Central Incisor

Ben accidentally let go of the coffee mug during a playful game of tug of war on the dance floor, and it smashed my right central incisor into pieces.

The mug read, “Congrats, Grad!” and was a prize Ben won at our 8th-grade graduation party in our small town’s community center. I felt shards of calcium and phosphorus bounce off my button-down shirt and into the back of my throat.

I tried to spit out the fragments, but they stuck to the sides of my mouth and mixed with my saliva.

I turned to my friend Todd and asked, “How bad is it?” I couldn’t tell by feeling around with my tongue.

Todd’s cheeks bent up, and crow’s feet appeared near his eyes, and he replied, “You can barely even tell.”

I ran to the bathroom as the party continued, and no one else seemed to notice besides my group of friends. I caught my friend Tanner trying to hold in a laugh out of the side of my eye as I jetted off, which wasn’t a good sign.

The bathroom was dimly lit, and I leaned over the single sink and pulled up my upper lip. My top front right tooth was gone.

Todd lied.

I rinsed my mouth and checked again, just in case the tooth miraculously regenerated, or I hadn’t seen it correctly upon first look.

Still gone.

Once the shock subsided, I began to feel the nerve endings pulsate with each breath. It felt sharp, shooting up through my sinuses into my brain. The more exposed the area was, the worse the pain, so I tried covering it with my lip. Every breath was a stab wound.

I found one of the party organizers, showed them my mouth, and explained how I needed to call home.

They led me into an office to use the landline. I rang home, but there was no answer, so I tried calling my grandma.

”Hello?”

”Grannie, it’s Chris. Do you know where my mom is?”

”She and your dad dropped your brother off over here after the graduation and went out to the bar. Is everything OK?”

”I broke my tooth off, and I need someone to come and get me,” I said.

”You broke your tooth?”

”Yeah, and I’m in kinda a lot of pain.”

She only lived a few blocks away. I probably would have walked if the administration had let me.

My mom and I got into a tiff earlier in the day, before the commencement ceremony. She wanted me to wear the gold chain she had gifted me for graduation, and I was embarrassed by it. I thought, “Kurt Cobain wouldn’t wear a gold chain to his graduation.”

I won the argument, but lost the fight. She yelled and cried, but ultimately, the chain wasn’t worn.

Once back at my grandmother’s house, I called the bar and asked for my mom.

Someone answered the phone, ”Toot’s.”

”Hi, can I speak to Debbie Lewis?”

”Hold on a minute, let me see if I can find her,” they said.

I could hear a rowdy crowd and a mixture of loud music in the background.

After a few minutes, my mom came to the phone, “What, Christopher?”

”How’d you know it was me?” I asked.

”Who else would be calling me at the bar?”

”Mom, I’m sorry about earlier, but I broke my tooth off at the graduation party.”

”What happened? It’s so loud in here, I can’t hear you.”

”I. broke. my. front. tooth. off. at. the. graduation. party.”

”Are you messing with me?” she said. “Christopher, I am so upset with what happened earlier today. You’re an ungrateful brat, you know? A little shit.”

”Mom, it’s bad. My front tooth is gone. It hurts.”

”Were you horsing around?”

”Yeah, kinda. With Ben.”

”That’s what you get for fucking around.”

”It’s worse than you’re thinking. It’s not chipped, it’s gone.”

”Christopher! Why now? Why today? There’s nothing we can do tonight anyway, no dentists are open until probably Monday.”

I Scotch-taped my mouth shut that night so the nerve endings wouldn’t be exposed, and I was able to sleep a bit.

Early the next week, the local dentist, Dr. Slaughter, bonded my tooth and told me, “You’ll never take a bite out of an apple again the rest of your life.”

My band, The Kinison, played a house party at our friends Eric and Ken’s house in downtown Riverside in March 2002.

We opened the set with “War Pigs,” which was a nod to our demo titled “I Hate Black Sabbath.” We chose that song to make our manager, Bill, laugh, but he didn’t seem to like the joke.

