As I Was Saying
Incidentally
By Alan Williamson
My day at the dentist always follows the same script. I’m strapped into the chair. A small gathering of people are on hand to watch my final moments, their eyes brimming with contempt. I scan the room for the sympathetic face of a friend or loved one, but find only icy stares and the sterile implements of the agony to come. “I want my mommy,” I murmur. But mommy didn’t get me into this mess, and mommy wants to remember me as I was in better days. So save the tears, big boy.
A last phone call pleading for clemency goes unanswered. As the clock strikes twelve a signal is given by someone in a ghastly teal jumpsuit. Before I can speak, I’m injected with something that makes me feel numb and anxious at the same time. Room spinning, feeling woozy I think, flattering myself with a puffed-up comparison to Superman fighting off the effects of a close encounter with kryptonite.
A drill is revved up near my skull and my mouth is forced open by a man who tells me to “sit still, this won’t hurt a bit.” My last intelligible word is “bull.” I black out and spiral deliriously through time and space wearing (for some unknown reason) only a lobster bib and flip-flops. In an instant, I’ve landed on a couch on a stage mid-way through a taping of the Ellen show. The host, as if on cue, points a disapproving finger in my direction and says to a seething, all-female studio audience, “Is this the kind of man you want to have a baby with?” As the deafening chorus of boos slowly dissolves into the sounds of my7 own screaming, I awake back in the dentist chair with a plastic toothbrush in one hand and a bill for $375 in the other.
It’s a sad truth that even men and women known for their nonchalance under pressure can be routinely rattled by the simple words “The dentist will see you now.” In point of fact, a recent poll revealed that 56 percent of Americans with teeth ranked those six unremarkable words as more unnerving than the ominous – “We’ve traced the threatening phone calls, and they’re coming from inside your house” and the downright disturbing – “Hi, I’m your new neighbor, Dennis Rodman.”
The thing that troubles me about dentists is that nagging question of career motivation: why would anyone willingly choose a profession that requires them to spend their workdays putting their hands in other people’s mouths? I see my share of mouths as I go about my life, and I’ve never seen any I’ve wanted to put my hands in. I suspect that some people are attracted to the profession because it allows them to express their opinions on a wide variety of topics without rebuttal. No sooner does my dentist ask me to open wide so he can insert several fingers into my mouth, then the one-sided conversation begins.
My Dentist: “I don’t know about you, but I think White House wiretapping of American citizens without a warrant is a perfectly acceptable tactic in fighting terrorism.”
Me: “Ummff fum ama wiwo.”
My Dentist: “What’s your take on this Iraq mess? I say we stay the course no matter what the price.”
Me: “Ummff ohana cow foo.”
My Dentist: “If you ask me, what this country really needs is to pour all our resources into manned space expeditions. Sure it’s expensive, but we need to stake our claim to the moon as an off-planet rest stop for voyages to Mars and beyond.”
Me: “Arr ou pooing mi egg?”
In spite of these daily opportunities for scintillating dentist-patient conversation, it’s been widely reported that there’s a shortage of dentists that’s only destined to get worse. Long-range labor projections estimate that between 2000 and 2025, the number of dentists practicing in the U.S. will decline by 25 percent. My theory is that somewhere along the line many dentists become disillusioned when they discover that spending their day with their hands in other people’s mouths isn’t as glamorous and enjoyable as they expected. When that revelation takes root, practically any alternate job pursuit seems alluring. That toll booth attendant who took your dollar? Probably a former dentist. The parking lot valet with the dazzling smile? Former dentist. The guy dressed up in a giant hot dog costume trying to wave you over to Buzzy’s Hot Dog Heaven? Former dentist.
Incidentally, if you really want to put your irrational fears of going to the dentist behind you once and for all, take my timely advice and become one yourself. Think about it. You’ll have your pick of jobs that offer outstanding career stability, long-term income growth, and something that no other profession can offer: the chance to savor the look of terror in the eyes of grown men and women when your assistant announces “The dentist will see you now.”
Alan Williamson is an award-winning writer with 27 years in the field of true fiction (advertising). A practical man who knows that writing for a living is risky going, he has taken steps to pursue a second, more stable career as a leggy super model. Alan can be reached at alwilly@bellsouth.net. © 2011 Alan Williamson.