He softens a piece of flesh colored material with a flame and molds it onto a holder. He whips up a bowl of green plaster and spoons it on top. He brings it over to an opened mouth and sets it into the cavity. “Stay still,” he says.
His fingers are slender and moves with dexterity. He works quickly and speaks in a loud voice. On his work table are rows of molds . Some have red pearly tips, some are glazed, each has a name.
He takes care of my father in less than fifteen minutes. He promises to deliver the product by next Tuesday. My father beams at him with hope in his eyes, dreaming of chomping down meat balls and noodles and all kinds of yummy food.
“How many pairs of dentures do you make a day?” I ask.
“Too many. I don’t keep count.”
“You’re an artist.”
“Yes, it’s a kind of art,” he agrees.
