Some Stories Need To Breathe a Bit | Jack Bedell
The last time I dropped acid, the woman I was with told me each one of her teeth was a tiny house with its own ghost living in it. She said it wasn’t always this way, but she woke up to a full chorus of complaints one morning, and it’s been like that ever since.
At first, she thought she’d bitten down on a filling wrong and was getting radio signals in her mouth like Gilligan did in that episode on the island. It didn’t take long before she realized the voices were in real time reacting to whatever she was doing, though. And all the pissing & moaning moved around in her mouth as different ghosts had something to say.
She told me nothing ever soothed the whole neighborhood. Humming or singing was the worst thing she could do. Not even Satchmo’s “What a Wonderful World” made all the teeth happy. Food was the same way, especially desserts. Even if she tried a great big piece of pecan pie, she’d have to hear one or the other of her molars bagging on how sweet or how sticky it was. And, Jesus, forget about eating Doritos. In between the crunching, she said her mouth would sound like the freaking well of souls.
I really didn’t want to dive into any of that too deep, but I had to ask how she could pay attention to anything else with all that going on in her head. She said it took a while, but now it’s like getting to sleep with tinnitus. Just some undercurrent of white noise to surf over. Pot helped a little bit, but a few of the ghosts always worried over how long they’d be high. Molly was alright, but that always ended up with all the teeth puddling up in a chorus of “I Love You Sooooo Much. I Love the Way Your Tongue Feels. I love the Air, and That Mint. That Mint is God!”
She confessed that she fantasized about going to the dentist and getting every one of her teeth yanked out. Just to wake up burrito-wrapped in absolute silence. But like most fantasies, she said that left her feeling empty and alone after it peaked.
Then she had the frissons and never said another word.
It was most likely the acid kicking in, but right at the moment she shut down, the hallway behind her opened all the way out to infinity, and I swear I could hear her teeth grinding.
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Southern Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Juke Joint, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, Kissing Dynamite, and other journals. His latest collection is No Brother, This Storm (Mercer University Press, 2018). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.