The Toothache by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Forty-nine-year-old John was out the door at dawn. It was a chilly 48º (Fahrenheit; 9º Celsius) morning. Low gray clouds and mist hovered over the Richmond District of San Francisco (CA, USA) on this date of November 21, 1954. Once on the 15th Avenue sidewalk, the sweater-clad, dark-haired Caucasian gent of average build thought: No rain is forecast today. The fog should be gone soon. A good day to do some walking. Clear the mind. Maybe burn some belly fat off. Don’t want to have to buy new pants. Sure could go for some hot coffee. Yeah, let’s hit that joint on Lake Street. It’s not that far away.

Three long blocks later, John was at his intended java joint. It had just opened. The owner, an immigrant from Zadar (a city in present-day Croatia), was still taking the chairs off the red with gold speckles, Formica-topped, round tables.

“Good to see ya, John,” the curly-brown-haired, thin, 50-ish, mustachioed café owner said. “A black coffee with just one lump of sugar?” Wow! He remembers. Haven’t sleepwalked in here in months. Does he not have that many customers?

“Sure,” John replied. Wonder why Ivan emigrated from Yugoslavia to America. Probably to escape [Josip Broz] Tito and Soviet hegemony. Hell, I’d want to leave, too.

“What brings you out so early on a Sunday?” Ivan asked.

“Oh, exercise, I guess,” John answered. “Didn’t want to sit around all day again.” And drink.

“That’s a good reason,” Ivan concurred. “This new television thing is very passive. Just sit, watch, and eat.”

“So true, Ivan.”

Soon Ivan was placing a white porcelain cup of dark coffee down on the saucer in front of John. “Drink up,” Ivan implored. “Don’t let it get cold; that brings bad luck.” Must be some Eastern European superstition.

John inhaled the coffea arabica aroma and took a big gulp. And then another. This will wake me up and get me going.

“How is it?” Ivan asked from across the small sitting area.

“Perfect: hot and strong. Good job, Ivan.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ivan said as he slid behind the counter.

“Ivan, I have a question for you,” John announced.

“I’ll answer only if it’s off the record,” Ivan replied with a compressed grin. Off the record? Surveillance back home.

John laughed for a few seconds. “Ok, here it is: You see a discarded commode on the curb. You could use one. It looks fine and still has all the parts intact. Do you take it?”

“Are you low on cash, John? If so, the coffee is on me.”

John chuckled. “No, I could go out and buy a new one. I just thought, well, if it’s still good, why not grab it and save some money?” What a tvrdica! [miser in Croatian] No wonder he’s alone.

“No, I wouldn’t advise it, John. There could be a rat or a snake hiding in it.” Ouch!

“Ok, thanks for your answer, Ivan. I’ll pass on that toilet.” John scratched his scalp as he took another swallow. Suddenly the pang hit with full fury. Ferociously. His misaligned wisdom tooth was raging again. Yow! God Almighty it hurts! Did the hot coffee set it off? Darn! My dentist is closed today. All dentists in the city are closed today. What to do? Should I just get drunk to kill the pain? But, I’ll be hungover tomorrow morning and have to miss work again. No, that’s out. What about aspirin? Take half a bottle and start bleeding again? No, that’s out, too. Damn, that tooth hurts. Satan has occupied my mouth.

Ivan saw John grimace. “Are you ok, buddy?”

“I’ve got a bad toothache, Ivan. It’s a back molar.”

“I have some clove oil,” Ivan offered. Clove oil? Must be some Old World folk remedy. No thanks!

“Uh, that’s ok, Ivan. I think the pain will subside once I start walking. Thanks anyway.” He doubts its effectiveness.

“Ok, suit yourself,” Ivan stated. Another stubborn American.

John then got up and paid for the coffee. He managed to force a somewhat normal facial expression as he said farewell to Ivan. This guy is in some kind of severe pain. Well, I tried to help him.

John continued walking north and was soon on the grounds of the Presidio (an old US Army fort). He continued trekking northward on Wedemeyer Street and then on Battery Caulfield Road. There was hardly any automobile traffic. This damn toothache seems to be subsiding a little. Let’s just keep walking. Try to think of something else. Anything.

At a eucalyptus-canopied Washington Boulevard, he turned left. Wonder if Ike [President Eisenhower] can get the North Koreans to sign a peace treaty. Wouldn’t expect any help from Russia. Wonder how the world is in the 21st century. Still an unsettled mess, I would eagerly bet. Wonder if World War III has occurred by 2020. Ow! The pain is back with a merciless vengeance. What did they do for toothaches in the old days? Ether and pliers? This pain is unendurable. Have to do something. Soon. Very soon.

John stopped at a west-facing overlook. He faintly heard the surf and could occasionally see the Pacific Ocean through the wispy fog. If only saltwater cured toothaches …

After a brief stop, John continued his agonizing northward journey. He was lost in thought. That little café/souvenir shop is less than a mile [1.6 km] from here.

Eighteen throbbing minutes later, John was in a small, window-walled, round building. He quickly found and bought a pre-stamped postcard from the 20-something female Chinese American clerk. After borrowing her pen, he scrawled a short message on the back. Then he dropped the Greetings from San Francisco postcard into the cast-iron mailbox. Done with this toothache. Done with it all.

John would jump from the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge’s main span nine minutes later, and die almost instantly from impact trauma sustained from the 243-foot (74-meter), 70 MPH (113 km/h) fall. During the four seconds of freefall, John thought about another jumper. ‘Well, Harold Wobber, [a World War I veteran who was the first Golden Gate Bridge suicide in 1937] this is where I got off, too. This is where I get permanent relief. This is where …’ <splat>

The single sentence that was written on the postcard: Absolutely no reason except I have a toothache.

Note: This fictionalized vignette about John Thomas Doyle’s last day is in memory of the late Russ Newsom, an original NoDa visual/video artist, sci-fi savant, and cogent contrarian.