Halfway through the show, which took place in a living room, I popped myself in the mouth with a Shure SM58 microphone. The feeling was familiar. Same tooth as before, the central incisor, but this time, it only chipped in half. Without missing a lyric, and still mid-show, I found Bill at the back of the living room, motioned to my mouth and lipped, “I chipped my tooth!”

Bill yelled over the music, “It looks fucked!”

I sulked around for the next few days, trying to avoid other people who were not my band members, embarrassed by my nude tooth.

We were living on Bill’s floor at the time, and he suggested I see his dentist to have the tooth fixed. He took me over to Dr. White’s office on Magnolia, which was pretty slick. It was the nicest office I had ever been to in my twenty short years on earth.

I sat in the chair, and Dr. White slid over on his castered stool.

”Mh-k, what do we have here?”

”The dumbass hit himself in the face with a microphone,” Bill said. “It was in the middle of a show.”

Dr. White laughed. Apparently, the two of them had a rapport I was not privy to.

”So tell me about this band you’re in,” Dr. White asked.

I assumed he was asking me, but Bill took the conversation over, “They’re a punk rock band from Illinois. A new kind of style of punk, not like NoFx or Pennywise.”

Dr. White replied, “Do they sound like my neighbor Travis’ band?”

”No, not really like either,” Bill said as he laughed.

”How long before they’re rich and famous?”

”They’ll never have a career as big as Blink-182, but they’ll be successful,” Bill said.

Bill’s comment sort of hurt my feelings in the moment, but he was right.

My mouth was numb and packed with gauze. I have always loved not being able to feel parts of my body. I still get a rush when my legs fall asleep, and the pins and needles poke like imaginary acupuncture as I try to stand up and wobble.

I would take local anesthesia daily if someone nearby had a needle and was ready to jab. Cocaine up my nose was OK, I guess, but I preferred rubbing it on my gums back in the day. Numbness.

Dr. White completed the tooth's restoration and handed me a mirror.

”Looks good!” I said. My confidence was back.

On the way back to the car, I asked Bill, “So how does that work? Who is going to pay for that?“

”Well, the band doesn’t have any money, you guys are broke, so they’ll send the bill to your parents’ house.”

My mom received the $700 invoice and nearly shit a brick.

I was a barfly at a local spot called Piknic in West Los Angeles that sat on a corner, 85 yards from my front door. It was 2011, and if I could get the bartender’s attention as I perched down at the bar, I could have a drink in hand within two minutes of leaving home.

I made an ass out of myself numerous times at Piknic. There were times I found myself talking about Allen Iverson’s wardrobe choices or trying to convince other regulars to introduce me to their bookies so I could bet on baseball.

Another patron at Piknic once begged me to read his screenplay, “The Lady in the Red Dress.” After I agreed, he asked if I could get it green-lit or help find financing for it.

”How do you expect me to do that?” I asked.

”Don’t you work in Hollywood? Work your magic!”

”I work at a restaurant, Ron!”

He took his glasses off, set them on the bar, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

My friend Bryan and I both had our credit cards declined at the same time one night, after a marathon of drinking, which also resulted in a temporary ban. Piknic’s management knew I'd be good for it later.

I was asked to leave multiple times, never for being rowdy, but for being too sloppy and over-talkative.

I met a man named Sandy one day during three Manhattans at Piknic. That was my drink of choice during that phase of my life. A Manhattan consists of whiskey or rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters. If you’re lucky, it comes with a Luxardo Cocktail Cherry as a garnish. Manhattans were also my grandmother’s drink, so I have been told.

Sandy had a full head of slicked-back grey hair and a modern, protruding belly that told a story of an ailing metabolism. According to him, he was in his 60s, but my guess was late, late 60s or early 70s. He wore various silver rings, pink button-down shirts, and wing-tipped shoes. Even while he was sitting on a barstool, one foot always remained on the floor.

Sandy’s voice was loud and deep. He could command the entire bar, even during a packed happy hour. He told me about his son, who had recently passed away due to an opioid overdose.

”Those fucking bastards kept prescribing them for him over and over after his motorcycle accident. They pumped his poor body full of poison!”

