by Jon Edward Edwards
Standing in line at Dunkin Donuts that fateful summer morning, reacting to the looks my precious baristas, Mimi and Mellissa, flashed me, I knew what I’d done. Stating more than asking, “Would you believe I’m a “sleep eater” and I jumped out of bed this morning and came right on in? I slept in my shorts, of course.”
They didn’t reply, their eyes pointing southwest. Looking at my crotch with displayed hands, I continued, “Furthermore, that is not what it appears to be, but a pulverized mini Reese Cup.” They laughed, and I left with my dignity and reputation intact.
“Sleep eating” is a misnomer because the decisions to get out of bed, stumble on inured joints, heal bones, and repair tendons in the kitchen are conscious ones. I bought the junk food and the cashews and re-roasted them “bed bursitis” crispy (my only healthy midnight binge substance). The problem arises when I fall back asleep while consuming whatever processed, full-gluten, high fructose, corn syrup, or color dye #69 I’d procured for the evening. Would you believe me if I said I brush my teeth afterward?
Rollo’s, sugar babies, animal crackers, oh, the humanity… Once, I woke to find a small wooden stick, like a long tiny skateboard deck, in the middle of a red stain in an even radius on my “off-white” sheet. Maybe it was orange… Figure that out.
Combined with twenty-plus years of hard-core smokeless tobacco use and neglect due to multiple bouts of financial challenge, have resulted in poor dental. Aside from the post-hurricane dehydration episodes that rendered me unconscious with a 90/60 blood pressure and back-to-back ER visits – oral health has been the Bane of my (health) existence. That’s a rather good record for a… what am I? Fooortty nine?
My dental woes reached a pinnacle on Christmas of 23 when I lost a top front tooth days before my trip home to Monroe, Louisiana. Although Monroe is as “south” as it gets, and the population is saturated with good ole’ boys, everyone is appearance-oriented and vain. Me included.
My friends wasted no time hazing me; meth head, crackhead, toothless wonder, and other slurs that I can’t mention in The Breeze or The Rapper. All in good fun. I’ve said it before, where I come from, if you don’t get teased, you’re not very popular.
Therefore, the following year, I made every effort, spending copious amounts, to ensure that I had for all practical purposes: a mouth full of teeth. I succeeded. Albeit nothing going wrong would be out of character, no?
Appropriately, my albatross came as a tool of my trade – a 10-foot cast net, a heavy one. The adventure was big mouth bass fishing with live shiners at Louisiana’s famed Caney Lake with my cousin, angling mentor, braggart extraordinaire, and holder of countless self-anointed world records, Blair Sherman.
He may be all that, but he is also one of the greatest anglers I know. Mucho knowledge I’ve absorbed from this guy. Interesting epitaphs include Blair’s father, Dr. Rahn Sherman, who delivered me, and the Shermans have many DDSs in the family. Not Blair, of course. The Saltwater Cowboy’s karma hasn’t reached that level.
“I’ve been catching seven to nine seven to eight pounders that last several days,” Blair said days before. “We stop by my shiner pond and get a live well full of shiners… (“s” word drawn out).” Big bass, Louisiana, my son Will, and my life-long friend, Blair – let’s get in on, come on.
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Turning off Old Farm Rd., Blair veered into a muddy field, locked in his four-wheel-drive, and we slid around, with boat and trailer, to a pond full of big-mouth bass candy.
Blair handed me his 10-foot cast net and said, “I want to see how you throw it. “ Instead of, “I can’t throw this big net very well, so why don’t you do it?” They call you the Saltwater Cowboy, for Christ’s sake.
I can’t claim to be the best at throwing a cast net, as Captain Joel Pepper and that hotshot Captain Drake Nobile can attest, but I can open it up. I get it done.
Here’s where it gets interesting. My method of throwing a cast net requires placing an arm’s length in my mouth (teeth) and releasing it at a not-precise but strategic moment.
Four or five casts with the ten-footer combined with what Blair caught in his six-foot net, we had a live well full of big swimming baits.
Back on the road to Caney, I felt something rough on my tongue, pulled the sun-visor down, and gasped in horror – missing top front tooth—the one beside the one I was missing the year before.
Angry and anxious, I stressed over the activities I had planned for the second week of my vacation. Our bobbers bobbed, our baits darted to and fro, and I beat myself up for being so stupid. All the while, nothing was biting. The hours drifted, Will grew miserably bored, and Blair and I never stopped talking. We’d talked my mind into submission when the stillness of the valley erupted.
“Who is that?” I asked of the fisherman hundreds of feet away.
“Brad Surles,” Blair said, “He’s been rippin’ em.” Brad is a hometown compadre, top-tier angler, and sportsman.
“Hell, why didn’t we go with him?”
“Because…,” Blair gave me a myriad of reasons.
By the end of the day, I’d found resolve in being toothless until I got home, when, alas, a glimmer of hope. “Dad, your tooth is probably lying on the ground by that pond.”
“Great Scot, young lad! Oh my, he’s right!” unless it flung into the water. Will and I knew it was a long shot, but regardless, Inspector Edwards and the other Inspector Edwards went to work.
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The next morning, Will and I drove, Goldie, Hopper’s Toyota Highlander he’d assigned me, to the scene. Parking Goldie, a two-wheel drive, we walked back to the pond where we stood and caught bait.
Shinning my new flashlight, a gift from Thomas in a slow grid pattern, I searched. A few minutes in, Will picked up a small white object, and said in jest, “Why don’t we look for a rock about the size of your tooth.” After a hearty laugh, he picked up another small white object about the size of the tooth and held it up. Both of us were at a loss for words because in his hand was my tombstone.
I wasted no time upon returning to Hopper’s, although not until a thorough check from Jay and Shana’s dog, Leroy. Leroy is an Anatolian Shepard, also known as a Kangal. Google the dog with the strongest biting force. They protect endangered cheetahs. Sweet as can be, he approaches, ensures you are not a threat, makes sure you are doing alright, then will let you pass. Blowing the five-second floor drop snack theory, I snapped the tooth back into my partial denture and spackled it with gorilla glue. Bang. Done. God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.
Traditionally, I get down to the bare minimum when I throw a cast net. My Tommy-John’s if I can. Anything that can get caught in the net will: buttons, zipper handles, watches, bracelets, necklaces, earbuds, and belts. Every item is an obstruction: trolling motor, electronics, unsecured gear. I get rid of everything that will snag in the net. It looks like that now includes my teeth.
A few days after I returned home, I dropped my partial denture, which shattered on the tile floor of my beach condominium, which is not exactly on the beach.
Stay golden, amigos.
