"Here," Doc Skreecher said. "Look in this mirror."
I turned the hand-mirror until I could see myself. The bright bar of
light from above the chair lit my mouth like there was a grand opening
in progress.
"
Nice visage," I said, although it came out more like "haah
hihage," on account of all the heavy machinery Doc Skreecher had
parked in my mouth. I held the mirror slightly to one side, trying to
see my right profile. Who is this handsome devil, I thought to myself.
"
Stop that," the dentist barked. "Look into your mouth. Look
at that tooth." |
I tore my eyes away from the gorgeous spectacle and peered into my mouth,
an act I instantly regretted. Far in the back, looking more like Mount
St. Helens after she blew her top, lay the remains of one of my molars.
It, too, had blown a top.
" Waa hooh?" I was amazed. That looked like it should hurt.
Then I noticed my tongue. Neither the doc, nor Nurse Ratchet had bothered to
take their boots off before climbing in to reach the job site. My tongue was
grey.
" Ahhhh," I cried. "Hung ih hrey!"
Skreecher
took the mirror and put it behind him. "Now what we're going
to do," he said, "is grind away some of this that's still
broken. Then we'll build up what's left, using brass rods, and fit
you for
a crown."
Brass rods? I rolled my eyes to the right. Skreecher smiled. He had good teeth.
Maybe I could just buy one of his.
I rolled left. Nurse Ratchet smiled happily. She had good teeth, too. They
probably get dental benefits when they work here, I thought.
Doc and Nurse
climbed back in, whistling while they worked, which I couldn't hear over
the bone-splintering squeal of the drill. Dental drills must be specially
tuned. Or maybe the new ones are almost silent, but dentists play tapes
of old drills, just so you'll feel like you're getting your money's worth.
I clenched my hands together and practiced isometric exercises.
After a while Doc Skreecher started mumbling under his breath. It seemed to be
some primitive form of communication.
" Thamaturge extractor," he said. Nurse Ratchet handed him a tool.
" Ambivalence processor." Another tool.
" Semaphore variagator." This one looked like a tiny saber mounted
sideways on a steel rod. I noticed that all the tools were stainless steel, had
sharp edges or points, and had the oddly-curved shapes you see in movies about
the Spanish Inquisition. My eyeballs were about out on stalks, trying to see
what was going on.
Then Nurse Ratchet handed Doc Skreecher a tool. He took it without comment, banged
away with it, and handed it back. She handed him another one. And another one.
Wait a minute here, I thought. Either she knows ahead of time what he's going
to ask for, or he just uses whichever tool she gives him. I clenched my hands
tighter and tried to turn one eyeball each way to watch both of them.
Doc Skreecher had his drill—obviously his personal favorite tool—going
again. That was when I discovered an odd biological fact. Doctors and college
professors would complicate this, so I'll make it simple.
You see, your nose-hole connects to your mouth-hole somewhere out of sight down
your throat. I can prove this: once when I was younger and drank too much of
the fruit of the cactus in a Mexican restaurant, I threw up and had a refried
bean lodged in my sinuses for a week. At times like that, you grow to hate the
smell of refried beans.
What I smelled now was smoke. The building's on fire, I thought. No, Doc Skreecher's
drill is on fire. Then it hit me. My teeth were on fire. Right on cue,
wisps of smoke began to drift out of my mouth and form a sort of halo around
Doc Skreecher's head. This maniac and his sadistic sidekick were burning my mouth
down and whistling while they worked.
" Har!" I shouted. "Hooh on har!"
Skreecher glanced up in annoyance. "Try to relax your tongue," he said.
Why should my tongue be relaxed, I thought; I mean, my entire body is
only touching the chair at the top of my head and my heels.
" Har," I whimpered.
" Fire extinguisher," Skreecher snapped. Nurse Ratchet unfastened one
from the wall, stuck the big plastic cone into my mouth, and hosed my tooth down
with a long burst of carbon dioxide.
Later, she insisted that it wasn't smoke I was smelling.
" Teeth only smoke when we don't use this irrigator," she said, holding
up a small garden hose. It was the only tool in the room that hadn't been in
my mouth.
" Oh," I said. "That's good to know."
— end — |