Short Story / Oral Surgery

I remember when I went to get my wisdom teeth taken out, back in 2003. It was somewhere over there in the Medical Center. I filled out a few forms in the reception and a hygienist dressed in those loose-fitting floral surgical scrubs came through to lead me to the dentist’s room. She led me out of the shiny reception with its gleaming tables and plastic pot plants, across a dull corridor carpeted with a reassuring bounce, and guided me to a door. On the other side of that door I sat alone, in the tiny dentist’s room. I sat on the chair I’d be passed out in during the operation, and I stared around the tiny room in disbelief at the paraphernalia that surrounded me. There was a set of golf clubs in the corner. One of those contraptions people use to practise their putting was laid out on the floor, complete with a length of green felt and about ten golf balls strewn around the little putting goal. One wall was filled completely with shelf after shelf, each of which housed nothing but row upon row of different golf balls. I wondered if he aimed to knock my teeth out with a nine iron. On the opposite wall stood a very discomfiting life-size cardboard figure of George Strait, where could be seen George Strait’s signature, George Strait’s cowboy hat, George Strait’s massive belt buckle, and George Strait’s blinding white teeth. The other two walls were covered in an assortment of framed pictures—either of golf courses or of George Strait. Apart from the chair I was perched on, I saw no dental equipment whatsoever.

After being given a generous twenty minutes to acclimatise myself to this miniature circus, the dentist burst through the door in a whirlwind of energetic enthusiasm and thrust an open hand at me. I shook his hand as his voice boomed, his mouth chattered, his eyes rolled and he gesticulated wildly, occupying the whole room with his gargantuan presence. I immediately felt confident that I was safely in the hands of a seasoned professional, even if I did suspect he was on crack cocaine. I’m sure anybody would have trusted him every bit as much. He was the Willy Wonka of the dental world.

So Willy Wonka gripped my hand as if he was going to use me to tee off and he spoke in his booming voice at the speed of drug-fueled genius. It took several seconds for my mind to speed up to the point that I could discern individual words in that lightspeed effulgence of noise. He told me I didn’t need to worry about a thing. Not a dadgum ding dong durn thang, my friend. We’re gonna take RRREALLLL good care of you there, friend. REAL good care. Everything’s going to be just FINE! We’re gonna hook you up GOOD. You won’t feel a thing. Heck, you won’t even know you were here! I’m sure he would have laughed heartily if there was time between the words.

He had a thatch of greying orange hair that was styled into the fashion of a toupee. Nope, it was his hair alright: just made it look like a wig. His eyes rolled and his blinding white teeth gnashed as he reassured me over and over about how he was going to hook me up with the real strong stuff, how I’d be partying while he worked on me, how I was going to have a real good time, how I didn’t need to worry about a thing, how everything was going to be just AOK. I felt myself being lifted up and carried by this surge of boundless enthusiasm. It almost felt as if a band would strike up at any second and we’d go hopping through a dental office corridor lined with chorus girls as we sang a song about how everything was going to be fine and we’re gonna hook you up real good. I honestly thought he was going to offer me a line of coke at one point. He briskly shook my hand again and I was ushered out of the office before I knew it, still anticipating my life to turn into a musical with George Strait, chorus girls, Willy Wonka, and cocaine-filled golf balls pouring down from Hollywood’s heavens. I looked across a very ordinary, very dull parking lot. It was quiet. There was no band starting up. The mood farted into the ether and disappeared. Was what just happened even real?

* * *

A few days later I returned to the office for the operation. I was lying in the chair as an assistant checked my blood pressure and talked to me about how everything was going to be just fine, about how Willy Wonka was an excellent oral surgeon, and how I didn’t need to worry about a thing. I had never been worried in the first place anyway. I was in Disneyland, apparently.

Then Willy Wonka burst through the door with the same bustling mania he had exhibited before. He waddled in behind a trolley decked with knives, swabs, and whatever other implements he’d thrown together to use on me. He was already dressed in his powder blue scrubs: had the hairnet over his thatched pretend toupee and the mask dangling beneath his waggling jaw. He shook my hand vigourously enough to shake the chair with me, and laughed and chattered about, you know, how he was gonna hook me up real good, etc. I lay there and smiled like a kid. I didn’t need to hear the words. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more thoroughly entertained. I felt safe. I was surrounded by lots of machines that made comforting little beeps, bings, bongs and dings and Willy Wonka was going to pull my teeth out. I was going to party. I still kind of had this slight idea that I might die by his hand, but man, I would die with a smile. He snapped on his latex gloves as if he meant murder, and that blinding white smile disappeared behind a powder blue mask.

I remember they put the laughing gas mask on me, and after a minute asked me if I was starting to feel good. I remember feeling extremely pleasant, and after another minute I could feel the beginnings of a mild drowsiness. Then they pulled the mask off me.

“THERE YOU GO YOU’RE ALL SET!!” Willy Wonka boomed, and I laughed. I waited. They were just staring at me like they were waiting for me to get up. George Strait grinned a flat grin behind them. No way. You’re just playing a joke, right? No, they really just finished, I was told. But I was still only just feeling slightly drowsy from the laughing gas. How long was I under? No shit! Really? I still probably wouldn’t have believed they’d touched me except my wife was standing there too (I was married back then). She’d come to drive me home. There’s no way she’d be in on the joke, or any joke, and not with that look of tired resignation that she always wore in front of me. So I felt my mouth with my hand. Except I didn’t feel my mouth. My hand stopped against something that felt like a piece of rubber that had been placed where my mouth used to be. I was completely numb, and remained numb for the rest of the day. I had great fun pouring soup down my chin in an attempt to eat.

On my way out of the office, Dr. Willy Wonka hooked me up with a prescription for some real good stuff, and when I went back for a check-up two weeks later, he was really keen on prescribing me some more. I declined. I’d had enough fun, really. I’d been partying for two weeks on that stuff. He still really wanted to renew my prescription, though. Really wanted to.

And I have to say that in spite of the fact that he often came across as a fly-by-night backstreet sideshow crack-addict barber shop surgeon, I never once felt any pain from the sockets and they healed over in no time. I was still partying on the drugs long after.

So if you know anyone that needs to get their wisdom teeth removed, I would strongly recommend referring them to Dr. Willy Wonka, somewhere over there in the Medical Center. He did a great job on me.

And he’ll hook you up REAL good.

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