's mouth with mouthwash, wintergreen, and Dave felt a wave of release wash over him. He brought his hand up to his face. His tongue felt like a pillow. He pulled himself unsteadily out of the dentist's chair. Are you okay, asked Dr. O'Hagan. Dave said, I'm going home to have a shrink. Me too, said Dr. O'Hagan. Xylocaine works by changing the electrolyte balance of a nerve. You change the electrolyte balance, and that changes the nerve's capability to transmit pain.

When Dave left Dr. O'Hagan's office, he had enough xylocaine in him to immobilize a rhinoceros. Dave was exhausted, but he was feeling no pain. Dave was exhausted, but he was feeling no pain. He was stopped by the ride program half a kilometer from Dr. O'Hagan's office. He rolled down his window, and he smiled at the officer shining the flashlight in his face. At least he thought he was smiling. It was difficult to tell. He seemed to have lost all control of his facial muscles.

He was drooling. Good afternoon, thought the cop. Had anything to drink tonight, sir, said the officer, leaning even closer. Dave had to concentrate to speak clearly. I haven't had a shing to shrink, he said. It didn't come out the way he wanted it to come clearly. I haven't had a shing to shrink, he said. It didn't come out the way he wanted it to come out. Placement nodded pleasantly and said, could you wait here a moment, sir? And he walked away. He came back with another officer. The second officer asked Dave to step out of the car. Then he asked Dave to walk a straight line, one foot in front of the other. Dave walked in a straight line, more or less.

He asked Dave to touch his nose. Dave reached up to his face. His nose seemed to have disappeared. Dave frowned and felt around his face. He couldn't find his nose. He looked at the cop and he grinned nervously. He said, my face is completely numb. And then he stuck his finger in his eye.

Here, he asked uncertainly. As Dave tried to locate his nose, the officer brought a small machine out to the cruiser. He asked Dave to blow. His levels were fine. Well, it's not alcohol, said the first cop to the second, but this guy is clearly higher than a kite. They put Dave in the back of the car. They said, we don't think you should be driving, sir. That was when Dr. O'Hagan drove by. When he saw the flashing police lights and spotted Dave standing beside the cruiser, his arms outstretched, slowly moving his extended finger past his nose and into his eye, Dr. O'Hagan pulled over on the side of the road.

He was about a block from the police car, and he parked there and he watched in his rearview mirror as the officer hustled Dave into the cruiser, and they drove away. Dr. O'Hagan smiled as the police car drove by him. Bye-bye, he said under his breath. Maybe there was justice in the world after all. Maybe they would lock up Dave, the biter, forever. That thought lasted about five seconds. It wasn't Dave's fault after all. It wasn't Dave who had all those years ago filled out the application to dental college. Dave wasn't with Dr. O'Hagan when he stood in the college guidance office and put back the pamphlet on art history and picked up the one on dentistry instead. When Dave stumbled out of the dental chair half an hour ago, he had immediately stuck his finger in his mouth and moved it over the smooth rebuilt tooth. And his brow had softened and he had mumbled a rather pathetic thank you before he lurched out

the door. Dr. O'Hagan sat beside the road and he reached out, he turned on the car stereo. Vivaldi's Four Seasons was playing spring. He reclined his car seat and he closed his eyes and he listened to the music. When the final strange of the Allegro sounded, Dr. O'Hagan sat back up. He was humming contentedly as he pulled into the police station parking lot, about to explain to the officers inside about the wonders of xylocaine. Thank you very much. That was the story we call Dave Goes to the Dentist. We recorded that story in Whistler, British Columbia in 2006. I remember that recording so well because Stuart changed

something about that story just at the last second. And that is totally something he did all of the time. And it drove me absolutely insane. Well, that's not really true. It used to drive me totally insane. I produced the show for 15 years. And for the first, I don't know, four or five years, it drove me crazy because Stuart would do this thing. He would wait until the very last second with everything, and he would fiddle with the stories.

