Fred’s Tooth

Fred hated doctors – dentists in particular. He’d walked around with a throbbing molar for months now… lost weight, lost sleep; he was in that much pain.

Now a foul odor was beginning to waft from his mouth each time he opened it. He knew he had to do something, but he also knew he’d have to steel himself to do it.

He made an appointment with his dentist for the following week… and made his way daily swearing out loud to himself he’d keep that appointment, come hell or high water.

The fateful day finally arrived. He’d gotten the last timeslot of the day, 7 pm, well after work, so he could drink a pint or two of liquid courage before visiting his torturer, his own personal grand inquisitor, Dr. Feldman.

In truth, Valerie Feldman was a lovely, cultured, educated woman with a wonderful sense of humor and striking brown eyes. Fred had often thought that if only she hadn’t been his doctor, he’d have asked her out. But as it stood, there was no way in hell he’d be seen in public with this sadist, regardless of how beautiful she might be.

Fred took a taxi to work that day so he would not have to drive home after his appointment all doped up.

He sweated through his work day, and, when finally it was over, he nearly ran to Burt’s Bar and Grill, his neighborhood haunt.

His face was swollen and beginning to look badly misshapen. Fred was in agony. He ordered his usual, a vodka gimlet, and drank it hastily. Then he ordered another, and another. He began to speak, in the manner of a man who cannot hold his liquor, to the bartender. He used a loud, uninhibited manner, while talking about, “…that crazy, mean bitch, Feldman”, whose office, he’d forgotten, was a mere eight floors up from where he now sat.

Burt was the handsome and well-built owner of the establishment. He was also, unbeknownst to Fred, the new and loyal paramour of Dr. Valerie Feldman. Fred was a fairly good customer, but had a bad habit of letting his tabs pile up for weeks at a time, unpaid. Burt was beginning to lose patience with Fred. Burt’s office door happened to be open and he was able to hear Fred’s verbal assault on the woman he loved. He was none too pleased.

Burt emerged from his office behind the bar and approached Fred from behind. He was unaware that Fred’s drunkenness was merely an attempt to work up the nerve to have his oral surgery, and that the vitriol spewing from his lips was actually disguised fear at his unavoidable appointment with pain.

Burt decided he had had enough of Fred’s words, and decided to shut him up.

Burt put a firm hand on Fred’s shoulder. Fred looked up at him, and, intoxicated, laughed in Burt’s face, making some crack about Burt being “...nothing but a big ape.”

Burt felt the time had come, so he hauled off and slugged Fred hard in the face. Fred was so surprised by the attack he could only blink and shake his head, at which point Fred’s offending molar made its final dislodging move and slid from Fred’s bleeding lip into his fifth vodka gimlet, where it landed with a little plop.

Blood still oozing down Fred’s chin, he realized what had happened. Rather than hitting him back, Fred grabbed Burt in a friendly bear hug and thanked him enthusiastically. He laid eight twenties on the bar, hollered with glee, and told the bartender to keep the change. Then he hailed a cab, joyfully climbed inside, and went back home to sleep it off.