One of the most memorable professors from my college years was Dr. Dragonbreath. Dr. Dragonbreath had the kind of halitosis that could peel wallpaper or wilt flowers and I was so traumatized after one lecture in the front row that I have been obsessed with fresh breath ever since.
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about Dr. Dragonbreath but not long ago my partner and I were in New Jersey visiting his mother, Duckie, and his brother, Louie. Over dinner, we were discussing memorable schoolteachers and I told my Dr. Dragonbreath story. Duckie, a practical sort, wanted to know why I didn’t just tell the professor that he had bad breath, and I mentioned that telling your professor that his breath is toxic is not the best way to ace a class.
Louie shook his head. “That’s stupid,” he said. “You’d be doing the poor guy a favor. If I had bad breath I would hope someone would tell me.”
An awkward silence ensued. My partner and Duckie exchanged a knowing glance across the table and I stared at my plate, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, and cursing myself for mentioning Dr. Dragonbreath. Louie stopped eating his chili and said, “What’s with the look?”
I immediately began wishing I was dead. Duckie and Louie cannot get through a single meal without angry words that end with Duckie in tears and Louie storming out of the house. “This chili is excellent,” I told Duckie, employing a diversionary tactic that I knew would not work. “Do I detect cilantro?”
Duckie ignored me. “Eat your chili,” she told Louie, adding, unkindly, “have some more onions.”
Louie put on his “I’m a reasonable man” face. “Seriously,” he said, “if I had bad breath I hope someone would tell me; how else would I know?” This was a valid point. Louie is 61, unemployed, lives alone and has never been married. (You do the math.)
Duckie put down her fork. This was not a good sign since she rarely put her fork down if there was still any food on the table. “Fine,” she said evenly. “Sometimes your breath is not fresh. We never wanted to tell you and hurt your feelings.” I held my breath. The use of the term “we” was a masterful ploy to make sure no one left the dinner table unscathed.
Things quickly got exciting. “I can’t believe that you would embarrass me like this in front of a stranger,” said Louie, as all eyes turned to me. I was instantly resentful; sure the other three people at the table had the same last name, but I’ve been breaking bread on this ship of fools for over twenty years so the term “stranger” seemed a bit cold. I felt compelled to defend myself: “Nice talk,” I said, but nobody heard me.
Duckie pointed out that Louie asked for honesty. This was true. My partner said Louie had had bad breath since they were kids. (Also true from what I’ve been told.) Louie said that my partner and Duckie always ganged up on him. (True again.)
“Cornbread?” I said wildly. “Who wants more cornbread?” and everyone ignored me.
The finale was predictable. Louie accused Duckie of always favoring my partner, (very true,) and Duckie, in tears now, denied it. Then Louie said Duckie always liked my partner better (and who could blame her?) and he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Duckie, weeping loudly, went to her room and slammed the door behind her.
My partner and I looked at each other. He shrugged and swallowed a spoonful of his chili. “That could have gotten ugly,” he said.