Sometime in the mid seventies, a vague memory lingers of my parents taking my brother and me with them on a night out as stowaways. It was to a gathering at the K Club.

It was Christmas or maybe New Year’s or maybe just a celebratory Saturday night. I only remember that it was the first time I’d seen my mom really dressed up like an adult.
She wore a revealing red dress, perfume, and make up like I’d only seen in magazines. She was beautiful and sexy. I was only seven years old, but I knew what sexy was. I had seen the manuals hidden in my dad’s dresser drawers. She was oddly exciting to gaze upon and I could tell my dad was proud to show her off, even though they had been fighting the entire time they were getting ready. Fighting was usual and normal for our family. Not arguing, but fighting. If my mother could take or deliver a punch, they would have been throwing knockout blows at least once a week.

During their evening preparation, they had neglected to feed their children. I’m not sure if there ever was a plan for us, or the plans fell through, or the time was too constricting, or what, but it was obvious we were not prioritized at all. Maybe we were supposed to meet with a babysitter, or maybe they just forgot about us for a little while, but we were obviously not invited to the party and eventually had to be dealt with somehow.

I assume the plan soon became to figure something out in a pinch. I hope the actual original plan was not what they did, but it totally could have been.

We all squeezed together on the cold vinyl bench seat of the 1977 green Chevy 4×4, and rode twenty plus miles into the city. I remember mostly a calm silence, as if my parents refused to speak in fear of ruining any chance they might actually enjoy the evening. The overpowering smells of perfume and cologne might have also collectively altered our brain patterns, rendering us silent and passive.
I do remember a certain energy surrounding my dad. It was as if he was hyper focused on the coming events of the evening, and he would let nothing alter that path. We all assumed he would be content with leaving us on the side of the road if we posed as an obstacle to his upcoming enjoyment.

On the way to the building, we stopped by a small grocery store where we were allowed to shop for snacks. Anything our childish hearts desired, just to keep us quiet. No rules of nutrition applied. This was also our dinner.

Upon arrival, my brother and I were quickly, silently, and covertly guided down a dimly lit hallway to a dark, unheated office room. My mom had no part in it. I’m not even sure she knew we were there anymore. The fluorescent lights blinked and flittered as the room illuminated. Among the unemotional office carpet and grey tweed and false leather office furniture stood a television on a rolling cart. My dad turned it on and silently rejoiced as he turned the loud clicking, giant rotary channel knobs, discovering at least four channels. It was as if it was sent by God. A babysitter God. We did not have an operable TV at home since no signal existed that could reach our rural area. My dad left us with a stern warning. I don’t remember what he said, but it may have been the only time in our lives that my brother decided not to anger me for his own entertainment.

So for hours, my brother and I ate our dinner of powdered sugar and waxed chocolate coated donuts, M&M’s, bags of chips, candy bars, and multiple soda pops. We watched adult themed sitcoms and violent cop shows on the clean signaled tv channels as the steady roar of the distant party echoed down the hallway. We didn’t argue or fight, or at least enough that required an intervention.

After hours and hours, and hours, our obviously inebriated, red faced parents came to get us. We were once again snuck out like prisoners of war. Most of the guests had already gone so it was a successful super secret covert operation.
I believe it was against the rules for children to be present, but it must have been worth the risk to my dad. A reprimand? A possible exile from the K-Club? At least he would have been publicly shamed, maybe.

My mom would have never had a rational opinion about it, so there is no point in trying to guess what her thoughts on the matter even were. That would be equivalent to trying to understand why cats suddenly run out of the room sometimes.

At that time, there were no actual laws against driving drunk, with or without your kids. We obviously made it home to tell the story. I remember that we were so tired, and it was so late, and we were exhausted from eating so much sugar.

I also remember that my parents actually had a good time. It was rare and overdue, and probably the last time they enjoyed each other’s company, in public or private. And looking back in even further depth, I wonder if it was really just a sex party? I hope not, or I hope so. Mom and Dad sure were excited.

There was a time I had dental insurance. It was only for a few years while I was working at a print shop in Nashville. I had very little experience with dentists, so I knew they were all professional and honest, like doctors and lawyers.

As an open minded and slightly naive type of person, I have no reason to be suspicious of anyone at any time.

I was a walk in, and a walk out after my consultation. I can’t say for sure if the dental office was motivated by racism or they ripped off everyone equally, but it felt a little like racism.

Everything went smoothly throughout the entire visit at the East Nashville white castle dental institution. So smooth that my accusatory thoughts went completely un-investigated.

I enjoy experiencing different American cultures. I’m not afraid of people or areas of town. I usually find that people everywhere are accepting and friendly to people like me, especially when I’m out of my element.

I think I was actually afraid of being accused of being a racist if I reported them, so I did absolutely nothing.
I now wonder if the operation was counting on my fear, or white guilt, or confrontation, or am I giving them way too much credit.

I filled out the forms in the waiting room among a large group of people. All ages, all races, and all lower middle class to poor. It was as warm and welcoming as the Department of Motor Vehicles. Tan painted cinder block walls, one lonely fish in cloudy ten gallon tank on a table, and the usual unorganized pile of over used, torn, scribbled on, missing pages, Highlights magazines on a green shelf in the corner. My initial feeling was that this place must be great. It’s affordable and a great service to the community. Why else would the waiting room be so busy?
All the employees looked tidy and professional. Monochromatic bleached white blouses, pants, and aprons. Fancy hairdoos and painted fingernails. All more to love body type ladies with strong opinions that they kept to themselves during working hours, but could size you up with a glance and a murmur.