I mean, he worked incredibly hard, as I've said here before, and he would be working on the story right until the very last minute before we recorded it. Writing, rewriting, editing, rewriting again. I mean, when we recorded a story, it would often be version 10, 12, 15, 20. And he was always tweaking, always fussing, which is part of the reason he was so good. But it drove me crazy because he'd be doing it to like 729 for a 730 show. And I said it used to drive me crazy because eventually after about four or five years, I started to realize, oh, he likes doing this. This is like part of his artistic process. He liked to back himself into a corner and get to a place where like,

he just had to figure his way out. He liked to be working on it till the very last second and kind of get himself all amped up. I think it was part of how he got himself ready to go on stage, how he gave himself that energy that he needed in order to walk out on stage. Anyway, whatever the case, there we were in Whistler, about to record Dave Goes to the Dentist. And he turns to me and he's like, I just feel like that part where the water shoots out of Dave's mouth could be funnier. And he came up with a solution.

He wanted to say the water shot out of Dave's mouth and hits Mary Turlington in the, and this is the word he wanted to use, cleavage. And I was like, no, no, no, no. You are not saying cleavage. And he's like, no, I'm going to say cleavage. It's funny. And I'm like, no, you're not saying cleavage. But we are now standing in stage left. The house lights have gone to half.

I've got my headphones on. They're about to announce Stuart's name. He's about to walk out on stage and he says, no, I'm saying cleavage. I'm like, no, you're not saying cleavage. So I can't remember how or when it happened, but he ended up asking the audience what they thought. Did they think it was appropriate? Was it okay? Was it not okay? What else could he say? And people started shouting words out from the audience. And this one woman, who I think was the mother of one of the band members, she said, décolletage, which was great. We all felt comfortable with décolletage. Well, we felt comfortable with it, but Stuart did not feel comfortable saying it. He could not say it.

Décolletage. Décolletage. Décolletage. Like it was all over the place. And I'm stage left going, crying out loud. Anyway, we landed, as you heard in that version of Dave Goes to the Dentist, we landed on bosom, which I never really liked. And if you want, the next time you listen to that story, you can just insert the word cleavage or decalatage. Up to you. you can just insert the word cleavage or décolletage. Up to you. All right. We have to take a quick break, but we'll be back in a minute with another Dave and Marley story. Welcome back. I told you we had two stories about, weirdly, teeth today. Well, here's the second one, and it has a very original title. It's called Teeth. The relationship between a gardener and his or her garden can be every bit as complicated as the relationship between two lovers.

Consider Eugene, for instance. Eugene, who lives next door to Dave and Morley. Consider the back corner of Eugene's garden, back by the shed. The corner where this May, as he has every May for the past 52 years, Eugene, now 92 years old, kneeled down in the damp spring earth and worked his fingers into the warm soil, grubbing out 10 little holes, each no deeper than two inches, no wider than a pencil stub, into which one by one Eugene carefully dropped his pocketful of leathery, shrunken seeds, each seed holding within it the secret promise of October. On his knees in May, Eugene by the shed, dreaming of October,

planted his seeds prayerfully. In his ninth decade, still bewitched by the wonder of God's earth, still enchanted by the seduction of sweet corn. This year, like last, Eugene planted autumn sun glow, a sweet, tender variety of the famous silver queen. As he covered each seed with a handful of dirt, then patted the soil down firmly, Eugene imagined, like any lover might imagine, the full ripeness of his beloved. Sweet ears of corn husked right in the backyard where they grew, right where he was kneeling even

now. Corn picked and plunged immediately into a bucket of ice-cold water and then carried gently into the kitchen and dropped softly into water that was already set to boil so the cobs could be cooked before any of the sugars even knew what was happening to them, before they could even think of converting to starch. Sweet cobs of corn swimming in butter, seasoned with salt, a seduction so perfect that just the thought of it would carry Eugene through the torpor of June, the fullness of July, the growing darkness of September. But Eugene is not a young man, and although he has harvested corn every year for 52 years, and although he got down on his knees and planted it again this spring, his 53rd summer in this garden,

