Fluster before Christmas
For several weeks now when not teaching I have spent my
time lying around either consciously dreaming or unconsciously waking and in
both cases irresponsibly irritable to the last degree.
Robert Frost, Selected Letters
I had not been to see a
dentist for some half-dozen years. If it weren’t for K., who would occasionally
complain about my wafer-thin, shark-jagged central incisors, it would most
likely be a further six years. So I found this dentist through a student of
mine, who works there as a part-time assistant. Highly recommended. Doc went to
Harvard apparently. Whatever ‘went’ meant.
I rang the clinic on Friday.
A woman’s voice on the phone gave curt answers (in English) which to me suggested
she belonged to that subspecies of youngish, despondent, don’t-talk-to-me-you-see-I-am-busy
types. Slotted me in for the following Friday, 5.30 pm.
As expected, I went in with some
trepidation. Six years is a long time. All sorts of nasty bacteria could have
accumulated in my gob, by now gnawing happily at the gum. Well, the reception
area was as small as they come. I almost knocked over a Christmas tree as soon
as I swapped my shoes for the onsite slippers and stepped onto the lobby floor.
And some tree it was, clearly lots of work went into decorating.
She was middle-aged and
smiling, wearing a thick layer of black eye shadow. Ah, I know who you are, her
dark eyes said as I approached the desk. Formalities ensued, including a form
to fill in. The usual stuff: the history of my ailments, my past and present allergies,
and where in the mouth it hurts. Not unlike the customs declaration paper: tick
each NO to be on the safe side. ‘Just a check-up, see. I haven’t been to a dentist
for years’.
She sat me down to wait for
my turn. No mags in English. Eyes free to roam the room. Framed certificates
all over the walls – you couldn’t drive a single nail between them. On closer
inspection most turned out to be certificates of participation to various
conferences and seminars. Bit of a letdown. Then there were these porcelain
figurines inside the white glass cabinet depicting various scenes from a dental
room (one had a patient spread horizontally surrounded by a doctor, an
assistant, an old man carrying a lantern, and a couple of sheep).
And there was her, making
herself busy, standing up and sitting down thousands of times, shuffling
papers, checking files, typing, popping in behind the Operatory door. Once the room emptied of other patients it was our
cue to strike a small talk. She led the way. Told how she and doc had been
married for aeons, how the two of them had been regular globetrotters, how they
just got back from Germany where they bought those figurines, how it took her the
best part of a day to decorate the tree (it was the early days – first week of
December – but there you go, the tree pregnant with bluish baubles to match the
tinsel and dangling toy bears), how there were two more trees inside the Operatory, how the hubby was
unbelievably busy (he was to catch shinkansen
bound for Tokyo in couple of hours’ time).
I followed her to the Operatory. We walked past the other two Christmas
trees, each more fetching than the other. ‘Yes, this one is my favourite, definitely’, I said for each. I was looking
forward to exchanging words with the boss. The chief globetrotter being a man
of the world and all. Spoke good English too, according to wife. Alas, the very
man behind the surgical mask who treated me that evening was to remain just
that – a man behind the surgical mask. Not only did I not speak to him, I never
got to see his face either. When he saw me his mask slightly rose around the
cheeks. I bet it was a smile.
For a routine check-up the
whole thing took longer than anticipated. Or did it? Did it only seem long? Could
I have dozed off? Hard to imagine, what with my mouth open and dribbling, a
pretty assistant vacuuming the dribble, the noise, the instruments all over my mouth,
the light in my eyes. They put a cloth over my eyes. The world went dim for a minute,
perhaps several minutes.
Perhaps I did not dream a
proper, fully fledged dream. But I did see images, of that I am sure. Images random,
desultory, erratic, airborne, suspended by wires like marionettes: a
Montgolfier balloon on fire; a giant dragonfly by a volcanic river; a Noh mask
whispering garbled admonishments; the sun disc; someone pulling a dead fish out
of water. Then a voice, ‘Rinse your mouth please’. Blood into basin.
The dark-eyed missus
escorted me out. ‘So, anything I should be worried about?’ ‘No, not really.’ I
leaned toward her. ‘Say, is there anything in that room that might make people have…
visions?’ She stared. I tried to clarify: ‘I mean, is it possible that a person
might fall asleep on that chair? You know, doze off?’ Her face relaxed. ‘Oh. I guess
so. Did you?’ ‘I could have. I am not sure though’. ‘Well’, she chirped, ‘it
must be difficult to sleep while your tooth is being pulled out.’ God! I
frantically started tonguing about the mouth, feeling for gaps. Nothing.
Everything seemed in place. Then it struck me: I did not feel any pain. No
pain, no discomfort. In fact no sensation of any kind, no matter how hard my
tongue pressed.
© Branko Manojlovic, 2013
image: Robert Sudlow, Dental Chair in the Woods (http://nlmstudio.wordpress.com/category/miscellaneous)