I was called to the back, politely asked to remove my baseball cap, and sit in the laid back dental chair. She, of course, commented on my long hippie hair and asked a few seemingly indifferent questions. It felt like I was being screened.

“How you doing today?”
“Good.”

“You got some long hair.”
“Yeah.”

“You been here before?”
“No.”

“Where you from?”
“Texas.”

“Oh, Texas. I never been to Texas. Have you heard of us before?”
“No.”

“Why you move to Nayushveal?”
“Music.”

“Oh you gon’ be a country and western star.”
“No, heh, I don’t really play country.”

“UmmHmmmm. And how did you hear about us?”
“I drive by here on my way home from work.”

“Where you work? Never-mind, you ever hear anybody say anything bad about us?”

“Uh, no.”
“Good. Let’s get started!”

A new assistant came in and had me lay back as she poked on and around each tooth calling out numbers to another assistant who was writing down the secret code on a shiny metal clipboard as if they were seeing just how fast they could fire through it.

Then they left to decipher it and, I assume, discuss how far they could take their lies.

When the actual Dentist arrived, it was like a diva appeared, complete with bodyguards. Then she gave me the news. I had nine cavities, but someone just cancelled their appointment, so they could fix them all right then and there. It was coincidentally incredibly convenient.

I thought about it for half a second and said, I’m not really prepared for that right now. I think I need to go.

She said, ok baby, make a appointment and come back tomorrow.

I said, I will.

But I did not. I walked straight out the door in a daze and went home feeling confused and oddly violated. I’ve only felt that way once before. The time my eyes were dilated at the Git-er-Done Nashvegas optometrist office, and they did not inform me that I would be very sensitive to the sunlight, and they let me drive home anyway. It was like driving home fourteen miles in the flash of an atomic explosion.

A week later, I found a different dentist office. There was only a mom and a kid in the waiting room when I filled out the forms. There was a clean fish tank built into the wall. You could see the bubbles and everything. It had seven alive fish. There was an assortment of current magazines on multiple tables. It was better. The walls were stucco textured with colorful art.

The actual dentist took a moment to inspect my teeth with the same poking method, so I guess that’s a thing, and asked, ‘So just a cleaning today?’ And I was like, What about all the cavities??
But there were no cavities. Not even one. I expected maybe one, but no. Just zero cavities.

And before long, I was gazing into the beautiful brown eyes of a Hindu dental hygienist while she battled my cigarette breath for twenty-five minutes. I went every three months, for as long as I had my insurance. My only complaint was the unsettling loudness of the landscaping equipment outside the serene tooth and gum spa. Even the fluoride flavored mouthwash was delightful. I highly recommend this dental facility. Four stars!

I’ll end this story with a few reminders to all humanity.

-Shop around a bit.
-Ask some questions.
-Report bad behavior.
-Go to the dentist if you can afford to pay for it or have insurance.
-Find a dental hygienist with pretty eyes and nothing else will matter.

I have been diagnosed with shingles. An after affect from the chicken pox I had as a child. Shingles show up later in life just to remind us that life still sucks. I’ve also suffered from nasty cold sores my whole life. Strangly, it’s the same prescribed medication, Acyclovir.

Most shingles symptoms are a burning rash across the chest and arms. My symptoms are more rare, only a few pimply, itchy, red bumps at my beltline, and nearly debilitating muscle weakness and deep aching nerve pain. I find myself in tears as I power through my laborious workday.

I can feel outbreaks coming on, so I start the medication to minimize the full effect of the virus. Up until now, it’s worked just fine.

Suddenly, I fully sympathize with Parkinson’s sufferers. My brand new incredible side effects were uncontrollable twitching and stuttering for almost three solid days.

Of course I researched online before going to an expensive doctor. It was terrifying not knowing what was wrong with me and how bad it was. I fully expected the worse. Even death.

The reality that I might stay that way was not only horrific, but also thought provoking. Everything would change. Playing music, working, driving, walking, preparing meals, eating, writing, hugging, Everything.

Luckily, I have already reconciled with my death for the most part. I may even welcome it, after all, I’m exhausted.

Years ago I was so ashamed and tired of providing very little for myself and my family, I contemplated the thought of death and all the ways I could die. By my own hand, or in an accident, or incident, or by the failing health of my vital organs due to how I’ve mistreated my body forever.

I started writing to curb those annoying thoughts, or maybe to leave some possible clues to my death.
Then I started recording my music again (after a ten year hiatus) to leave at least something in this world.
Then I gave up alcohol (it took a few tries) and then eventually I started feeling better about living.

I do hope to leave my kids with a better understanding of who I am, so they can better understand themselves, and all their weirdness, someday. Hopefully, my legacy of music can leave them some royalty cash as well, but so far, nuthin’.

The illness scare made me realize that mentally, I’m doing better than ever before. Sobriety will always be a battle, but having clarity has allowed me to leave something behind, even if I died right now, and I’m okay with that.

I don’t think I would be okay with living with a debiltating disease, but that would be another story. I’m grateful that I don’t have to, for now at least.

Of course, I still haven’t gone to the doctor. I’m waiting for my inclusive yearly checkup to bring up all the issues I have. Sort of a self bundled package deal.

Who’s got money to throw around for just a few tremors and severe headaches? It’s not that bad if there’s no blood. And even then, that’s what the ER is for.