Kids will groan when you tell a story, complaining that they've heard it a hundred times. Then, one day, unaccountably, they'll ask you to tell it again. Go figure.
In the 1970s, when I was living in Wichita and teaching at Wichita State University, I had a wonderful dentist. Besides maintaining his dental practice, he appeared on local TV once a week at noon and delivered insights into the wacky world of teeth and oral hygiene. He was also very active in the Democratic party, which I guess might have been a demerit. My friend Georgie Cooper once claimed to be waiting in her doctor’s office and found on the coffee table a copy of the New Republic, which to her meant that he couldn’t be much of a doctor, since all doctors worth their salt were Republicans. It was just the way things were. So she left, she said, and found another doctor.
I’ve
always felt that she may have exaggerated this story, probably. But—possibly not.
Anyway, I liked this dentist. On one occasion, he went through an elaborate
procedure to put fillings in two cavities on the back of my upper front
teeth. Back then, this involved stuffing
my cheeks with many rods of cotton, as well as installing a rubber dam to keep
the front teeth dry during the procedure. After an hour so of work, my dentist removed the intricate dam
and used mirrors to inspect his work.
This was in the very early days of “white fillings,” applied as
goop and then hardened by a curing light. Matching the color of the goop to the
color of your teeth was a coveted skill in the dental trade at that time.
He was very satisfied—enough so that he invited his dental
hygienist and all of his other aides, including the receptionist, to come in
and check it out, so teams of viewers were peering into my mouth. He even set up a couple of mirrors so that I,
too, could see the back of my front teeth and appreciate his handiwork.
Eventually, the crowd dispersed and he stood for a while,
contented, and then asked what I thought.
Since I still had 10 or 12 rods of cotton in my mouth, I
gargled out the question “Wedd gan ih tabe dis goddon aught?” Meaning “When can I take this cotton out?”
He laughed and said, “You know, I only really forgot about
that once. A lady came in at 9:00 in the
morning. I finished with her around
10:00, and she went home. Just before
5:00, she called and asked when she could take the cotton out.”
I half-laughed and mumbled, “Uh, and you said. . . .”
“One more hour.”
I have never really stopped laughing. It was the perfect response, since she got a
specific time to look forward to, and she didn’t have to regret having that
stuff in her mouth unnecessarily for a whole day.
On another occasion, I went in to have my teeth
cleaned. This task was performed by a
dental hygienist who happened to be female and also happened to be attractive. I would say “very, very attractive,” but
Someone may read this.
When she had finished scraping and flossing, she said “The doctor will be in soon
to examine your teeth. Would like a
magazine to read?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Would you like some water?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A soda?”
“No, thanks,” I said again.
But she had sounded so much like an airline stewardess that I added,
humorously, “Maybe a scotch on the rocks.”
She stood at the door, looking at me, puzzled, her head
tilted slightly to one side, and said, “Scratch your rocks?”
Maybe you would have a response to that, but I had
none. If I explained what I had actually
said, then she might likely realize what she had actually asked. It was an impasse—only resolved when the
dentist popped in, saw us eyeing each other silently, and said cheerily, “Hey,
what’s going on in here?”
Neither of us had an explanation, so he started examining my
mouth.