it's been 17 long autumns since Eugene has sunk his teeth into a cob of sweet corn. In fact, it's been 17 long years since he's sunk his teeth into anything. The autumn he was 75 years old, Eugene and his wife Maria returned to Italy for two months, returned to the province of Calabria. wife Maria returned to Italy for two months, returned to the province of Calabria. They went to the village of Rondi to the 30-acre farm where Eugene grew up, run now by his nephew, his late brother Tommaso's son, God rest his soul. I have to see it, I have to see it one last time, said Eugene all that summer. Eugene never told his wife the real reason he wanted to go home. Never told her that he couldn't stand another winter in Canada with his teeth aching on every

inhalation of cold winter air, with every cup of hot coffee. He tried to get them fixed for years and when nothing had worked he'd gone to his dentist and said, pull them. His dentist, who every autumn imports a case of the small, dark-leaf, Toscano-style cigars Eugene smokes, imports them and then trades them for a trunk full of Eugene's homemade wine. His dentist wouldn't hear of it. Don't be crazy, he said. I won't do it, never. He talked about crowns and implants and a special toothpaste. Too much fuss, thought Eugene.

So Eugene and Maria went to Calabria, and on their last afternoon there, Eugene went to see old Paolo, the dentist, half blind, all hairy. And when it was his turn in the chair, Eugene said, out, all of them. And he sat there, his arms folded across his chest, his mouth open. He came home to Canada to get his false teeth. He thought it would be like getting new shoes. He thought they would make him new with the world again. He's a gardener. He believes in fresh starts. No one warned Eugene that removing your teeth was like removing a limb. Oh, you can if you work at it, manage without an arm or a leg, but you have to work at it. You have to learn a whole new set of skills to get by. 17 years ago when he was 75 years old, when he got his new teeth,

Eugene wasn't interested in learning new skills. He put the teeth in his mouth and he walked out of the dentist's office. He felt like he was chewing on a hockey puck. It was October the 19th, a week before his 76th birthday. Maria had invited half the neighborhood for dinner, including Bert and Mary Turlington, and Carl and Gerda Loebier, and Father Del Vecchio, and men from the Triboli Club where Eugene plays Scopa, and of course, Dave and Morley. Maria had spent the week getting ready. She had deep-fried squid and grilled potatoes and peppers in olive oil, and there was fresh cheese and homemade wine and country bread from Badaldo's with a crisp hard crust, and, of course, a pot of sweet corn.

They had to put three tables together to hold everyone, three tables, making a table so long it stretched out of the kitchen and into the front hall. And there was Eugene sitting at the head of this long table in front of all these people, some of whom Maria barely knew. He picked up the first cob, slathered it in butter, rolled it in salt, and brought it up to his mouth, everyone watching, waiting for him to begin. It was, after all, his birthday. Everyone smiling as Eugene picked up his corn and bit into it and then pulled the ear back from his mouth. Exactly. The ear of corn wedged between Eugene's upper and lower teeth like a long yellow rat caught in a trap. Jesus and Mary, said Father Delvecchio.

It was the last bite of corn Eugene ever took. But he kept growing it. For 17 long years, Eugene had grown his corn and given it away to his neighbors. But this year, he wasn't going to live without it any longer. He had lived without it long enough. Getting old, as Morley's mom Helen likes to say, is not a pastime for sissies. mom Helen likes to say is not a pastime for sissies. The frailties of old age are something Eugene has been ducking and denying for years. And Eugene has been ducking and denying old age with astounding success, especially for a 92-year-old who smoked those Parody, those little

Italian cigars, seemingly all day long, all his life. But even Eugene knew his lucky streak was going to run out one day, and probably sooner rather than later. The thought of it made him grumpy. He wasn't going another fall without an ear of his own corn. Last Wednesday, as she does every Wednesday, Maria was up at 5.30. She made her coffee, and by six she was sitting in the kitchen, her hair in curlers, getting ready for lunch club, reading the large print edition of the Reader's Digest. And last Wednesday, the sweet corn that has been growing all summer long in the back corner of Eugene's garden, out of sight by the shed, was begging to be picked.

