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Writings by Pete: East Orange Life:
I hate the Dentist.
At 35 years old, having recently been back to the dentist after a postponement
of approximately 5 years, I think I have found some insight as to why.
Two words: Dental Clinic.
I was 5 or 7, or 8, or 10, or 12, one of these;
or quite possibly all. Dental Clinic was a sort of social service; I assume
for people who lacked the funds to have thier own personal, real-live,
bonafide, dentist.
Dental Clinic was located in the basement of the
town hall; below ground; windowless. I can remember pulling several institutional-type
doors open, never quite sure of how to get there. I would know I was heading
in the right direction when the stench of stale novicane, burning-drilled
flesh, spit and blood wafted through my nostrils. Slowly, knees shaking,
I walked down the too-many-times-painted-yellow, slightly sticky, corridor.
I would be greeted, not-cheerfully, by an unpleasant
looking woman sitting at a desk. Dressed in a dingy, white uniform, she
was overweight and mean as hell.
"Name?", she barked.
"Peter Smith", I'd mumble out of the side of my
mouth, hoping my gruffness might camouflage my fear.
"Have a seat", she would order.
So I'd grab an orange "Highlights" magazine
(the only good memory I have of dental clinic), and read Goofus and Galant,
and then flip to the hidden pictures page hoping that someone had not screwed
it up by using a pencil. As I sat in the hard plastic-formed chair, I avoided
looking-up. The dated posters of the perfect smile and happy toothbrush
were just decoys for the this-is-what-will-happen-to-you series of a rotten
mouth, and the instructional posters of how many times was I supposed to
brush my teeth.
"Brush after every meal", they would say.
Impossible! I was eating crap all day long!
"Damn!", I would think. "I'm screwed. He's gonna find tons of cavities!"
So, after sweating and worrying, and wishing
I could just get-up and leave, the fat lady would come-over holding a clipboard
and announce in the air, "Peter Smith", as if she didn't know or care who
the hell I was; like I hadn't just told her a little while ago.
"That's me", I'd say stupidly, laying whatever
oily, cover-torn magazine I'd finally wound-up with on the corner pile.
I did not want to piss this lady off; or anyone else in that damn office
for that matter. After all, I was their prisoner. I was sure no one would
be able to hear anything from that little dungeon, and I knew they could
really inflict some pain on me if they felt like it.
Walking back towards the little room, the
fat lady would stand there staring at me, making sure I wasn't going to
run.
"Hi", I'd say to the torturer as pleasantly
as possible for one who is shitting bricks. I never knew what to call him.
"Mr Dentist" doesn't sound right. "Doctor"? No. He didn't seem like a doctor,
after all, doctors helped little boys and cured them from all kinds of
painful and dangerous unseen-evils. No, This guy was definately not a doctor.
"Sadidst"? Possibly...or maybe "Mister-Jackhammer-in- the-Mouth" man.
In any event, this was one guy I wanted to
be reeeaaal nice to.
I'd go out there and kick the fat lady's ass in a second-flat if I
thought it would please him. He was the man with the drill. The man with
the sharp tools. The man with the needles. The man with the power to give
or take away pain. This was his house and I hoped to God he was having
a good day.
So I'd sit down in what was once probably
a very professional looking, light-blue, leather dentist's chair; but was
now permanently smudged with dirty hand prints, sweaty forearms, and greasy
hair. The assistant (who I don't have any unpleasant memories of) would
reach around my neck and hang a light-blue paper towel under my chin. Even
the little alligator clips had a menacing look about them. Then the fun
would begin.
It would be much too painful to give a detailed
description of all of my Dental Clinic experiences so I'll abbreviate a
bit. It would go something like this:
PAIN! OW! THAT HURTS! FUCK! WHAT THE HELL
ARE YOU DOING IN THERE!? THAT'S MY MOUTH, GODDAMMIT! And on and on, and
on...
First of all, the damn dentist wasn't worth
his weight in shit, otherwise he wouldn't have been slaving away in some
dark, smelly, antiquated dental clinic, right? (Of course I didn't know
this at the time.) The freakin' guy would be squirting Novocain all over
my mouth...pokin here, pokin there, just hoping he would hit a damn nerve
or something.
"OK, wait 'till that gets numb", he'd say
somewhat pissed-off at how long the whole damn thing was taking. And I
could bet a case of juicy-fruits that the only thing that was gonna go
numb was my tongue, which was slowly expanding 5 times it's original size
and threatening to choke me to death.
"OK, we ready?", he'd ask, not really wanting an answer, because HE was
ready. After all, this was a damn dental clinic, with lots of people coming
here with REALLY BAD teeth. So...
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
"Now let me know if you feel any pain ok?",
he'd smile.
Again, this was just bullshit, because the
minute he started to drill, WHAMMO! Pain like I'd never felt before. And
I'd go, "Uhhh, Uhhh, Ummm,", and I'd whack my hands on the arms of the
chair and my legs would be kicking field goals in the air, trying to tell
him, "IT HURTS!"
But he'd just keep on drilling, acting like
he couldn't hear me;
like he couldn't see my damn sneakers flyin' off my feet.
BZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, dum-dee-dum-dum, he'd drill and drill until
finally his drill bit would start wearing down and smoking and what-not.
Then he'd stop and say, "Aw, that doesn't
really hurt, does it?
Aw, come-on."
And I'd start to gag-out the spit and blood
from the back of my throat so I could tell him, "Yea, it DOES hurt",
But he'd say, "Just a little more, and we're
all done". BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Well, it did hurt. It hurt a lot. More pain
than I ever want to know. I'd get-up to leave; my legs would feel like
jelly, and my head, woozy. I'd wander towards the hallway; the door; not
giving a shit what the fat lady thought; like I was underwater, struggling
for the surface. As I stepped outside I'd thank God for fresh air and freedom,
and promise to go to church every Sunday. It was over...for now.
We were sitting around the kitchen table at
the firehouse the other day and I was talking about my recent trip to the
dentist. I mentioned my extreme fear of the dentist. We began swapping
stories, and then it dawned on me...
Dental Clinic.
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Writings by Pete:
East Orange Life: