Kevin made a startling discovery this morning at the orthodontists office, while perfect strangers probed and prodded his gums. As the doctors adjusted his braces, my brother listened absently to the nearby, offering an occasional grunt to the nurse’s questions. I sat outside in the waiting room reading, my mouth comfortably free of fingers and metal implements.
“Did you hear the radio, Murph, while you were waitin’?” he asked me afterwards.
“Only the ‘Tiny Dancer’ song,” I answered. The local oldies stations maintained a robust playlist of about ten or twenty songs comprising solely of half-a-dozen Elton John singles, a few scattered Guns N’ Roses covers, and Don McLean’s ‘American Pie,’ repeated usually once an hour. Continue reading