I Didn’t Ask
Never shall arrogance suffice.
Stop being so certain that you are right.
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I was in the dentist chair, fully dressed, bib on, waiting for the
man (or woman) who has as much power as a groin surgeon
to cause pain.
Be nice. Be nice. A drill bit spinning into a nerve that has not
been numbed is a unique kind of unpleasant.
Been there, and never has the arm of a dentist’s chair been gripped
so tightly.
I would have asked for a bullet to bite on, but it would have
inhibited access.
The dentist walked in with his assistant. She had a black eye.
I didn’t ask.
“Hey doc,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied.
His greeting seemed a little too informal, but then again, he had
a small cotton ball in his mouth.
I didn’t ask.
“Before I start,” he said, “I need to know how hard you work at
trying to prove yourself wrong.”
I had no idea what that question had to do with my tooth.
“Wrong about what?” I asked.
“Anything that you argue with others about, or anything that
someone else has a different opinion about than you.”
“But I didn’t come here to argue about whether my tooth hurts,”
I said. “I am quite sure that it does, and there is no need for me
to try and prove myself wrong.”
Mr. Dentist got defensive. “I’m not talking about how your tooth
feels, and to tell you the tooth, teeth don’t have emotions. You
should also know that debating emotions is a trip down a rabbit
hole lined with barbed wire and poison oak.”
His assistant walked over to the window and closed the venetian
blinds. It was unnecessary, and unnerving.
I looked up at the dentist as he was adjusting the blinding light.
“Why are you asking me that question?”
He pointed the light at my eyes. “I’m asking because a wise man
works harder at proving himself wrong then he works at proving
himself right.”
“Stop joking around,” I said. “No one does that. We are born to
look away from all that challenges our opinions, our confidence,
and how we view the world. Now would you please get the light
out of my eyes.”
“I’m a dentist, not an ophthalmologist,” he replied.
“I still don’t understand what your question has to do with my
toothache. I can’t prove that it doesn’t ache.”
The dentist looked at his watch. “Okay let’s speed things up.
I’ve got a viper in the other room who needs a fang transplant.
Miss Genevieve, can you please keep an eye on the floor?”
At least I learned her name.
“I’m just trying to find out if you can afford to lose a wisdom tooth,”
he explained.
“I can’t afford anything that you’re about to do,” I said.
Miss Genevieve turned her back to me and wrote some notes
down on a pad.
I didn’t ask.
I heard hissing.
“Alright, let’s try a different question,” said the dentist. “What
percent of all things in the universe that can be known, do you
think that you already know?”
“Maybe one percent,” I said. “I’m sure that it’s a very small percent.”
“One percent? Is that your answer? One percent is way too high,
my friend, but at least now I know that you do not have any excess
wisdom that you can afford to lose. I’ll try and save the tooth.”
Miss Genevieve screamed in pain.
I heard slithering. I panicked. “Did the viper get you?”
“No,” she said. “I think it was a rat.”
“Thank God for that,” I said. “Doc, can we get started before this
visit gets any more bizarre?”
He turned off all the lights in the room.
I felt a wet cotton ball on my forehead.
“Open wide.”
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© Randall Snyder