He mentioned that his son was my age and that we shared a similar portly build.

The two of us sat side by side at the bar as I listened to his stories. He told me he would hire a personal trainer to keep in shape, but he hated working out so much that, right before they met at the gym for the session, he would slam two vodka martinis so he was drunk during the workout.

”It’s best if I don’t remember it at all. Most of the time, I am sober by the end. But I got a good workout in.”

Sandy then leaned over, aggressively grabbed my chin, and pulled my face toward him.

”Tell me about your teeth, son,” he said.

”What do you mean?”

”Why do you have gaps and spaces between your teeth? You have diastasis.”

”I didn’t take care of my mouth growing up, and I had a short-lived drug stint in my twenties, so I have had a few teeth extracted. I guess that caused the rest of them to shift around in my mouth and create gaps.”

He continued to tightly hold my chin, closed one eye, and said, “I have changed people’s lives, you know?”

I said, “No, I don’t know what you mean.” His grip began to hurt a little, and I wanted a sip of my Manhattan.

”I’m a prosthodontist. I can fix you right up.”

”A dentist?” I asked.

”Yes, but I specialize in cosmetic work. I saw a lady patient two years ago who was down on herself. She said she was stuck in life, always afraid to smile because her teeth looked so awful — she looked scuffed up. I went in there and fixed her all up. You know what she does now?”

I shrugged as if to say, I don’t know.

”She now works in a C-Suite. She’s an executive. I restored her confidence. She even walks differently now: head held high, nose pointed at the sky. I could do that for you.”

”That’s remarkable, Sandy, really, but I don’t have that kind of coin right now.”

He pulled out a card from his shirt pocket and asked the barkeep for an ink pen. Sandy wrote, “8:00 AM tomorrow, sharp!” and slid the card to me. He double-underlined the word ‘tomorrow.’

”Come see me in the morning, I’ll take care of you.” He stressed, “Do not be late.”

We continued drinking, and I had reservations about seeing him the next day, after watching the vodka martinis go down his gullet one after another, followed by near-unintelligible stories.

His dental practice was within walking distance of my home and Piknic.

I checked in by showing them the handwritten card Sandy had provided the evening before. The secretary winked at me and said, “You’re going to love what Dr. Sandy is going to do for you.”

Once in the exam room, Sandy strolled in, now wearing a lab coat and dental loupes. He was more serious and no longer seemed in the storytelling mood.

“Relax, young man. My hands are steady, regardless of how much I had to drink last night,” he said and then smacked me on the shoulder.

I guess that made me feel better.

He then proceeded to work for two hours while sparks and spit fireworked from my mouth.

Once done, the dental assistant spun me around and had me look into a mirror.

I wanted to cry: he had cosmetically bonded the top four front teeth, removing all the gaps and reshaping my mouth into a perfectly aligned, symmetrical masterpiece.

”Whaydda think?”

”Sandy, I can’t believe this. Thank you so much.” I instantly felt better about myself. I walked home smiling wide and proud.

Three weeks later, I received a $6500 invoice for the visit.

A few years later, in 2014, I was standing up from my desk while at work, and something didn’t feel right — my left leg began lagging behind, and an awful limp developed overnight. I continued to lumber through my life, ignoring the constant battle of pain and discomfort.

I assumed it was due to long hours working on my feet or the long daily commute back to Westlake Village, where I was living: 90 minutes to work/60 minutes home. I was managing a restaurant in Bel Air that was owned by Susan Disney Lord, a relative of Walt and Roy Disney.

Over the next two years, I went through a breakup with my daughter’s mother, quit and started three jobs, and moved twice. All while hobbling. If you had met me during that phase of my life, you would have assumed I had either been in an accident or was born with a deformity.

My health was also piss-poor, and my alcoholism was in full bloom.

I finally secured state-provided health insurance and went to the local clinic to get a physical. It was then revealed that I had avascular necrosis of the hip, which required a total hip replacement.

