Toothpaste

It was getting late. Empty wine bottles stood next to a pile of dirty dishes on the counter. Guests were leaving. All but one. Susan, Sherry’s mother, Herman’s mother-in-law, would be staying the night. This night and the next five. At least he didn’t use up all his small talk material on the first night, Sherry’s family dominated the conversation. He just sat back and listened and drank. He’d wanted to tackle the dishes, but Sherry told him to leave them for the morning, to enjoy the evening. She didn’t understand the joy that comes from menial tasks when in-laws visit. And that is why Herman happily volunteered to get their houseguest some toothpaste from the upstairs bathroom when Susan informed Sherry that she’d forgotten to bring any.

Herman milked the task, creeping up the stairs unnecessarily slowly to convey an effort to not wake the kids, knowing fully well that if the ruckus of the evening’s gathering didn’t stir them, nothing would. Still, he stuck to the facade all the way through, waiting until the bathroom door was closed behind him before he turned on the light. He shot himself a half-drunken smirk in the mirror to commemorate his genius. He opened the bottom drawer and shuffled through the disorganized contents, searching for a white and yellow tube that matched the one in the jar on the vanity. Nothing of the kind was there. Herman altered his focus to detect one of the small samples they’d received from the dentist, but after a moment he remembered Sherry’s initiative a couple months back to use up all the samples just to get them out of there. Then Herman spotted the tube at the back of the drawer. It was silver and dark grey. The same basic shape that he was accustomed to, but different. He pulled it out and looked at it.

The label was in Japanese, everything except the word fresh in thin, bright blue letters that matched the foreign characters. It had always struck Herman as streamlined, futuristic. He knew it was silly, but he held onto the idea. He liked it. He liked everything about that toothpaste tube. Everything it represented. The fact that it was nearly empty broke his heart.

Herman stared at the tube for quite some time, then he looked up at himself in the mirror and shook his head. He put the tube back in the drawer, covering it up with other stuff, and closed the drawer. He grabbed the white and yellow tube from the jar, squeezed a line onto his and Sherry’s toothbrushes, positioned the heads over the sink, turned off the light, opened the door, and crept back downstairs.

Sherry and her mother were chatting about the events of the evening. Herman’s emergence halted the conversation, prompting Sherry to ask what took him so long. He told them he looked everywhere but couldn’t find any toothpaste. Susan could take their tube downstairs though, because he’d already prepared the brushes upstairs. He then joked about the flawed rationale behind Sherry’s campaign to eradicate sample sized toothpaste from the house. Susan was fine with it. Sherry was not.

What about the Japanese toothpaste, Sherry said. It should still be in the drawer.

Herman feigned a dumb look followed by exaggerated revelation. Susan looked at both of them questioningly, so Sherry regaled the story of their trip to Nairobi the year before Lily was born. How they’d used up all their toothpaste in Paris beforehand and had to ask the Air BnB host in Nairobi for toothpaste. The host gave them his toothpaste that was leftover from his trip to Tokyo. It’d been given to him by his host, but he didn’t care for it, so he said Sherry and Herman could keep it. They didn’t particularly care for it either, but it worked in a pinch.

It’s our last souvenir from that trip, Herman said.

What about the paintings?

And that lovely picnic blanket I saw last time I was here?

Yeah, Herman said. I guess. It’s just the last thing we actually use.

Don’t be ridiculous, we hardly use it. Sherry shook her head. I’ll go get it.

Sherry raced up the stairs. Herman and his mother-in-law stood in the kitchen, Herman still holding the white and yellow tube. He stuck out the tube and said she could use it for the week. That he and Sherry could use the Japanese stuff. She’s the guest and deserves the best. Susan laughed, but declined.

This will make me feel like I’m travelling the world every time I brush my teeth, she said.

Herman forced out some laughter, then Sherry returned with the toothpaste.

What’s so funny?

I was just telling Herman how this will make me feel like I’m a real globetrotter every time I brush.

It’s probably the closest any of us will get to travelling for a long time.

They all laughed. Sherry and her mother genuinely, Herman to fit in.

It’s hard to believe that was four years ago, Sherry said, turning to Herman. We haven’t been out of the country for four years. Where does time go?

Trust me, it only gets worse. You’re just lucky you did some travelling when you were young. Because if you do take a trip with those little tykes up there, you’re going to wish you just stayed home.

It wouldn’t be that bad, Mom.

Fine, don’t listen to me, I’m just your mother. But I’m going to bed.

Susan stuck out her hand and Sherry handed her the toothpaste. It was painful for Herman to watch. As though a piece of him had been torn out just to be swished around and spit down the drain.

Thank you very much. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a trip to Kenya.

Herman couldn’t bring himself to laugh with the others. Then Susan made for the basement and Sherry started for the upstairs. Herman told her he’d be up in a minute. He watched her ascend the staircase and waited until he heard the bathroom door close.

Herman stood in the kitchen and looked down at the white and yellow tube of toothpaste in his hands, then over to the pile of dirty dishes on the counter, his only joy to look forward to. He exhaled, his shoulders slumped, and he turned out the light.