The Dentist
I hate the dentist. I hate his office with its over-engineered calming environment. One whole wall is taken up by one of those wallpaper specials favoured in the 80s. It’s of a guy fishing in Thailand, the sun rising behind him as he casts his net off the bow of his boat. It does nothing to take my mind off the drill whining in my mouth, touching the edge of a nerve that simply won’t go to sleep. He’s already stabbed my gums three times with a needle the size of a horse tranquiliser and still the nerve remains doggedly awake and sending sharp spikey pain deep into the back of my head.
“Just put your hand up if you need a break,” he says as he starts in again. His lips purse in frustration when moments later I twitch my hand up.
“Isht shtill not ashleep.” My tongue and lips will not cooperate.
“Hmmm. I’ll give you another one.” He sighs, peering over glasses. “Common genetic trait with red heads.”
My hair is barely tinged with ginger, but red enough to be labelled when it comes to local anesthesia not working and skin cancer risk. He jabs the needle in and I feel a tightness as it slowly releases its payload. He stood to stretch revealing armpits stained dark with sweat.
Did I mention I hate the dentist?
“I’ll try to make it as quick as possible,” he says. “Just cope as best you can with the ‘residual pain’.”
Residual? Like I was making it up. I would splutter but my mouth is full of drill and that vacuum sucky thing.
Finally he’s finished. I say goodbye to the Thai fisherman and hope his day, eternally waiting for a net to succumb to gravity, is going better than mine.
The receptionist takes my card, leaving my bank somewhat emptier. “See you in 6 months!” She’s too chirpy, teeth too white. I nod and smile and saliva escapes.
I’m irritated and light headed and opt for a quiet moment before jumping the bus home, ordering a coffee at a local cafe before I recall nil by mouth until the anesthetic wears off. The coffee isn’t scalding so I figure I can get away with a sip but all I do is dribble it down my white shirt. Damn lips are as fat and uncooperative as pork sausages.
I close my eyes and think of all the places I’d rather be than here with my jangling nerves, blubbery lips, semi-paralysed face, and head throbbing from an hour of whining drill action. The image comes to me, complete with memories of a warm, salty breeze, and the sun just peeping over the horizon. I’m watching a man throw a net. It arcs through the air perfectly backlit by the orange glow of early morning light, landing with a gentle patter before it sinks below the surface. My heart rate slows, nerves settle.
Fucking wallpaper thing does work.
I still hate the dentist.
