Fred Aiken Writing

I named my toothbrush Steve. I don’t find that weird. 

    I’ve had Steve since I was four years old.

    My free-spirited, nomadic, artistic, superlative aunt that I only saw twice, maybe thrice, a year gave me Steve. She told me that it was made from materials in outer space, that it was the type of toothbrush an astronaut would use in one of those big space shuttles that hurtled across the blank, dark canvass of the night.

    When I turned seven, my parents wanted to get me a new toothbrush. I told them Steve was fine. Steve was holding up and cleaned my teeth just fine.

    They thought it was worrisome that I named my toothbrush and personified it, but they didn’t do anything about it. I suppose, looking back on it, they possibly felt bad for me. I was a bit of a sad, shy child that didn’t make friends all too well. If therapy were a part of their vernacular, then perhaps they would have taken me.

    But alas, I grew up with Steve, unperturbed by the outside world.

    At thirteen, I learned that I would need to change the bristles of Steve every couple of years if I wanted Steve to last throughout my life. Just as Steve cleans and maintains the health of my teeth, so do I clean and maintain the integrity of Steve.

    There is very little that I’ve ever gotten attached to. Both people and things.

    When my parents died in a car accident when I was nineteen, Steve was there to console me.

    When I kissed a girl for the first time, Steve was there to clean and prepare me for my oral debauchery. And he was there to clean the excessive amount of vanilla honey chapstick awkwardly splattered across my gums.

    From college to my first job to my first apartment to my second apartment to my move across the country, to my occasional business/pleasure/leisure trips out of state and country, Steve accompanies me to everything.

    I don’t talk to Steve. I feel like I should probably say that so you don’t get the wrong impression.

    I’m comforted in knowing that my toothbrush, Steve, is with me at all times, but it’s not like I stay up all night gossiping to Steve. I know Steve’s an inanimate object.

    For that reason, I don’t feel like this intervention is called for. I’m a perfectly well-adjusted and normal human person. 

    I hold down a job.

    I maintain a monogamous relationship with a partner I adore. I have three kids. A cat. The occasional turtle.

    I pay my taxes.

    I don’t feel like I’m getting defensive. Just because my tone is changing, that doesn’t mean I’m defensive. I’m passionate, I suppose you could say.

    I feel judged, if I’m being perfectly honest. If anything, I don’t like the tone that everyone else is taking.

    Don’t give me an ultimatum. I hate ultimatums. I don’t respond well to them, and I feel like no matter the outcome either one or the other, or both of us, won’t like the response and consequences of any ultimatums. 

    If that’s how you feel, then yeah, I think it’s best if Steve and I leave.