Story From Jack's Past

Jack smiles widely, flashing his perfectly straight pearly white- including one that is chipped slightly at the corner.

“What’s the story there?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at his mouth.

“What, this?” He runs his tongue lightly over his chipped tooth. I nod.

He hunkers down, grabs a flashlight from off the console, and shines it under his chin. “The story begins one hot August afternoon, nearly a decade ago,” he begins, his accent oddly German.

I sigh loudly. “Do you even choose your breakfast cereals without making a huge deal out of it?”

He flicks the flashlight off. “Nope.” He says, far too cheerily. “Why would I? Are you aware of the metaphorical ramifications of choosing one cereal over another? For example-“

I cut him off. “Never mind. Continue with your story.”

He continues, sans accent and flashlight this time, thank goodness. “It was a hot August day, and I, being an eleven year old boy, was in dire need for entertainment. In our backyard, there was this little pyramid of wood we had stacked up earlier in the summer to be able to take camping with us. I took a flimsy plywood plank and leaned it over the woodpile. Then I got my epic new ten-speed black and gold bike, and I pedaled as fast as I could. I was going to make an awesome Dukes of Hazzard style jump, right? Wrong. As I hit the board, it started to wobble, and so I lost my balance. When I got to the top of the plank, rather than soaring as my calculations had predicted, I went kersplat!” He smacks his hands together for emphasis. “As I hit the ground, screaming, obviously, my tooth clashed with a rock. And so, I left that day with a broken tibia, a chipped incisor, and wounded pride. Until, that is,” he adds knowingly, “I went to school the two weeks later and told everyone I got into a fight.”

I smirk. “I guess you forgot to mention the fight was with the ground. And that you lost.”

He sticks his tongue out at me. “Oh, hush.”

I just shake my head. “Why didn’t you go get it fixed? I’m sure an orthodontist could fix it fairly cheaply.”

He sighs. “My father wouldn’t let me. He thought it would ‘build character’ if I had a ‘physical reminder’ of the ‘lesson’ I had learned that day.”

“The lesson being?” I prompt.

“Which one do you want to know? The one he wanted me to learn, or the one I did?”

I shrug. “Both, I suppose.”

“He wanted me to learn to use my head, to think before I act, but where’s the fun in that? I prefer to act first and think later. What I did learn, however, was that you should never try to jump a homemade bike ramp. And, if you must, just keep you mouth shut as you fall, for Pete’s sake.”

I can’t argue with that.