My Kingdom for a Tooth

"Have you ever sold a car you didn't own to someone you didn't know in exchange for three gold teeth?" the young man says when Zandra turns the corner behind the vacant gas station.

Zandra stops in her shuffled tracks, partly because of the directness of the question and partly because of man's expression as he says it. It's as soulless as someone mid-chew in the background of a photograph.

How does he know it isn't my car? I did everything right, didn't I? I slept in it at night while the rest of downtown Stevens Point, Wisconsin, US of A, stumbled between the bars.

"Are you wondering how I know it isn't your car?" the man says. He wears a T-shirt with bold print that reads, "Free Beer Tomorrow," on it.

Ah, so that's why he didn't notice I was sleeping in his car. He was at work. Bartender?

Zandra glances at the man's hands. They're balled into fists.

Manager. Shift lead. Someone like that. He's posturing at the same time as keeping cool. A bartender would've called the police by now. They don't make money if they aren't working, so they wouldn't want a physical confrontation. A bouncer wouldn't ball up the fist like that, because action is always favored over a threat. Server? Maybe, but Stevens Point is too traditional for a male-presenting specimen in his late 20s or early 30s to bother with being emasculated like that.

This needle-dick town.

"You should try locking the doors next time," Zandra says. She stops the urge to hack into her sleeve, and instead lets a droop from her throat wiggle its way to the crust on the old pavement.

"You should try not sleeping in cars that don't belong to you," the man says. His head leans forward, neck outstretched.

Typical alpha male bullshit pose. It's how boys in this town look when they're "talking to the manager."

Zandra pulls the lawnmower knife from the sheath hidden up the sleeve of her purple gown. The blade isn't sharp enough to make a cut unnoticeable.

That's the problem with sharp knives. No one knows you used one until they spot the blood, and even then they think it's someone else's. Ask me how I know.

"If I had a better place to sleep, I would," Zandra says. "Now do you want the car or not?"

"How about I come over there and take the keys from you."

"You think I brought the keys with me?"

"What?"

To answer his question from earlier on, yes, I have sold a car that didn't belong to me before. Not for gold teeth. No, no one in this town carries good enough dental insurance for that. For a fast food gift card and a carton of smokes? You bet.

"I hid the keys," Zandra says.

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

"Then I'm going to tell everyone about this," the man says. He unwinds one of his fists so he can wag a finger at Zandra. "I know who you are. I know the things they say about you. You don't have any friends in this town as it is."

Zandra shrugs as she lights a cigarette with her free hand. "Then why should I care if you tell anyone?"

"Because it's time someone did something about you," the man says.

They already tried. I'm still here, more or less alive.

"Better to have the right enemies than the wrong ones," Zandra says.

"This change anything?" the man says. He lifts his T-shirt up to show a holstered pistol tucked into his waistband.

"Not really," Zandra says, trying her best to sound bored. The cigarette helps level her nerves. No matter how many times she's stepped on death's doormat, she's never felt comfortable.

Hadn't noticed that gun. Not feeling as sharp as I used to. Sleeping in cars isn't helping.

"Some people are tourists when it comes to violence. They take a trip, run through the gift shop, buy the right things, and think they're on the same level with the people who have no choice but to live there," Zandra says and drags on the cigarette. "Let me ask you something, child. You bought that gun, but are you ready to buy what comes after pulling that trigger?"

"What?" the man says.

"I just think you...you...," Zandra starts to say, but she's interrupted with a cough that starts deep from within her chest. Then another. And another.

This isn't...like...how...I usually feel. This is different. Dizzy.

It takes Zandra a minute to catch her breath. She nurses it back to life with the cigarette.

If it's my time, it's my time, but I'm not leaving until this guy is thoroughly screwed out of his car.

However, it is Zandra's time. She crumples to the pavement, one elbow and one knee at a time, without the man firing a single shot.

The next conversation Zandra becomes aware of is in the Stevens Point Hospital. The next thought she becomes aware of isn't to do with her health.

Shit. I don't have health insurance.

The one after that isn't as pressing, but top of mind nonetheless.

I locked that guy's keys in his car. I bet it got towed.

"...to discuss payment. The doctor will be in next to explain what happened," comes a voice from outside Zandra's vision, which at the moment is like the opening reel of a movie in slow motion.

Zandra's hands follow the shape of railing on either side of a hospital bed. She props herself up on her elbows as her vision comes into focus. A clock on the wall shows she's only been out for a couple hours.

A doctor in scrubs appears next to her bed. Zandra's mind can't keep up with her words.

"...hypertensive crisis...chest inflammation...stress...tobacco cessation...keep you for observation...," the doctor says as Zandra looks down at a swatch of light blue.

I'm not dressed the same.

