“Good day, Madame!” he said as a kindly young lady passed by his lawn on the sidewalk. It should be noted that the term ‘young’ is subjective– highly subjective in this particular case– but it is improper to call a lady such as Mrs. Catchem anything to the contrary.

“Oh Mr. Tucker, why does you have to be so kind?”

Mrs. Catchem was quite fond of Mr. Tucker. She especially liked his green teeth. Really, quite fond indeed. But that’s neither here nor there– so long as Mr. Catchem is left unawares.

“Far from it! You know as well as anyone I work for the devil,” Mr. Tucker said with a playful snarl. He was quite proud of that response, truth be told.

“The devils you do,” she said, “you’re the sweetest man in this town!”

There was a flash of green as Mr. Tucker let out a hearty laugh.

***

The next day was milk delivery day. Mr. Tucker had been dreading it since Tuesday. He really didn’t take to that young chap. He always had stains on his knees. Now, why would a milkman have mud stains on his denims’ knees! And why was he always smiling? Pink teeth. What is the meaning of it? He supposed it must be some silly fad of the folks in their 20s.

“Howdy do, Mr. Tucker, sir! Inn’t a fine mornin’?” Carrying a number of glass milk jars, Nate walked up to the window where Mr. Tucker was reading this week’s news.

“Nate! How are you, my good man?” quoth Mr. Tucker. How was he to have a conversation with someone who sported such outrageous teeth? Nate’s pink teeth really were quite distracting, but… he was still human after all, wasn’t he?

“Ah, Mum’s fallen ill, sir. But if I don’t do the runs, won’ be able ‘ter buy her medicine,” Nate replied.

Yup, definitely still human.

“How dreadful. I’m truly sorry, Nate.” And he was. Mr. Tucker was quite fond of his own mother– or at least, fond of the memory of her. It pained him to think young Nate may be losing his. He really was still a young man, after all.

“Thanks sir! You take care of you’self now. If you need anythin’, you know where ter find me.”

Through the window, Nate handed Mr. Tucker his glass bottle of milk. Mr. Tucker paid him with three gold coins and one green smile. As Nate walked on down the street, Mr. Tucker watched him thoughtfully.

Maybe his pink teeth weren’t so bad after all.

***

Knock Knock. With a small rap of the fingers on Mr. Tucker’s window, the salesman– what was his name again?– peered his slimy yellow eyes in at Mr. Tucker. What was he selling today? He was always hounding someone or other at their doors; or, in the case of Mr. Tucker, at his windows.

“Scotty Lehman, what’ve you got in your briefcase today?” Mr. Tucker asked.

“Travel brochures, Mr. Tucker!” Mr. Tucker couldn’t stand Scotty’s red teeth, just could not stand them. Evil they were. Just like Scotty Lehman. Kept coming back and selling poor old Mr. Tucker thing after thing because he knew that Mr. Tucker just couldn’t say no. But that day was different. Mr. Tucker felt that he must put his foot down.

“Travel brochures?!” he scoffed. “No thank you, Scotty. I am quite content to sit here in my own house and enjoy the world through my window. Now take your evil red teeth and make like a banana.”

Scotty Lehmen was shocked. “Sorry s–“

“You heard me, Mr. Lehmen, split!”

With his tail between his legs and his teeth behind his lips, Scotty turned to go. Not once had Mr. Tucker turned him down. Scotty had earned roughly a fourth of his meager income from Mr. Tucker.

“Okay, Mr. Tucker… I’ll see you around.”

***

A few days later, while he was fixing himself some cookies and a tall glass of milk, Mr. Tucker heard the pleasant chirp of a little girl calling from beneath his window.

“Miiiiiiiiiister Tucker! Miiiiiiister Tucker!!!” The sweet, small voice of Malkia Jacobs sang up towards the cracked window. She was standing on her tippy toes but still couldn’t reach those six-year-old eyes over the windowsill to see in. Gently, with great care, she set a piece of paper down beside her in Mr. Tucker’s mangled, unkempt lawn.

Mr. Tucker had hoped Malkia would be by to visit him. He set his cookies down next to his now half-drunk glass of milk. The bottle of milk, all but empty, sat on the counter in the kitchen. But– Nate the Milkman should be coming back very soon, just in case you were concerned.

