VANCOUVER – The last thing I wanted to goddamn do was go to the goddamn dentist.
I had tried to cancel.
The day before, when the receptionist texted me to confirm the 8 AM appointment, I had asked if we could find a different time, maybe later in the day.
“Any day between M-F,” I wrote.
She replied.
“Dr. Ali is fully booked for the next couple weeks. If you are ok to see our associate dentist we could get you in next Monday.”
I had seen the associate the last time I needed a filling, just a few months ago. She was my age, maybe a bit younger, and petite. She couldn’t have been taller than five-and-a-half feet but she tore through my mouth like Paul Bunyan, cracking my jaw open like a piece of brittle pine before roughly sawing the tooth down into a jagged stump. With the grace of a hornet she had stuck her needle in my gums, piercing the the pink flesh with a pinch so hard it made my eyes water.
Yes, I had seen the associate before.
I sat in her chair for an hour and when I left my bite mark still wasn’t even. She had told me she could re-do it, but my jaw was sore and creaking. So I told her it was fine. Local anesthetic can only cover so many sins.
I texted the receptionist.
“I’ll find a way to make it work.”
The next day I woke up early and caught the number 16 bus north towards downtown. It was a clear, cold morning on the south coast and the bus was so full that I had to stand. I stared out the foggy window as we crossed the Granville Street Bridge. The city stretched out before me like a pair of yoga pants, its blemishes obscured behind shimmering skyscrapers and the blue shadow of the city’s shoreline. I pulled the buzzer as we approached West Georgia and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Plumes of grey smoke poured out of the gutter gratings as I made my way west towards the dentist’s office.
I was the first patient of the morning, but already the office was abuzz. As I walked towards the chair, Doctor Ali’s elderly assistant handed me a pair of the office’s patented plastic protective goggles. I put them on as I slid into position, the chair’s polyester back scrinching against my jeans.
It was then that the good doctor appeared.
“How are you doing today, sir?”
“I’m good thanks –”
“Beautiful day, no rain!”
As he spoke, he reclined my chair, until my feet were dangling above my centre at a 45 degree angle.
He continued.
“So we’re fixing a failed filling today. Have you been experiencing any other pain or discomfort?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Good to hear. Now if you can just open wide, sir.”
A few minutes later, he was hard at work, and I was having a hard time feeling anything on the left side of my mouth. I knew I looked the same, but the skin around my lips felt engorged and tight, as if I was some sort of blow up doll.
Unlike his associate, the good doctor worked with an almost serial-killer like precision, his eyes staring deep into my orifice from behind his Konika Minolto surgical loupes, extracting the old filling before affixing the new one.
As he worked, he sang along to the radio.
“This is gonna be the best day of life,” he crooned “My li-hi-i-hi-i-hi-iiiiife.”
He was sanding down the filling and small bursts of tooth dust unfurled out of my mouth and into the air. There was mucus and spit pooling in the back of my throat, and the hygienist had to keep clearing it away so I could breathe.
Suction. Rinse. Spit. Repeat.
Suction. Rinse. Spit. Repeat.
As she moved the nozzle, flecks of spit sprayed onto my protective goggles and my shirt. I stared at the ceiling and wondered if I could ever be as happy as Doctor Ali seemed to be. To what extent nature and nurture dictates a person’s ability to sing in late-stage capitalism.
Just then, he pulled out a small strip of paper.
“Bite down please. Grind side to side.”
I did.
He spoke again.
“All done, sir.”
I had been in the chair just 36 minutes.
“Really?” I asked, “So quick.”
“It’s as strong as it will ever be” he said.
I grabbed my coat from a chair in the corner and made my way to the front. It was $59 dollars after insurance. After I paid, I walked back to Granville Street and caught the 16 back home. The sun was shining bright and clear as we drove the bridge deck over False Creek.
Somewhere far off in the distance, I knew there were birds singing to greet the day.
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