just an idea
by Michael Czyzniejewski
So, my idea, for down in the station, in the background, is we have the shoeshine booth, yeah, but instead of shoeshines, guys polishing shoes, we have guys polishing teeth. The customers would still be sitting on those big wooden chairs, only instead of shoeshines down at their feet, polishing shoes, the shiners would be all up in their mouths, going at their teeth. Everything would still be mid-twentieth, the patrons in starchy suits and fedoras, briefcases by their sides, reading newspapers (though I’m not sure newspapers exist in this universe—tablets instead?), only getting their teeth cleaned instead of their shoes. It’s what dentistry is in this world. That’s the implication. That’s my idea.
It’d be hard to pick up on, especially on first watch. But it’d be something the YouTubers would eat up, would necessitate those second watches, thirds, and fourths, give the film legs. Because it’s clever, yeah, but also for what it means, healthcare, a different type of commodity in this world, depending on how you interpret things, either as a casual notion, how everyone can have mouthcare if they’ve got two bits in their pocket. Or maybe this society is even more broken, that only certain types of Americans can have clean teeth, i.e., the fine-suited executive, the boss, in no hurry, a clean set of chompers his priority when most of the characters in the movie just want to exist, maybe figure out where their next meal is coming from. Or if they’re part the underground, overthrow the government.
This is what I pitched to Neill, the FDA. He’d told me when the production started, I should keep my eyes open for ways to stand out, to differentiate myself from everyone else. That’s how set designers become production designers and how production designers become second assistant directors, then first assistant directors, and one day, directors, which is what I wanted to do, make my own movies, tell my own stories. But when I told Neill about the teeth, he acted beyond confused, like, “What the fuck are you talking about? Your job is to construct a shoeshine station, acquire the rags and polishes. align with costume …” and I was like, “But …,” and Neill was like, “I don’t want to hear it. What’s Elise going to think when she’s shooting the chase sequence and she looks over and sees a bunch of goddamn dentists? She’s going to be like ‘What the fuck are dentists doing in my shot?’ and fire my ass.”
Neill hung up, but not before telling me to have the shoeshine station ready at seven, and to never, ever call him after midnight, then correcting himself, saying to never, ever call him again.
~
In bed, Johanson stirred, heard me come in. He asked how the pitch went. I sat by his feet, removed my shoes. I crawled next to him and told him Neill loved it, that he would talk to Elise, run it by her FTITM. Johanson turned over, just enough to rest his hand on my hip. He mumbled something like good job, but I couldn’t hear. I thought he might flip all the way around, kiss me, and maybe we’d have sex—three, even two years before, we would have, no doubt. But Johanson was already back asleep, wrapped in our blanket. I settled next to him, on my back. I wasn’t cold but knew I would be, that I’d want some of that blanket eventually.
I didn’t use my phone: Johanson, even asleep, facing the other way, head wrapped in the covers, said he could see the light, that it kept him up. I stared at the ceiling. I had to be up in two hours, have that shoeshine stand ready to go. I tried counting backwards from a hundred, making it all the way to zero, and back, twice. I tried to name every president but got stuck at John Quincy Addams, where everyone gets stuck. The shoeshine station would be seen, in the final cut, for maybe three seconds. The shoeshine customers, hidden behind their newspapers (again, if there were newspapers …), would put their papers down, watch as the hero of the film was being chased down the subway corridor, eventually jumping onto a departing train, evading capture. Three seconds, max. Maybe another second or two from another angle. There’d be a newsstand right next to the shoeshine booth, and my friend Lincoln was in charge of that. My friend Doug was making all the signage, all the subway stops and safety warnings. Some new guy was posting bills, ads and stickers, all worn to varying degrees, along the walls, pillars, and stairs.
I began to count my teeth. At first I pictured them, tonguing each as I went around, starting at the bottom left and moving my way counterclockwise. I still couldn’t asleep. The second lap, I used my fingers, pinching each tooth, squeezing it. That only made me less tired.
I put my shoes on. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I pocketed my toothbrush and the two unused brushes from the opened package in the drawer. Johanson’s dentures waited for him in a cup of saltwater on the sink. Johanson’s mouth tasted salty all the time.
The shoeshine booth was ready on schedule. Lincoln had her newsstand up and running. I fingered the brushes in my pocket. Lincoln asked why we don’t just shoot the scene in a real subway station instead of constructing one. I reminded her they were going to blow it up, that the scene ended with the film’s hero diving onto a train, the bad guys left behind, the whole station going up in flames seconds later.
“Typical,” Lincoln said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Seems like people might want clean teeth before they died.”
“What does that mean?” Lincoln said.
“It means a lot of people are going to die.”
“But not really,” Lincoln said.
“No, not really,” I said. “But eventually.”
Photo of Michael Czyzniejewski
BIO: Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has had work anthologized in the Best Small Fiction series and 40 Stories: A Portable Anthology, and has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.