By the time Eugene joined her at seven, Maria had moved on from the Reader's Digest and was struggling with a television guide, rereading for the fourth time a synopsis of last season's The West Wing. The president's daughter had been kidnapped, a fact that terrified Maria. Maria, who went to bed before the television news and didn't read newspapers and had never seen the West Wing, had confused the account of President Bartlett's life with reality. If the president's daughter could be kidnapped, no one was safe. Fear of kidnapping had been preying on her mind all week.

When Eugene shuffled into the kitchen, she looked up at her husband and she said, they still haven't found the president's daughter. It's been all summer. Then she said, make sure you lock the door when I leave. Eugene sat down heavily. Maria brought him his coffee and a bowl of fresh figs and melon. Eugene stared at the bowl of fruit and reached into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out his teeth. These days he mostly wears his teeth in his pocket. Removing them only when people come around or when it's time to eat. Eugene had never liked the set of teeth his dentist had made him.

In his darker moments, he suspected the dentist, who had disapproved of him having his teeth out, had made the teeth so they would torture him. But he never did anything about it. Eugene was worried if he said anything, he and the dentist might begin to feud, and he could lose his annual supply of free cigars. So instead of dealing with it up front, he had ordered sets of false teeth off the backs of health magazines, stuffing his mouth with the plasticine moles they sent him and returning them by mail. He had a set that made him whistle

like a guinea pig, and another that clattered as if his mouth was full of marbles. These were sets that Maria had outlawed. But on this Wednesday afternoon, Maria was not going to be home. Eugene was free to use any set of teeth he felt like. At noon, Eugene shuffled out to the end of the garden and picked up two fat ripe ears of corn. He stuffed them into his pockets so his hands could be free as he made his way to the kitchen. The water was already boiling. There was a plate on the kitchen table and salt and butter. And lying beside them, the sturdiest pair of teeth Eugene owned. A pair of teeth that Eugene had bought at a flea market and long forgotten. A set that employed a stiff spring to keep them in place.

The spring was armed to keep the teeth constantly open and thus pushed against his lower and upper gums. They were sitting on the table, wide open, looking like a leg-hold trap you might use on one of those vicious fur- animals like a like a wolverine. Eugene lowered the two ears of corn into the boiling water. He waited precisely three minutes and took them out. He carried them across the kitchen to the table and dropped them on his plate. He sat down heavily sighing as he went he picked up the teeth and brought them to his mouth opening as wide as he could as he tried to work them in they didn't fit in the open position their default position the teeth were too large to slide between his lips they used to work

and then Eugene remembered you had to force the spring closed and then slip the teeth into your mouth in the closed position. And when they were in place, you could release the pressure and the force of the spring would hold them in position. Eugene picked up the teeth and holding them in both hands like he was holding a hamburger, Eugene slipped them between his lips. Using his tongue to guide him, Eugene worked the teeth carefully back and forth, trying to get them to set down on his gums. And when they did, Eugene had a moment, a second maybe, or maybe two, two seconds of pure pleasure. As he sat at the kitchen table looking down at his two ears of steaming corn thinking to himself in that moment that life was grand. That even at 92 years this old earth could feel fresh

and new and pregnant with the promise of pleasure. Eugene with a pure joy of childhood reached out and picked up the first ear of corn and he held it in front of him for a second. It had been 17 long years. He breathed in the rich smell of the melted butter and he sighed and he opened his mouth and when he opened his mouth there was a far away click like a car door unlocking or a mousetrap going off in the night or a spring beginning to unravel. There was a click and another click and then another and Eugene put the corn back on the plate.

