Mom called after my gum surgery. I had just taken a Percocet and things seemed really really super.
"Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything at the store?"
"Mllmp?"
"Greg! Do you hear me? What's wrong? Do you want me to call an ambulance?"
"Gabba nnn ffllssh."
"Okay. Stay right there. I'm coming for you!"
"Mom! I'm just kidding. I think."
"That's not funny. How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay. They cut out a cute little ribeye from my palate and then sewed it to the front of my gums. The stitches don't come out until next week. In the meantime I have to wear this cone around my neck so I don't scratch at it."
"That's a good boy."
In my Percodaze I then told Mom about the huge TV monitor of someone's teeth in the periodontist's office. Two rows of teeth from every angle. They were really ugly--and then I realized they were mine. The nurse put a bib on me to catch the blood, while the periodontist planted her foot in my chest and sawed away. There was another periodontist there who wanted to watch. They paused to admire my gums on the HD 4K screen.
"Oh, this band is lovely. That pocket has a nice radial bicuspid axiomandible."
"Doesn't it? I worked on the traverse band, leaving the suture on the maxiplantiocruxio cud."
"So nice. I looove what you did with these..."
I was not asked, but I had to join in.
"My gums are a 10, aren't they? I'm going to the bar after this to show off my gums. Hello, ladies. Take in my axial plandiferous tissue! Ha, ha."
"Nurse, strap the patient down, please."
But, hey, it's not just to show off for the ladies, it's also to avoid my teeth winding up like a circus holocaust of dental failure.
"You shouldn't take all those Percocets," came Mom's faraway voice. "You'll become addicted."
After the surgery I went to Walgreen's to score my fix and update my drug slang. The place was packed with a Felliniesque cavalcade of freaks and feebs, and the line to our dealer was long, man. I was starting to sweat, and not in the sexy Tom Jones way. The guy ahead of me was holding some gauze to his bloody chin, while the guy ahead of him was arguing about the price of his Zoloft. He kept bouncing around on his slippers. I started scratching at my sweaty head. Spiders were, like, crawling all over me. The crab nebula was slinking around my testicles.
"You need rest," Mom's interstellar voice said.
I grunted. Threw water on my face. And then labored to put some coherent sentences together.
"Mooom?"
"Yes!"
"Moooommmmyy!"
"What!"
"Oh. Oh. Wait. Okay. There was something I wanted to tell you. Oh yeah. I wanted to tell you I talked to the archaeologist. He seems to think he can find your birth mother. For a price."
"The archaeologist?"
"Did I say archaeologist? I meant genealogist. Mmmpgh."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"It turns out they never needed Dad's DNA, just ours. But it's weird that Dad's came back with no results both times. I mean, I think he might be a lizard person."
"I knew that."
"But isn't this exciting? You'll get to find out who your mom is!"
"I don't like it." Pause. "But then, she's probably dead by now."
"Right. I'd hate for you to be subjected to an awkward scene. I'll bring your 106 year old mom to Perkins, and there you'll be, wondering if you should hug the wizened crone or just politely shake her hand. Or you'll just scream MOMMY! Now that I think about it, that would be awkward for all of us."
"Just tell me you're going to get some rest. You're not making any sense."
"Wait." Pause. "Okay, I'm back."
"What were you doing?"
"Poppin'."
"I'M SENDING AN AMBULANCE."
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