Garcia is wanking off.
Is he suggesting I go back to my room to wank?
He's doing a dry hump kinda wank, if that makes sense.
He works as the parking guy for the Raman noodle store.
He's wearing the company's shirt too that says 'My Raman.'
I never tell him I want to do more than wank.
But I've got my new teeth. You can't have the best of both worlds, can you?
Garcia is in fifties, jagged teeth, is always asking me to buy him a drink.
He's a real lad and covers the turf outside Maya Bank on Mabini street.
I think he likes me.
He was thumping the shit out of my shoulder as I made my way the dentist.
Are you sure it's not cancer of the tongue, I ask Dr. John?
'Nope,' he says, 'it's coloring and preservatives, 7-Eleven is notorious for it.'
He says my gums are good.
He doesn't comment on my blue T-shirt that is just about to jump off my back and crawl to a dark and warm spot.
I did say that I would annoy you, conditional on getting my teeth done.
'I know,' he nods. It's a nervous kinda nod. I can see he's regretting my terms that I laid on the table. It can get lonely on the open road and I was just ensuring I'd have someone to talk to after my teeth were done if you really wanted to follow my logic.
But he's cool with it. My teeth are settling in, he says.
'But stop playing with your teeth.'
I have a bad habit of putting my fingers in my mouth.
'That's one sure way to get the gums infected.'
Dr. John really cares about me.
I can feel it in my gums.
In a few days time, I'm out of here, I say.
I've never seen the man so happy. He says he's nearly over his cold, 'about ten percent lingering.'
I've just given Dr. John hope.
I noticed he didn't offer me a coffee.
I take a mental note, reminding myself to get one on Monday.
It's all about follow up, I say.
And Dr. John, you are doing just fine.
On a recommendation from a friend, I hit 7-11 again looking for the sushi. He says my tongue will turn green 'but your hallucinations will be all rainbows and unicorns.'
If this is true, then I think Seven-11 is onto something.
