Mel considered the toothpaste tube. Had he squeezed everything out of it the night before? Bloodshot eyes with branching veins blinked back at him from the mirror. His face had been as red when he squeezed the tube. Had he one last brushfull? Holding his breath, turning crimson, he squeezed. Perhaps he could handle half his teeth with what came out.

So, it was another half-effort. He needed to buy another tube. The thought of the pharmacy and of dental products was unpleasant. Could anyone blame him for being dejected? There were the brushes, the pastes, the flosses, and the mouth washes to consider.

He had canceled his last dental appointment. He recalled Dr. Graubman, who once said, “Cancellations mean nothing to teeth.” It came down to extractions, crowns, and root canals. That was his dentist’s worldview.

His Uncle Max was 87 when Mel asked him, in an aside at the old man’s birthday party, if he had to do it over again, would he have made any changes in his life?
“Fred, I would’ve changed two things.”
“I’m Mel, Uncle Max.
“What?”
His uncle had a birthday cap on the top of his head stenciled ’87’, attached by an elastic band. His hearing aids were on the fritz.

“What was that again?”
“Would you have done anything differently?”
“I tell you, Fred. I would’ve taken better care of my teeth and my knees.”

It was the voice of experience. His uncle had trouble remembering who his nephew was, as well as difficulty eating the yellow cake with chocolate frosting. He managed a few bites. That must’ve been five years ago. As Mel walked to the pharmacy–exercise is considered helpful–he realized his right knee bothered him. He didn’t like the sound of it, followed by the stabbing pain.