Posted September 21, 2008

I am not one to fear a trip to the dentist's office. In fact, I rather look forward to it. The Ozzie and Harriet furnishings. The lilt of elevator music minus the cramped quarters. The chance to leaf through a "National Geographic" and, if the office staff isn't looking, perhaps spirit home a copy that fills in the gap in my 1968 collection.

This is why I do whatever it takes to remain in the dentist's office and not the dentist's chair. Especially now that it seems yet another grand tradition has bitten the dust, though if this were all about biting dust rather than a cherry pit, I'd probably be watching my wife fold laundry, rather than gazing at photos of 1968 Malaysian natives.

In the old days, I would get a reminder note from the dentist, usually right after the national boat show left town and there were still a few bargains at the local yacht yards, inviting me in for my regular checkup.

The dentist would poke around in my mouth, emerging only to tell me, "The filling in your left biennial incisor needs replacing," to which I could only shrug my shoulders and say, "Zrglurgmmphplrr." This is because no tradition-loving dentist gave you that kind of news without first leaving a small machine shop in your mouth.

Ah, but those days have vanished forever, now that my dentist has gone high tech.

"Well," he said, peering into my mouth. "I'm afraid you have a cracked filling. You need a restoration."

"But I'm Jewish," I protested.

At this point, I have to warn you that the following is a graphic description of what happened to me. If you are at all squeamish this would be a good time to move on to something more pleasant, perhaps the weekly crime report or that letter you received the other day describing the wonders of the modern cremation process. Proceed forward at your own risk.

I say this because you have to understand the rationale behind a restoration.

Suppose, for example, I wanted to get rid of my beard. I could shave. That would be a filling. Or, I could have a face transplant from Mr. Clean.

That would be a restoration.

Of course, I exaggerate for the sake of humor.

A face transplant is a dangerous, painful and complex procedure. A restoration is only two of the three.

The dentist began by grinding away parts of my tooth, mostly the parts he didn't like, apparently because they reminded him of his mother. He did this using an instrument called "very loud."

Imagine someone removing the tonsils from the Aflac duck after it has been surgically implanted in your ear canal.

Only not as musical.

Next, the dentist took a photograph of his handiwork using a modern, high-tech digital camera.

No doubt you are familiar with the new line of miniature cameras that are small enough to fit comfortably in the period at the end of this sentence.

This is not like that.

The only way this camera could be called miniature is if my mouth originally belonged to an elephant. Every time the dentist asked me to open wide I cursed my father for not being a python.

Finally, the dentist turned the picture into a lump of toothy-looking material using, and this is the scary part, a computer.

"Here it is," he said, holding up a lump of toothy-looking material.

"It looks a little..."

"Big?," he said. "Don't worry. The computer says it's fine."

The very same computer you probably have in your home or office. The very same computer that only last week deleted all your tax records the night before your IRS audit.

Perhaps this is why the lump of toothy-looking material resembles the Maine coast at 5/8ths scale.

No matter. It's going in my mouth. And "open wide" is no longer a request, it's a lifestyle.

"Next time, perhaps you can just do it the old-fashioned way," I said as I climbed out of the chair.

"Why do you want to live in the past?" my dentist said.

"Twenty-nine cent a gallon gasoline?" I suggested.

"See you soon," he promised.

And as he closed the door I know I heard him humming "Anchors Aweigh."

©2008 Jay Douglas