“Malkia! How are you? How’re your parents?” Mr Tucker beamed as he slowly labored towards his old wooden rocking chair, the one that sat by his trusted window. The only window that the sun had looked through for years.

He looked down at her through the window screen.

“Horrible,” she whined. “They still won’t let me paint my teeth. ‘NOT UNTIL YOU TURN SEVEN, MALKIA,’ they says to me,” she explained.

“Now that isn’t so unreasonable, is it? Besides, I’m sure they didn’t yell like that,” he responded.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“Have you decided what color you want to paint them?” Mr. Tucker was very curious. Most people chose blue, but lately there had been more reds, yellows, purples, oranges, and yes… even pink. Some people had even gone as far as to leave their teeth unpainted. The only color people didn’t paint their teeth was–

“Green!” Malkia said.

Mr. Tucker gasped. In his 78 years, Mr. Tucker had never, never, met– or even seen– someone with green teeth. He was the only one. And he never really known why. He’d always loved them. And so did most people, it seemed.

“Why, how wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Green teeth are splendid! I have utterly enjoyed mine. How did you decide on green?”

Malkia raised her chin high. “I wanted to be like you, Mr. Tucker!” she said with pride.

He was touched. To be graced with this child’s admiration was a gift he felt he didn’t deserve. But he certainly knew well enough not to take such a precious thing for granted. Children tend to have great character judgement.

“My momma says ‘Green ain’t no good,’” she continued, “but I says, ‘LOOK at Mr. Tucker’ and she doesn’t say nothin’.”

Mr. Tucker was taken aback. He tried to gather his thoughts… green– no good? Why would someone say such a thing? And what would he tell Malkia? Did he dare encourage a choice that her mother actively discouraged?

“Well, Malkia, sometimes our parents look at us with cloudy eyes–“

“Cloudy eyes?” she interjected with intrigue.

“Yeah, they believe us to be one way when we are actually another. It is important to be who we are, and who we want to be, not who our parents, or anyone else for that matter, want us to be. Do you understand?” he asked gently.

“I think so, Mr. Tucker… I made you this!” she said, suddenly remembering the paper she had sat next to her on his mangled lawn. The lawn appeared to not have been tended for as many years as Malkia was old.

She bent down and grabbed a dusty picture, drawn with crayons, of herself and Mr. Tucker.

“Thank you so much, Malkia,” he said. “Just slide it through the mail flap of the door when you leave. Speaking of, it must be close to lunch time, ah yes,” he glanced at his watch, “it is 12:02. You best run along now! It was quite nice to see you and thank you so much for the gift. You truly are the most splendid, expressive artist. Please don’t forget to slide it through the mail slot on the front door.”

A little disappointed by Mr. Tucker’s dismissal, Malkia began to leave. Turning around, she said, “Bye, Mr. Tucker!”

A moment later he heard his mail flap. Merrily, he journeyed over to the paper. Looking down at it, the first thing he noticed was their pair of matching green teeth; ugly, beautiful green teeth sparkling from mouths grinning wide as the Grand Canyon.

The next thing he noticed was the setting. They were standing under an apple tree in a great big orchard. He frowned.

Sighing, he placed it down on his small kitchen table amidst a pile of junk mail.

Where did I leave those goddamn cookies, he wondered.

***

He woke with a start. Some dream or other. Definitely some dream. Or was it– other? Fireflies and muffins and apples with pink teeth and… was there a goat? Probably. There was probably a goat. Why wouldn’t there be a goat?

Mr. Tucker was disoriented. He had had a challenging few days. First that slimy salesmen with the yellowy eyes and the reddy teeth; then the picture of he and Malkia in the orchard…

And to top it all off, it was Monday. He didn’t have to go to work, if that’s what you were thinking. Mr. Tucker had retired some time ago. No, he might prefer work, might prefer it indeed. Probably not though. To work, you had to leave your home, and Mr. Tucker, if you hadn’t realized it by now, hated leaving his home. Hadn’t left it in years, actually.

Mondays are hard days for Mr. Tucker because he didn’t have any usual visitors on Mondays, and he really does grow hoarse in the voice whilst shouting at passersby from the window. Silly Sammy, the young ruffian, stuck out his tongue when beckoned, and Serious Sarah seemed downright delirious when he called out to her.

Another lonely day for Mr. Tucker. He watched the shadows of the trees grow short, then long again, before eventually disappearing.