The clicks, which seemed to be coming from inside him, had begun to click so fast they were more of a whirring than a clicking now. And as Eugene sat there trying not to move, his mouth began to open. He was not trying to open his mouth. His mouth was opening on its own, wider and wider, wider than Eugene believed possible. So wide it felt like he was going to swallow his old head. And then the teeth reached their maximum open position and Eugene was standing in the middle

of his own kitchen, his mouth wide open, looking like a desperate birdling waiting for a worm. The phone rang. the phone rang. Eugene picked it up. Huh? He said, Eugene, said Maria. Thank God it was his wife. Eugene began to explain about the teeth. Oh, yeah.

Eugene, what's wrong, said Maria, fear swelling in her voice. I can't do it, said Eugene. And then, amazingly, Maria understood. After 65 years of marriage, sometimes words are unnecessary. Kidnappers. The same ones who had the president's daughter. Eugene hadn't locked the door like she told him. The kidnappers had tied and gagged her husband. Eugene said, Maria, desperately, I'm coming home. So there's Eugene standing in the kitchen staring at the phone, staring at the corn. Eugene standing in the kitchen wondering after all these years, after all those close calls, all the near misses, is this how he was going to die?

Ripped apart by a set of false teeth. He was about to be handed the ultimate punishment because he had given in to the siren call of illicit love, because he had succumbed to passion, an emotion that belonged properly with the young, not an old fool like him. He picked up his cane and shuffled out the back door. He was heading for the place he always headed when something needed to be fixed. He was heading for his shed. Knowing one thing, he had to get the teeth out before Maria got home. He felt like a fool, and darned if he was going to let Maria find him like this.

By the time he had stomped past his fig tree, Eugene had worked himself into a fury. His face, ruddy at the best of times, was glowing. He followed his mouth past his tomatoes, around the zucchinis, right through the melon patch, mowing along with his wide-open jaws. He looked like a snowblower. He threw the shed door open and peered into the gloom.

There had to be something in the shed he could use to lever the teeth closed. It took Eugene 15 minutes to wrestle the wine press out of the shed and into the garden. By the time Sam and his friend Murphy yopped down the alley like a pair of crows, Eugene had his head in the wine press, and he had the press screwed down as tight as he could get it. So mad, so worked up, so furious at what he had done to himself that his face was the color of wine pulp. Sam and Murphy almost walked right by him.

But they heard a sound, a click, and Sam and Murphy stopped in their tracks. The sight of the old man with his head in the wine press was so beyond anything the boys had ever seen that they both had difficulty making sense of what they were looking at. Sam didn't even recognize Eugene, his next door neighbor. He just saw component parts. It was like he was looking at a painting by Picasso. There was a warm blue suit jacket with gray stripes. There was a red face. There was a brown shoe jerking up and down. There was a head of gray hair in disarray. It was different for Murphy. There was a head of gray hair in disarray.

It was different for Murphy. For Murphy, it was like looking through a tunnel. For Murphy, everything faded away except for that red face in the wine press. The face redder than any face Murphy had ever seen before. The face redder than any face he had ever seen was being held in some sort of murderous medieval torture device just like he had read about in Ripley's Believe It or Not. The sight of it made Murphy queasy. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, said Eugene, waving his arms, trying to tell the boys to keep going, trying to tell them that everything was okay. That's when the sneeze began.

It began as a tickle at the front of Eugene's nose, right at the tip, and then it spread back into him like electricity building inside of him, building in that secret spot where his nasal cavity and his throat and his lungs all joined like some seldom visited railway yard. Eugene deciding at the last moment, as the air rushed down his nose that it would be better with the boys standing there the way they were to divert the sneeze to divert the sneeze from his nose to his mouth he did this in an instant like a railroad controller flicking a switch and sending a runaway train off the main line and onto a side rail The sneeze building forth so it rushed through his mouth like a tropical storm, like a hurricane

blowing over a shingled roof, propelling his teeth out of his mouth and sending them flying across the backyard. When Murphy was in grade one, some kid in the schoolyard had told him that a sneeze could build up in a person with such force it could blow their head apart. Murphy had worried about this ever since, had been seized with a cold grip of death every time he felt a sneeze coming on,

