Drilled Again

Well, the election’s over. Animosity seethes in silence. The Battleground is empty, the bodies are all interred. Excuses are Styrofoam cups. They litter the landscape. The winners laugh and light cigars; the losers cry Play on! The Big “I” won---the Idol for the Idle--- frozen solid in a block of ice inside a glacier of pride.

The Mormon has been vanquished. On the way out he offered up his obligatory word of congratulation, a simple word, anatomical, quite descriptive.

The world’s safe for democracy, marijuana is making a legal comeback and the color red is now a ‘Symbol of the Lost Cause.’ Money is worthless…$2 billion spent. Nothing’s changed. A nation still divided.

But I feel safe, leave my gun, venture outside. Time for a simple visit to the dentist. My tooth broke while gnashing on a political pundit about impending fiscal horrors. Time for a new crown, a gold one. Why not? Men like jewelry. Besides, gold chains are, so New Jersey now. But gold teeth, why not? An inflation hedge.

You’ve been to a dentist, you know it’s never simple. I open my mouth; he looks inside, backs away, whistles and exclaims, HolyMoly (dentistspeak for a molar approaching sainthood). What’s this, Detroit? Resembles a curated exhibit of urban and industrial decay. Man, you need a root canal.

I feel violated, and wasn’t even kissed. No, Doc, just a gold crown. Please, no root canal. He laughs. I cringe. He gloats. I know what that means. As if the election weren’t enough, I have to get drilled again by two dentists…Dr. Terror in the Tooth and Dr. Pain in the Purse.

He arranges the procedure with his friend. Says I’ll like him. Says he’s from a long German heritage of teeth drillers. Dentists are conspirators. They’re adept at extracting your last farthings. How? In the chair, they have leverage!

I show up. The door sign announces, J. Mengele, Endodontistry. The name causes a sudden shutter. I can’t identify it. I go inside. Essence sticks emit a faint odor of formaldehyde and cloves. The nurse wears a mask. She confiscates my Visa card. A tiny woman wearing a monocle validates the credit limit. I’m ushered to a chair. It has ankle clamps and wrist restraints. I ask why.Your comfort, of course, the nurse replies. I feel a smirk lurking inside the mask.

I wait, look around. On a shelf sits a collection of eyeballs. Dull glints of light stare back. They stand suspended on tiny wires, sway gently from the air of an overhead fan. A blue eyeball winks at me. A pedestal at its base reads, H. P. Long, Politician. A tableau of teeth occupies another shelf. All sizes. Dull drill bits dangle from their roots. I don’t have to ask the meaning of this exhibit…Leverage.

The doctor enters. He wears eye goggles with a laser light in the center. He resembles an alien from the May issue of Mad Magazine. He lowers the chair to a vulnerable position. I can’t move. He swivels the tray of torture tools they pass in front of me. He sharpens the drill bits with a lathe. He wears a wicked grin.

The nurse covers my mouth with a blue rubber mask. I ask why. She tells me it’s to muffle the screams, that there are other patients to consider. She puts dark glasses over my eyes, to hide their terror. I feel helpless. I am helpless!

The dentist fondles the syringe. The needle resembles a crooked railroad spike. He clutches my throat, says to relax, that it won’t hurt long. He jabs it into my gums. I swallow my muted scream. I hear the whirr of the drill. It grinds nerve and tooth and bone. I lose consciousness. So goes the experience of a root canal. But I survive.

All this for a gold crown! I check the price of gold. I can’t afford it. So I burglarize my wife’s jewelry box. I snatch the golden pig’s snout, a gift from me, purchased from a homeless street vendor. It was never one of her favorites. I’m all about recycling.

Events need closure. Otherwise, they hang around like ghosts of old girl friends going for the gold. In January, America will put division aside for a day and crown its reigning ruler. But nothing’s really changed. New battle lines are being drawn, new warriors are chosen. Politics is a continuing root canal, a blood sport.

Yet America moves on. We survive another day. Maybe one day we can agree with the great union organizer, Eugene V. Debs: “When we are in partnership and have stopped clutching each other’s throats; when we’ve stopped enslaving each other, we will stand together, hands clasped, and be friends.”

May we live to see the day! I hope that you’re satisfied with the Coronation.

Bud Hearn
November 14, 2012