The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age
    quinn esq's picture

    My Brain - On Bottled Water (Plus Creedence.)

    Dentists. Four trips in a row, four times this month. Each time I lay there, lip frozen, nose frozen, one eye blind, the other blinking like McCain, staring up at CNN as the Dow goes cliff-diving over Iowa. Dr Finkelstein really enjoys our visits. Likes the "free investment advice." First time he was a little panicky, watching his money melt. But by this time, he's mocking the investment analysts too. Says he's getting used to it - the Dow crashing. Dentists find it fairly easy to get used to pain I guess.

    But twenty teeth done? Holy humping Batman, 20 teeth!?! He says it's something to do with me having the double set & all. One row for tearing flesh, the other for chewing. I don't see what that has to do with it. I floss, he knows that. Plus, I don't like the way he brings in his "Special Assistant" each time I drop by. Nor do I believe she's got that Taser of her's set on stun. The "Ilsa" on the name-tag, that I believe.

    I'd curl my lip at her in that nasty-but-sexy way I learned from Elvis, but I can't lift it off my cheek. She knows though. Oh yessss, my pretty. One false move & she'll be staring at 16 incisors, up close & personal. After the last 3 sessions, this is personal. Doc's other assistant is doing that "flushing" thing with their pretty little pastel tube. Now, I don't much like tubes. On a more positive note (& I'm nothing if not Mr Positive), they also make me think of water. "We spend $100 billion a year on bottled water," I think to myself. And then, "Whoa. Good Job, Brain. Serious fact retention! You da Brain. You da Brain, baby!" I look up & the Dow breaks like the wind through 6000. My brain makes the connection, money-to-water, and - pumped & wanting to show off - fires up its Random Fact engine.

    "Did I know that the GDP of Burundi was $1 billion a year?" No, I did not. Nor that it has 8.7 million people. Brain knew this. I'm impressed. I nod in acknowledgement. Doc Finkelstein glares. Nodding Bad, apparently. I grimace to let him know the depths of my shame over this bad behavior. Brain's yammering on about Chad. Which has 9 million people. But doing much better than Burundi, apparently, with a $7 billion GDP. "Hey Brain," I think, "you're pretty smart." And - since nodding's out - I offer up that "grudging approval" look I so often give my bodily parts. And get a drill to the inner gum in response. Finkelstein flashes a warning look at Special Assistant Ilsa. He's still a little jumpy after last time. She clicks off the safety.

    Finkelstein's telling me that joke about an old Jewish guy dying, his wife sitting there, the punch line something like "Honey, you're a f*cking jinx." I pretend to laugh. What the hell is he telling me jokes for? I know he's Jewish so he thinks it's ok to tell it. But what he doesn't know is that I'm part Jewish too. I donno which part, but one of 'em for sure. But he just assumes that being blond & blue-eyed means I can't be Jewish. Which - I tell Brain - should be added to my file marked "Things-I'm-Bitter-About-But-Secretly-Want-To-Treasure."

    Brain appears to be following my order, but then I see it's instead about to file "Doc Finkelstein" under "Anti-Semite." We argue, and then Brain pulls up the "Misogynist" folder. This is pissing me off. That joke is faaaar more Anti-Semitic than Misogynist. In the end, I win, and the Secretly-Treasured-Bitter-Stuff file (sub-category of "Chips On Shoulder" ) grows fatter. Brain looks disgruntled, but I stare it down, tell it to stick to the facts & not try any more funny schtuff.

    I decide to cheer Brain up, so I ask for more of those cool GDP tables. It perks right up. Gives me a list of the countries whose GDP's - combined - are less than the $100 Billion we spend on bottled water. It does well. 40 countries. Just to test it, I ask for their combined population. Flash - Brain's on it. "Wow," I say, "That is a pile of people, Brain." Because I AM genuinely impressed when it does this sort of thing. You know, usually I just try to imagine how much bottled water I've drunk, and what a completely stupid marketing schtick I've bought into, but I can't compare the amount of wasted money to anything, so mostly I just tell Brain to scootch over & quieten down, 'cause I'm trying to wanna watch Olbermann, and not think about the Africans too much.

    Fink's working my canines now - a different kinda filing. (Brain snickers when I call him The Fink, stashes that one in long-term memory.) Fink asks if I'd like to hear some music, since the Dow's pretty much cratered. Seems it hit Zero & just kept on going, little green fluorescent line frantically waving as it disappeared down a hole, like a dog trying to dig its way to China (where apparently they still have functioning markets.) I'm impressed by how well Doc's managed to distance himself emotionally from this whole Dow thing. Brain reminds me that the average Dentist only requires something like 7 foot-pounds of work ( or ~2 calories) to distance both themselves and their loved ones from all emotional realities. So I blink twice for the music, meaning "Yes," and The Fink says "Goodie." Really. Out loud, like that - "Goodie."

    Ilsa takes Fink's signal & puts in the "Top Gun" soundtrack. Pain surges through my head, I start bleeding out of the ears, and I'm frantically shaking my head to make it stop. Which seems to bring Finkelstein's voice into focus, and it's saying "Oh.... That's not good." And I see this red-tipped, silver drill sticking out of my cheek from the inside & him sorta jagging it back & forth to loosen it... and realize that I've now got the whip hand. Fink's moved quickly into appeasement mode, and asks all polite if I'd like to hear something else instead. Oh yeah, Fink - your ass is mine. I can feel the warm jet running down my cheek now, but I'm feeling no pain. Cause they owe me - big. So I look at Ilsa, and stiff-lip my way through the syllables, "Creedence." We all know the score. Ilsa gives me that big Saxon grin & puts in the DVD I brought along, "just in case."

    Brain's flipping through the files pretty fast now, a little worried, not sure where this is  all heading, holding folders down in front of my forebrain, trying to make sure we don't lose control (again) - "History Of The Saxons," "Women = 5 Alarm Fire," "The Last Time You Visited Fink's Office" - but I shake it off. I know where I'm goin', and this time it ain't Ilsa-town. I let her scan down through the songs, and don't bark til she hits paydirt. "Born On The Bayou, Live At The Albert Hall, 1970." She starts it up, and I give her the thumbs waaaay up - I want it at 11. I can tell she digs something about this scene, whether Creedence or the whole blood-spurting thing or the Fink's fear, I donno. But I know she digs something because she's turned the Taser on & has it discreetly pressed against her thigh. Fink's oblivious, Ilsa's otherwise engaged, blood's spurting and Brain's shouting at me that "If global bottled water sales are $100 billion a year, then do I understand that just by foregoing bottled water & contributing the savings we could more than double the per capita income of 140 million people in Bangladesh? Or of Vietnam & Kenya combined? 120 million people? Don't I get what a difference it would make to so many of my fellow human being's lives?"

    Brain might as well be speakin' in html for all I care. Same with Fink & His Drills... Chinese Dows ... Bottled Water For Bangladesh... Ilsa The Self-Tasering Saxon Assistant... I couldn't give a rat's. There's only one thing that remains, that which overcomes all pain, surpasses all pleasure. Creedence, baby. Creedence. Cause I'm Born On The Bayou. And come November 4, America, you better be too. Cause me & the Brain are pretty sick of this. No more Dentists' investments or Chinese Dows or friggin' Ilsa-for-VP fascination or the f*king bottled water. All's we wanna know is if you got any more Creedence in ya. Either yank that country back to where it produced great stuff, or let's all just move on. You know what to do.