squeezing his eyes shut, not wanting to see his own brain exploding in front of his face. So when this man with a monstrously red face had the sneeze squeezed out of him, Murphy covered his eyes with his hands. Sam's eyes, however, opened wider. Eugene sneezed and suddenly the picture came out of focus for Sam. Sam saw everything with a clarity that athletes sometimes describe when they speak of heightened moments of awareness. Eugene sneezed and Sam saw his old friend Eugene with his head inexplicably wedged in the wine press,

his face squeezed tight in a sneeze, and his teeth, his teeth flying out of his mouth, heading towards Sam like some vicious cartoon grin. Acting on instinct alone, Sam reached out and plucked the teeth out of the air. The catch of his life. Dead silence. Murphy knew he couldn't look at the wine press, so instead he turned his head and peered through his fingers at his friend, and what he saw was Sam holding the old man's teeth.

The old man had blown his head apart. It was just like they'd told him in the schoolyard. Murphy vomited. Two months will pass before Sam and Eugene have their next dental rendezvous. In two months, Sam will learn he has to have braces on his teeth. And the very same afternoon that Sam gets this bad news, Eugene will see him over the fence and will notice Sam has been crying. Eugene will wave him over and Sam, who thought he was alone with his misery, will wipe his nose on his sleeve and he will go over to Eugene's backyard and he will sit down on one of the old kitchen chairs Eugene keeps there, the chairs Eugene sits on to watch things grow. When Sam tells Eugene that the braces are going to ruin his life, Eugene will

nod sympathetically. You're right, he'll say. They could do that. And he'll reach into his pocket and pull out his little red and white package of miniature cigars, and he'll offer one to Sam. I don't smoke, Sam will say. And Eugene will shrug. I forgot, he'll say. And then he'll hold the package out again and say, it's never too soon to start. hold the package out again and say, it's never too soon to start. And then he'll work his teeth loose with his tongue and he'll slip them in and out of his mouth. And Sam will say, maybe I should get my teeth pulled, then I wouldn't need braces. And Eugene will reach among the orange clay flower pots on the shelf and he'll pull out a bottle of his homemade wine. I guess you still don't drink either, he'll say.

And Sam will shake his head. Too bad, Eugene will say. And they will sit there for half an hour, the old man and the boy. And by the time Sam has to go, they will have talked about many things. And one afternoon, next September, the two of them will sit down again together this time in Eugene's kitchen and even though Sam will be wearing braces and even though corn like gum and toffee will be on his list of forbidden foods Sam and Eugene will eat fresh corn together Sam with his shiny new braces and a juice glass full of toothpicks

beside him. Eugene using his pen knife to cut the kernels off the cob. Sam will sit there with butter dribbling down his chin and smile. I love corn, Sam will say. At that, Eugene will put his fork down and pick up his glass of wine And he will look out his window at his garden And he will hold his glass up to the corn and the pepper plants And his fig tree and the beans still on the vine And he will turn to the boy, lean forward and smile There'll be a tear in his eye

You should never, never, never give up on something you love, he will say. Never. Thank you very much. That was the story we call Teeth. We recorded that story at the Charles W. Stocke Center in Parry Sound. Break time. We'll be back in a couple minutes with a sneak peek of next week's episode, so stick around. Well, that's it for today. We'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. A story about the time Sam takes a quiz from the back of a magazine and the results say he's gifted. That night Sam stared into the bathroom mirror and decided he just didn't look gifted enough.

Albert Einstein had a big mustache and wavy hair and deep-set dark eyes. Albert Einstein issued theories. Sam found a pair of scissors and cut random hunks from his hair. When Morley saw him, she tried to be calm. She said, what happened to your hair? Sam said, I have a theory about that. to your hair. Sam said,

I have a theory about that. That's next week. You can hear the whole story next week on the podcast. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. The show was recorded by Greg DeCloot and produced by Louise Curtis and me, Jess Milton.

Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.