Читать книгу Booking In - Jack Batten - Страница 14

The sign over aisle number three in the Shoppers Drug Mart on Bloor a half block from my office told me that the aisle offered products that promoted “Mouth Health.” My first walk down the aisle was devoted to reconnaissance. The second time through, I began picking up items for purchase

I chose two brands of toothpaste. One was marked “Breath Pure” and the other didn’t mention breath but promised “A Refreshed Mouth.” I put both in a shopping basket. Next, after much scrutiny of the dental floss shelves, I settled on two brands. The first came equipped with mint flavouring, while the second described its product as possessing “Nature’s Taste.” Alongside the floss, there were two sections of toothpicks. I ended up with three varieties. One package contained the familiar wooden toothpicks that thoughtful dining establishments offered at every table. The second, way more sophisticated, had a five-inch-long shaft with rubbery knobs at either end in just the right size to flick the gunk out of the tricky spaces among the molars. And the third was the Cadillac version of the second, this one sporting a more metallic-looking knob in place of the rubber, the metal done up in a gold shade. My shopping basket was already two-thirds full.

In the category of toothbrush, I went for two of the dozens of varieties, both brushes looking bushier than the norm, both guaranteeing to “ferret out disease-causing bacteria.” One bragged about the new whiteness it would bring to the teeth. The other took whiteness for granted.

I checked through my basket of implements, all of them devoted to the elimination of halitosis, and decided they covered the field.

I carried the basket to a counter where no one else was lined up to pay. The cashier was a solidly built woman in her forties. She adopted a smirky expression when I plunked down my basket, and she seemed to be applying a lot of thought to the choices I’d made.

“I see what your problem is,” she said.

Should I tell her the stuff wasn’t for me? No, I thought, why complicate a simple drugstore transaction?

“But I think you’ve overlooked something,” the cashier said.

“What’s that?”

“A lot of my customers have the same mouth embarrassment as you.”

Maybe I should just breathe on the woman and let her know I had no reason to feel embarrassed.

“Mouthwash,” the cashier said.

She had a point.

“I’ll hold your items on the counter while you go back for the mouthwash,” she said. “Pick one that advertises ‘breath sweet and clear.’ You’ll see what I mean.”

Back in the Mouth Health aisle, I found the mouthwash the cashier was talking about. It came in three shades of purple. I got two bottles of the most garish tint.

“There now,” the cashier said when I showed her the two bottles. “Your mouth’s going to smell so luscious, you’ll love yourself.”

“Can’t wait.”

“You married?” the cashier asked.

“Next thing to it.”

“She’s going to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.”

“Listen,” I said, “I appreciate your advice, but the toothpaste and all the rest of the stuff is for a friend.”

The cashier stopped packing my purchases and looked up to me. I hadn’t noticed how beady her eyes were.

“Oh, you guys,” she said, breaking into a laugh. “None of you can admit your own problems.”

“Lady, I got problems, but not this particular one.”

“Don’t give me that guff.”

A small line had formed behind me. People were waiting to pay for their purchases.

“Just say to yourself,” the cashier said to me, “‘my breath offends, but I can beat the odour trouble.’”

I looked back at the line. Four people stood in it. Three of them were listening to the cashier but pretending they weren’t. The fourth, the guy at the front of the line, was listening and not bothering to conceal his merriment.

“Promise me,” the cashier was saying, “you’re going to take ownership of your halitosis.”

Would this damn woman ever shut up?

“How much do I owe you?” I said.

“Looks like it’s $89.52,” she said. “Money well spent.”

I waved my Visa card at her. She slid the card machine closer to me.

“If you’re not cured inside a week,” the woman said, “I’ll be very surprised.”

I finished the payment drill.

“I tell you what,” the woman said. “If your girlfriend or wife or whatever she is can still detect the halitosis this time next week, send her over to see me.”

I picked up my bulky bag and started for the door at a swift walking pace.

“I know some really powerful prescription medicine for bad breath,” the cashier said in a louder voice. “Me and your girlfriend or wife, whatever, can work that out.”

I took another look behind me. The asshole at the front of the line was flashing a big smile my way and applauding.

I crossed Bloor at the traffic light and headed south to my office, feeling something between annoyed and humiliated. My iPhone chose this delicate moment to ring. The caller was Maury.

“You want to meet me and Biscuit at the Daffodil for lunch?” he said.

“I’m kind of occupied here, Maury,” I said, not much feeling like taking a trip all the way to the east end for my next meal.

“Crang, that wasn’t a question I just put to you,” Maury said. “That wasn’t even a suggestion.”

“You got something urgent?”

“Essential is how I might describe it.”

“Concerning the job we’re doing for Fletcher?”

“You’re making me feel exasperated, for chrissakes.”

“Give me a three quarters of an hour, I’ll take the Bloor subway and then, what, the Coxwell bus south to the Daffodil?”

“If you’re as serious as you ought to be, you’ll grab a cab.”

I clicked off my iPhone and hailed a taxi.