From my grandfather’s toolbox.

I haven’t been to the dentist since the first Bush administration. That’s eighteen years. Don’t ask why because there’s no good reason. A few months ago in Helsinki, I made a half-assed attempt at taking care of my teeth but I only made it to the x-ray stage. Now it’s time to finish the job. I ring up a dentist in Detroit:

“When you come in, we’ll discuss the appropriate sedation,” they say. “Will somebody be able to drive you home?”

“I thought this was just an exam.”

“Yes, but it sounds like you need to be sedated for your problems.”

A few hours later, the doctor is frowning at my panoramic x-ray. He jabs at the spectral shadow figures and says things like protruding bone shelf and entangled root. He shows me how the roots are touching an important nerve. He says that he’s worried about litigation. He wants more x-rays. I tell him I don’t want to pay for more x-rays if it’s only to save him a lawsuit. We make a deal.

He sits down and tells me that it’s going to be a bitch of a job. I like that he says bitch of a job so I give him some money and make arrangements for him to take out a few teeth on Saturday and perform a “four-quad deep cleaning and scraping” on Tuesday. That’s six hours of dentistry. As I walk to the car, I promise myself that I won’t become one of those awful people who tells dental horror stories over dinner.

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Iron & Wine – Teeth in the Grass
from Our Endless Numbered Days. Sub Pop, 2004 | buy mp3s