Maylor Britleby can not abide the sight of spare change. I told the new girl but she forgot. It’s human. That’s human. I can see she’s blaming herself.
I say, “Quit blaming yourself and call the cops!”
I’ve really got my mother’s mouth happening here. Mostly, I’m sitting on Maylor.
I know we’re not supposed to touch the clients but the company says we can choose to engage. There are so many rich people involved. One of these rich people is bound to be a lawyer. Besides, the last time Maylor saw change he punched me in the mouth.
I worried about my overbite even while I was making it, while I was a baby sucking my thumb.
People were pretty generous with the, "No one will love you with a fucked up mouth."
I don’t know why. I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop until I had it. My mother cared a lot about it. She taped my hands into mittens for safe-keeping. She told me she read in the paper about a boy who pushed his own teeth back in place.
"He didn’t do it all at once. He did it over time."
This might be how I stopped sucking my thumb. My new nerver habit became pushing my teeth. I have a turned out jaw but my front teeth are in. All of my dentists have said it’s fine but really that’s because I don’t have good insurance.
I was complaining about having poor person insurance, the insurance where they tell you, “It’s fine.” This mouth wouldn’t be suitable on a movie star but for a social worker it’ll do.
They’re saying, “For you it’s good enough. You don’t deserve better.”
I was complaining about this to my sister and my sister pointed out that the worst teeth mishaps come out of getting in drunken bar brawls.
"Getting punched in the mouth is the number one way to mess up your teeth."
I can’t abide this. I’m still sitting on Maylor. The new girl is peering with her wide-open eyes and innocent forehead.
I say, “You give the address first.”
It’s sort of sad being old hat at calling EMS.
Maylor says, “Yaaawwwwwnnnnngggh!” and flops.
With less emphasis he could be falling asleep. I’m glad I wore my slip-ons and not my heels. Maylor speaks garble with a slight twang. It makes me think he’s from the south, Atlanta-wise-abouts. I imagine there were some ginger in his town used to beat him around which is why he always goes for me. I imagine this ginger root beat him with a bag of quarters. This would explain the problem with change. I make up reasons why people might do things because lord never really knows why anyone throws their shit. People read mystery novels to combat this feeling, the out-of-control/not-knowing feeling.
I read a study last week about scientists that made some people feel out of control and then gave them a series of randomized dots to look at. The people who were feeling confused found all sorts of patterns that weren't there.
The control group, the group the scientists had made to feel in control, turned the dots back and said, “They’re no patterns here.”
I told my friend Anna that. She loved it. I can tell she took it the wrong way. To Anna that test is saying that people confused and oscillating are finding patterns scientists didn’t notice. They’re visionaries, soothsayers. If they are, so is Anna. I’m okay with that.
I don’t have a solid opinion. I think either side could be true, leaning on the scientist’s findings. I’m not a big fan of a frenzied decision. I like to sit down with the problem and really think it over.
Everyone smells here.