My trip to the dentist today reminded me of my reasons fear him. The first half hour I spent sitting in a five-chair lobby trying to decide whether to read January 1998's edition of People magazine or to stare into the frightened faces of the people around me, twisted and aching under the knowledge that at any moment they may be summoned for endless torture. Never have I hated to hear my name so much.
When my turn finally came to sit in the cold, plastic chair, the nurse made a point of interrogating me with pointless questions. "have you been brushing your teeth?" It's hot today isn't it?" "Are you glad that school's starting again?" I feel like one answer will send me to my mother and the other will bring out the full fury of the dentist. So I don't answer. I just give a juicy gargle and let her interpret it as she wants.
Next, Vicky wheels out her arsenal of sharp metal tools and begins picking apart my teeth and gum. Why on earth does she poke and scrape with such brute force? Couldn't she tone it down a bit, or do dentists actually enjoy hurting people? Maybe the purpose of those ominous masks is to conceal the evil grin that creeps across their faces. I try my hardest not to wince and give her satisfaction. I harness the energy from my pain to stretch my jaws open as far as possible. But nothing contents her. She could cram a softball in my mouth now, but still she says, "open wider!"