My doctor explained that my hip was bone-on-bone, likely due to the combination of alcohol and Prednisone I had taken a few years prior for chronic hives. It could also have been congenital, as my great-grandmother, grandmother, and uncle all had hip problems as well, but the steroids and booze likely sped the process up.

I was only 32.

Pre-op protocol required clearance from all specialties, dental included.

Googling my ZIP code and “dentist,” I found one who accepted my shitty insurance and offered a consultation.

I explained that I needed full dental authorization to proceed with my hip procedure.

The dentist, Dr. Durand, saw dollar signs on my forehead and explained that I needed six fillings, three crowns, and two root canals, including the fillings, crowns, and root canal in my right central incisor.

”The front tooth is necrotic, Mr. Lewis. The root is dead,” Dr. Durand said with a thick French accent.

I replied, “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. I’ve had it worked on a lot over the years.”

”It’s critical that we begin on your treatment plan as soon as possible; a lot of work needs to be completed before I can sign off on your clearance with your orthopedic surgeon.”

The secretary scheduled every Monday at 8 AM over the next month: two to three procedures per visit, a quadrant at a time.

I was not living in destitution, but that could have changed at any moment. It was certainly leaning that way. I was renting a bedroom from a Sri Lankan man named Niro. He was a retired military veteran who ran a local gas station, working six days a week, twelve hours a day. When he wasn’t working, he was drinking, betting on sports, and eating shrimp.

We didn’t hang out much because we worked opposite schedules, but when we did, it was a good time. He knew I was having a tough go of it and would often check on me.

One time, I stumbled in the front door while he was sitting on the couch sipping booze, and he said, “Hey, I know you’re not OK, but are you OK?”

For being a former sergeant in the Sri Lankan military, he was a sweet guy. Never emotional, terrible eye contact, but caring.

Niro invited me to watch the Super Bowl with him that year, and I obliged. It was nice to be around people, and I only had to stumble nine feet back to my bedroom after the game.

We drank liters of brandy, ate shrimp, and Niro kept placing constant prop bets via text message with his bookie. He’d say, “I need Emmanuel Sanders to get 15 more yards by the end of the half!”

I don’t recall much about the game besides the Broncos beating the Panthers in a snooze-fest.

The next morning, my alarm went off at 7:20 AM, startling me. My head was pounding, and I had a cheap booze headache and hangover. It took me a moment to realize why I had an alarm set in the first place, but then it hit me: I had a root canal scheduled in forty minutes.

I considered calling to cancel, but the office didn’t open until 8 AM, and I was the first patient of the day.

I showered, rallied, and made my way to the office.

”Good morning, Mr. Lewis. Are you ready to get started?” said Dr. Durand.

I wasn’t.

He began with the lidocaine in Quadrant 1 in my mouth. I enjoyed the instant numbness, but it also made me want to vomit.

I think he noticed I wasn’t feeling well and offered me a cup of water.

”That would be nice, thank you.”

”Where are you from, Mr. Lewis?” Dr. Durand asked.

”From Southern Illinois.”

”Near Chicago?”

”No, not really close at all,” I replied.

”Can you guess where I am from?”

”Umm, France?”

”You’re right! How did you know? I’m from Normandy specifically. Have you ever heard the stories of the war? When the Americans and British charged our beaches?”

”I’m familiar.”

Dr. Durand said, “We have the best seafood in the world,” which reminded me of Niro’s shrimp from the night before during the Super Bowl. I wanted to puke again.

Once the local anesthesia had fully kicked in, Dr. Durand began yanking and sawing and drilling, using tools I had never seen before. I also noticed he was muttering to himself in French.

My fingers intensely gripped the armrest, leaving indentations, and my armpits and the back of my neck were soaked with sweat.

Dr. Durand said, “Mr. Lewis, do you normally bleed this much? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

”I’m not sure, is it a lot?”

He said, “Blood, blood, blood everywhere, Mr. Lewis.”

”Sorry about that. I had a rough night and didn’t get much sleep. The Super Bowl was last night.”

”You’re bleeding like a pig.”

I still have not taken a bite out of an apple.