Mr. Tucker mumbled his way to his bed, undid the covers, and wiggled in. He noticed that his bedroom shades were slightly ajar. He couldn’t recall opening them, but must have during his foggy slumber in the prior night. The full moon peeked in the window and said “hello” just in time for Mr. Tucker to wonder how Nate’s mom was doing.

***

The following morning, Mr. Tucker rolled over to a ray of sun greeting him a good morn’. For the first time in– well, how long has it been, Mr. Tucker?

“It’s been at least two years, narrator,” Mr. Tucker responded.

Thanks, Mr. Tucker! For the first time in two years or more, Mr. Tucker opened his bedroom window blinds wide enough for the day to fill his room with light.

He stepped out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His bottle of milk was lacking milk so he had his Cheerios dry. As he ate, he looked down at the mess of papers in front of him. Advertisements. Postcards. More advertisements. And. And. And… that lovely drawing that Malkia had made for him. Never had he seen such a miraculous shade of green.

***

With a youthful energy, Mr. Tucker leaned closer to his bathroom mirror. One by one. He applied his patented green paint to his teeth. Closing the cap to his custom-made tooth paint, he flashed a brilliant smile.

“Still got it old man,” he said to himself. And he did; he did in fact, still have it.

On his way to the living room, he paused at his small kitchen table, papers run amok all over it. Picture in hand, he smiled. He walked over to the fridge, and, carefully, hung the gift.

A commotion from outside startled Mr. Tucker. A dog was barking and a little girl was scream-chirping. Wait, was that…?

Mr. Tucker raced to the window to find Malkia screaming at a grizzled and hairy dog in the park across the street. The dog was tied to a tree. It appeared to be guarding some stuffed animal.

In an instant, Mr. Tucker recognized the stuffed toy: it was the little monkey he had ordered for Malkia a few weeks ago.

“Malkia!” Mr. Tucker cried from the window. “Malkia!” he cried again. She couldn’t hear him over the barks of the dog. From the window, he couldn’t make out the color of the vicious dog’s teeth, but betting odds say it likely wouldn’t agree with Mr. Tucker’s taste.

Oh God, what was he to do? Malkia wouldn’t stop. She was trying to fake her way left, no right, left again… to get around that mangy mutt! But she was no match for his quickness. Mr. Tucker could hear the snap of the dog’s teeth as its jaw crunched in an attempt to bite Malkia.

Anxiously, he watched. He looked up and down, calling for help that wouldn’t come. Where was everyone? Nate delivered in the south side of town that day; Scotty may not be coming back after Mr. Tucker told him to make like a banana and split; and Mrs. Catchem was so old– er, or young I mean, that she probably couldn’t make out the sound of danger.

He had no choice.

The lock squeaked bloody murder as he slammed open his door. But the squeal of the lock was nothing in comparison to the agony of his 78-year-old joints.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US?” his knees complained up at him.

“Hush it!” he screamed back. He raced on across the street calling after Malkia.

Malkia turned, a look of fright quickly fading to joy as her hero with the green teeth bounded over. The dog quickened its bark and was jumping against its collar, front legs off the ground, choking itself because of its own aggression.

Go figure– red teeth. Evil. Red. Teeth.

Mr. Tucker scooped Malkia into his arms and turned around. His elbows screamed at him from Malkia’s weight. His ankles, surprisingly, complained not at all.

They made it to his living room, and he sat her down on the couch. Heaving, sucking air. Unnoticed by Mr. Tucker, Malkia got up and ran out of the room.

With a start: “Malkia! Malkia! Don’t go after that toy. It’s not worth it! Malkia!” As Mr. Tucker braced his body for another rescue attempt, Malkia returned from the kitchen, glass of water in hand.

“Sit down, Mr. Tucker!” She pointed and commanded him to sit in his old rocking chair, the one by his favorite window.

And with that Mr. Tucker started laughing. He laughed and laughed. He laughed green and he laughed bright. Malkia laughed too, a hint of green colored the air; her teeth weren’t painted yet, but there was no doubt what color they’d be.

As it neared sunset, Mr. Tucker suggested that he walk Malkia home.

“But, Mr. Tucker, you never leave the house. Everyone knows it, even my momma says you can’t. Says you scared or somethin’!”

“Ah, don’t you worry about me, little lady. Besides, I have an errand to run. I need to see a man about some brochures.”

The end.