Zandra clears her throat but hacks into her sleeve instead.

"...get that checked out...," the doctor says.

"Sounds expensive," Zandra says.

The doctor's voice becomes clearer. "A social worker is here who can help you with that, even if you don't have a permanent address. But to the issue at hand, I need to get a better look at your lungs."

I don't have a permanent address because it was burned down. Thanks again, Stevens Point.

The social worker swaps spots with the doctor. He pauses a beat to allow the doctor to leave the room.

"I know this is startling, and there must be a lot on your mind. It's understandable to be concerned about the financial side, very common. But a word of advice? Put your health first, and let's worry about the rest later. I'm here to help," the social worker says.

That's what I was worried about.

"I've only been here a couple hours. I feel fine now. Not sure why I need to stay," Zandra says and points at the clock.

The social worker grimaces. "Zandra, you've been here for two days. You stabilized quickly and have been sleeping."

Hope I didn't get any bedsores.

"Then it's already too expensive," Zandra says.

"We've been hearing that a lot lately, with all the layoffs in Stevens Point, but focus on the positive. You're very lucky. A man passing by—someone who works at a bar nearby—found you behind a gas station. He smashed the window to his car to get his keys so he could drive you here. Sounds like he accidentally locked the keys in his car," the social worker says.

What an asshole.

"Can't you just give me some pills?" Zandra says.

"There's a nifedipine prescription down in the pharmacy for the blood pressure. If you're going to leave against medical advice, we'll need you to sign some papers," the social worker says. He drops a couple pamphlets on the table next to Zandra's bed. "I'm going to leave these with you, too."

Zandra picks up a pamphlet. Even though her vision still isn't 100 percent, she can make out the words, "First Steps in Quitting Smoking."

Are the last steps death?

Zandra tosses the pamphlet back down. "Get me those papers."

No one is in a rush to get her the AMA—"against medical advice"—paperwork. Zandra passes the time with the TV in her room. A commercial for the local news program out of Wausau, a hub north of Stevens Point, teases a final broadcast. The on-air talent promises a look back at 30 years of community coverage. Stevens Point will get its TV news from Green Bay in the future.

No loss. Gene owned the Wausau station.

Another commercial leverages a celebrity spokesperson to pitch reverse mortgages. A pitch for selling plasma follows. A public service announcement about food shelves sneaks in before a rerun of a game show resumes.

The fallout is everywhere. Shows just how embedded Gene's bullshit was around here. No honor among Gene's buddies for holding things together, either. Without his air cover, their businesses had to actually compete. The free ride is over.

"Your paperwork," a nurse says and hands Zandra a clipboard.

Zandra signs away her right to sue the hospital. She trades her hospital gown for her purple one, and leaves.

The hospital exits onto a parking lot with a bus stop. A sign at the stop explains how the city provides a free ride to downtown Stevens Point from the hospital. It's a new service. From the looks of it, it's popular. Zandra gets in line. The bus is due soon.

Zandra keeps her head pointed at the pavement.

Try to avoid eye contact.

"...don't get what happened. It's like a bomb went off, but only here," Zandra overhears someone in line say. "Why isn't this happening anywhere else?"

"Yeah. Rest of the country is fine. Can't explain it," someone else replies. "Health insurance cut me off. Can you believe that shit? I'm supposed to be recovering for another two days. New health insurance at work kicked in. They say I'm fine to go home. That's not what the doctors said."

"Health insurance companies are awful."

"Don't get me started. Can't get a different job, though. Where am I supposed to go?"

"You're lucky you even have a job."

"Yeah, but how am I supposed to work if this doesn't heal up right? Makes no sense."

Zandra lights a cigarette and tries to ignore the conversation. Someone in line turns toward her and shouts, "Smoke somewhere else. I've got an...oxygen...tank." The shout labors and fades into a whisper.

Fine.

Zandra shuffles away from the bus stop. A woman slips out of line and follows behind her.

They didn't take my knife at the hospital, did they?

She runs her hand along her sleeve.

Still there.

Zandra picks up her pace, but she can hear the footsteps closing in behind her. The cigarette dances between her lips as her hurried hobble wobbles. A hand squeezes her shoulder.

Shit.

"Zandra?" a woman's voice says. It's more inquisitive than angry.

Zandra stops and turns. She plucks the cigarette from her mouth and exhales a plume of smoke. "Yeah?"

"I can't believe I found you," the middle-aged woman says. She's dressed in a white polo shirt, blue jeans, brand-name sneakers, eyeglasses, and the sag of exhaustion. Zandra notices all of this.

Can't say I recognize this person. That could be good, but also bad.

"OK?" Zandra says.

"You've got to help me. It's an emergency," the woman says.