By Michael A. Destro
The Cleaner is the god of toothbrushes. So, the Upright salesclerk up front tells Mani. Generates its own toothpaste.
Out of all the toothbrushes Mani searches through at Upright’s self-care aisle, the Cleaner, with its blinding white bristles and shiny crucifix-shaped handle, outshone all the rest. The clerk hasn’t lied. Mani holds the plastic package up in the light. They cringe at their reflection in the wide handle. It’s like the brush had once dreamed itself into a paintbrush but never fully realized its intent.
Though the space on the toothbrush’s handle is small, Mani can see their teeth in the handle’s reflection. Caffeine stains. Plaque build-up ignored for months. Bits of corn stuck from the popcorn snack they’d devoured twenty minutes ago.
The clerk at the counter remarks how cool the toothbrush looks. Says it’ll clean Mani up nicely.
Mani tells the clerk the Cleaner had been the only one there.
When Mani gets home, they set the Cleaner on the peach soapstone countertop.
They sit at the wooden table, made for eight places, and stare at the empty cat tree, imagining the Blue Persian they always wanted but would never buy. Cats are like boyfriends. Like Ash. Quick to fascination, Quick to boredom.
Mani flips on their snail-shaped holo and plays holographic messages they’d left themselves, videos which remind them, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
Twelve more follow. A holographic animated image of Ash as an alley cat appears on his display, followed by the message, “Don’t call Ash.”
The neighbors above blast Western Goth: My bloody horse, I surrender, the demon inside, ride, ride, ride.
Mani sits on the floor and thinks about the air-couch they always wanted to buy but never would.
The neighbors below Mani laugh about some old man they saw hit in the face with a whipped cream pie.
Mani stares at the white wall, the one they imagine they’ll plaster with the orchid wallpaper from Uprights.
They imagine a holo-visor screen sticking out of the wall, a screen they’ve always imagined buying. With what money?
On each side of Mani, the neighbors scream at each other about lack of money, lack of opportunity, lack of desire.
Mani trudges into the kitchen and gets out what remains inside their refrigerator and cooks themselves a pot roast with potatoes and carrots. When it is done, they sit down with a garden salad and eat both the roast, vegetables, and salad slowly. Chewing on the left side. Then, the right. Then, the left. Right. Left. Right.
As they slowly eat, they open the last 128-oz bottle of Pineapple-Mango Poison and drink it. One sip. Swish it from the right side. Then to the right.
Mani leans their elbows on the table and stares at the cat tree and imagines what a Blue Persian would look like sitting on the top branch.
After dinner, Mani sits on the air-bed couch they wanted but would never buy.
Then, they return to staring at the wall. Imagines it’s covered in orchid wallpaper and has a holo-visor screen sticking out. They imagine watching a new Digi-version of Sleepless in Seattle, this one featuring Rock Hudson and Carey Grant. Last night they programmed the same film, choosing Arnold Schwarzenegger and Greta Garbo as the leads. The Digi-actors lacked chemistry, and Garbo kept going off script, saying she wanted to be alone. Probably a cat in a former life, she obviously doesn’t know that being alone never works in romantic comedies.
The snail-shaped holo, the one they always imagine purchasing, screams at them to answer.
Ash says, “Why have you been ghosting me?”
“This photo shoot schedule has been a nightmare,” Mani says. Monotone.
“Did you lose the twenty-seven pounds you wanted?”
Mani’s words are measured. “You mean what they wanted.”
“You. They. All the same. Right? So, what are you doing tonight?”
“Thought I’d brush my teeth.”
“No. I’m serious. What are you doing tonight?”
Mani disconnects the call on Ash, who is only there when Mani wants them to be.
Mani walks through the empty spaces of their apartment, counting steps, losing count somewhere around eighty-seven, then starts all over from one.
Night falls outside.
Still, the neighbors yell, and Mani imagines themselves rushing into the apartment and making peace. Kiss and make-up. Forgiveness tastes like curdled milk.
Mani calls down the holo-vizor, the one they’ve always dreamed of buying, from the ceiling and asks it to play Don McLean’s Vincent. Imagines ears are plastered all over the room. Bloody, halved ears. None of them are able to listen. If they could…how long could they suffer the silence?
At bedtime, Mani walks into the bathroom and takes The Cleaner out of its package, pressing a little button on the handle. White toothpaste squirts up onto the bristles.
And then Mani slowly brushes their teeth.
With each circular motion, each of their teeth disappears. Along with their jaw and cheek.
Round and round. Until the lower half of their face disappears. Loose flesh hanging over an empty space.
Mani pushes the button on the Cleaner’s handle and begins working the brush down their neck and over their shoulders.
In minutes, neck and shoulders are gone.
Mani wonders if perhaps they are some rude sketches Vincent’s drawn.
As they continue to disappear, Mani wonders if someone living out there will take a risk and begin imagining them.
* * *
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