Don’t Be a Bish, Win a Fish

A story of grit.

ChatGBT came up with this image. Eerie. Good?

Five years ago, I chipped my tooth on a Twizzler.

It was Halloween, and like Valentine’s and Easter, I was on an all-you-can-eat bender.

Putting in late-night reps on a pack of licorice, I stretch each piece between my front teeth, gnawing off chunk after chunk. Everything is routine until I feel something inside my strawberry paste. It’s grainy. It’s rough. It doesn’t belong.

With wild, sugared eyes, I make the exec decision to swallow the pearly grit.

Out of an abundance of caution, I perform an oral safety check. Slowly, I run my tongue along my upper deck. That’s when I encounter a disturbance.

My front tooth feels like a crumpled piece of aluminum.

I run some internal calculations that point to a singular truth: that pearly grit is not factory-made. It’s organic.

The visual of Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber flashes before me. It’s peak COVID, and my dark roots already resemble his chestnut bowl.

I walk over to the mirror and give a defeated smile. All is confirmed. A shard is missing from one of my top dogs.

Having recently turned 30, I remember thinking, “So, this is aging…”

When a 7” piece of braided candy can take you out, new lines have officially been drawn.

While my chipped tooth wasn’t quite Dumb and Dumber level, I was as close to a carny as I’d ever been.

After all, if you were from Northern Ontario, you were always just one cousin removed from working a travelling fair.

I pictured myself wearing low-rise jeans that showed off a C-section scar.

Clipped onto my waist was an oversized fanny pack stuffed with loose bills and coins.

I called male and female passersby “hon.”

On the surface, I was hawking two-dollar dart throws to win a betta fish. On the inside, I was figuring out how to finagle extra poutine curds without an upcharge at lunch.

“I hope that old bitch, Pat, isn’t working the truck. She’s always been jealous of me,” I thought.

I had a reputation around the grounds for being savvy. To hook patrons, I came up with clever one-liners.

That day’s, I was particularly proud of:

“Don’t be a bish, win a fish! One throw for two dollars or three for five, honnnnnnnnnn.”

My voice boomed, slicing through the deep-fried air. I gave a half-cocked smile, revealing a set of teeth that looked like a fist through broken glass.

I snap back and let out an exaggerated sigh.

Then, I call the dentist.

A few days later, the chip is filled. Over time, I learn to side-chew, and carnyhood remains in the rearview.

That is, until I drink water.

Last week, I misjudge the slim figure of a new water glass and knock the rim against my front teeth. A loud chime cascades across the main floor. Like baking soda and vinegar, my tooth and the glass collide in poetic mayhem.

Without skipping a beat, I perform the oral safety check. Sliding my tongue across the front line, I discover a fallen soldier. The same toothy shard has gone AWOL.

For nearly five years, that fake chunk held on through beef jerky and saltwater taffy. But like each and every one of us, she eventually reaches her limit. She peacefully surrenders in the comfort of her own home, surrounded by those closest to her.

Respectfully, I swallow the pearly grit to offer a proper burial.

(In lieu of flowers, please send dental insurance.)

Moments later, I ring the dentist and book the soonest available appointment. For the next 48 hours, I lay low and embrace my new identity. I wear pyjama pants in public and stain my index finger grey with scratch ticket residue.

On tooth rebuild day, I’m in the driveway clearing out the trunk of my SUV. After rummaging through water bottles, winter scarves, and shoes, I hit the button to close the liftgate.

Then, my mother-in-law starts walking towards me. Within milliseconds, she riddles off a series of questions to me and the air around us:

“Do you want anything from the store?”
“Is it going to rain?”
“Any paper towel left?”
“Where’s the nearest gas station?”
“Does Sir Paul McCartney have a heart condition?”

In the flurry, I whip my head up toward her. That’s when my head and the trunk collide. The impact is fast and furious. My neck snaps back and my jaw slams down.

Instantly, I feel intense pressure on my lower tooth. Have I just crunched my bottom tooth out of existence?

“Fuckkkkk,” I yell.

Holding my jaw, I walk back to the house. Before I can get through the front door, a goose egg forms on my forehead.

I perform the oral safety check, sliding my tongue across the lowers and uppers. Thankfully, all my teeth are still there.

I touch my bottom teeth to detect any wiggliness. They seem locked. However, something is off. My canine tooth is no longer where it once was.

In the mirror, I see that my bottom vampire fang is tucked behind my incisors.

Could it be possible?

Holding an ice pack to my head, Kevin comes over to inspect. He grimaces and confirms my newfound snaggle.

Ironically, on the way to the dentist to fix my temporary carny, I create a permanent snaggle.

At the dentist, the final jab is served ice cold. He explains that once we know if my injured tooth will turn brown from internal bruising, the next step is realignment.

The dentist recommends 9–12 months of adult braces.

Instead of Dumb and Dumber, my mind flashes to the “braces” couple from Best in Show. They are pretentious, turtleneck-wearing lawyers. In many ways, they are the complete opposite of a carny.

At this point in my life, I can’t decide who I relate to more. All I know is that chaos begets chaos. Like attracts like. And one ratchet tooth will call upon another to join its army.

I also know that I’m sure as fuck not getting adult braces.