A Letter Home
by Vincent Barry
. . . Well,
truth be towl, I’m self-medicatin’. Oh,
I know, I know—blah, blah, blah ’bout
self-medicatin’, naw nade ter lecture. But
de tin’ av so’tiz Oi nade—waaat? t’airteen,
is it dey say Oi nade ter luk, yer nu, loike a
genuine American? Ay, Oi tink so ’tiz waaat’
oi nade—t’airteen dental implants.
Figure conservatively—waaat? 4k a crack?
Fifty two t'ousan' USD? But dat’s not why I’m
self-medicating, though reason enoof so'tiz.
’S de pain in me upper lef jaw. Unrelentin’
withoyt Tylenol and an Advil chaser for—waaat?
six 'ours relief? ’S why Oi don’t sleep.’S
why, too, I called me dentist dis mornin’.
Who, btw, Oi jist saw —well, a week, cock an'
'en days ago or so, for, y’know, a cleanin’
an’ such, and boasted, “Not a one,”
to ’er, “Any problems?,” then sped
aff in me borrowed SUV, as if on the lam wi’
a “Hot damn! six months—six glorious
months till—” and smacked the dashboard,
which, ter be sure, lef a palm bruise that Quitch,
naw doubt, ’ill inquire ’bout.Yer man
Quitch is de skin guy I see at 8:10 in the a.m.
Hmm? Why not eight? Eight-t’airty ? Even
eight fifteen? Gran' quesshun. I asked, believe
me: “Why 8:10?” So, to you, as to me,
from the achromic, telephonic, metronomic honeyed
vice on the other end: “Eight twenty?,”
to which, giving up de ghost, I mouthed with, t'be
sure, melanoma in mind, “Eight-ten’ll
be gran’,” and just in time at dat
before it went dead, the bloody line. As ’ill
mine as well ,’cuz the mouth joint is achin’
and I shouldn’t be cunctatin’ wi’
me self-medicatin’, ’cept ter add de
’ope an' wish dat al' is gran’ witcha
as so ’tiz wi’ me.
Slán agus beannacht.
|
