I don't really have dentist appointments, but every three or four months I go in for deep cleaning. This is because there was a point at which it looked as though my teeth were about to fall out. They were saved by an American dentist named Dr. Stalker whom I consequently regard as a minor deity. I lost about six, or maybe eight, but he was able to save the rest by means of expensive and then semi-experimental dental surgery of such complexity as to necessitate my being knocked out for three hours. Providing I keep them clean, particularly right down below the gum line, it seems like I shouldn't have any more problems, and so I go in to Dr. Stalker's surgery for an hour of chipping and scraping three or four times a year.
A couple of years ago, my regular hygienist retired. Her successor got the job done, but I found her abrasive and annoying, and worst of all, she insisted that it was only possible to deep clean my teeth using a sonic device which caused me some pain. She described herself, somewhat inanely, as a cheerleader for my teeth, despite which, the thrust of her counsel mostly resembled that of a south-east London garage mechanic who starts shaking his head and sighing even before he's taken a look under the bonnet - or hood if you're American. I began to dread these appointments and considered going elsewhere but felt committed to Dr. Stalker's surgery, possibly much like that fabled lion with the thorn in his paw.
Then after yet another miserable appointment following which I'd vowed never again, I discovered that the surgery additionally employed another hygienist, a woman named Dolores. She was an unknown quantity, and it was difficult getting an appointment, and her hours were unorthodox; but it seemed worth a punt, and she was great. So that's where I'm heading this morning. It's a beautiful sunny day made all the sweeter for my not having spent the last two weeks in a gloom of anticipation. Eight in the morning still seems a bit of an odd time for a dental appointment, but anything is better than another agonising hour spent in the company of the cheerleader.
I cycle through Alamo Heights, and for once the roads are fairly clear due to it being the end of the world. As I enter the more conspicuously wealthy neighbourhood, I pass a house on Cloverleaf with a Trump 2020 campaign sign stuck in the lawn. It's depressing because I only saw two of the things back in 2016, but I guess his acolytes are more emboldened this time around, no longer feeling there's anything shameful about supporting a man who can't actually bring himself to say an unkind word about white supremacists - for just one example. The lawn of the next house supports a sign reading something like, whoever you are, we're glad to be your neighbour, with the message rendered above and below in Spanish and Arabic. Regardless of how sappy one might deem such a sentiment, if fills my heart with joy to consider how the adjacent Trumpanzees must feel about those liberals next door.
I cycle up the hill, zig-zag through the neighbourhood to Olmos Park, then along Stanford to the surgery - forty minutes in all. At the surgery I'm required to fill in a form which could probably be simplified to do you have coronavirus? with yes and no boxes provided, and then Dolores summons me to the chair. This time she's dressed as though for major surgery, facemask, cap, surgical gloves, everything.
'How long have you been back at work?' I ask.
'Today is the first day,' she says. 'I've been off since March.'
'Oh,' I say. 'So I'm your first patient since everything shut down?'
'Yes.'
'How is it? Being back after the pandemic, I mean.'
'Ask me again at the end of the day.'
She settles down to work, chipping away at calcified plaque particles, the stuff I can never quite keep at bay through brushing. She works with a manual pick, which has made me wonder somewhat about the cheerleader's insistence on using the more painful alternative. The pick doesn't bother me at all. It barely even ranks as discomfort.
I rinse with the traditional plastic cup, another thing the cheerleader did away with on the grounds of it being supposedly unhygienic. As she works, Dolores occasionally describes what she's doing, or offers advice, but there's none of the abrasive banter or prophecies of imminent dental doom in which her predecessor traded.
Dr. Stalker comes in for a quick look, as he usually does. He prods at a few points around my gums muttering adjectives such as amazing and incredible. 'You know,' he says to Dolores, 'I really wish I'd taken pictures of Lawrence's teeth before I worked on them. The change is just astounding. You really wouldn't believe how they were when he came in from seeing them now.'
He slaps me on the shoulder and smiles. 'You're doing a great job there, Lawrence. Just keep it up.'
Dolores resumes her work, now chipping away around my upper jaw. I can hear the cheerleader in the background, filling the building with her voice, her aggressively cheery observations, her thoughts on this and that. I hear her enter the surgery somewhere behind, needing to borrow something. I wonder if she realises it's me, or whether she wonders why I might have changed hygienist. Now she's whooping and hollering, entertained by something or other.
'You're sooo small,' she laughs for some reason I don't catch, which strikes me as kind of rude. Dolores is Hispanic and could hardly be described as a giant, but her height seems fairly average. It's a peculiar observation to make, even in the context of whatever it was they were talking about; but thankfully the cheerleader now has whatever she came in for and accordingly fucks off.
Dolores finishes. 'I hope that wasn't too bad.'
'Not at all. No discomfort whatsoever.'
She seems pleased and makes me another appointment for August. As I leave, I sidle up to the receptionist at the main desk. I think her name is Sarah. She's the one who pleaded for me not to go elsewhere when I started having trouble with the cheerleader, or maybe not pleaded but she was obviously concerned.
'Just wanted to say, thanks for sorting me out with Dolores,' I mutter in sotto voice in case the cheerleader should overhear, wherever she is. 'She's very good.'
I cycle off to engage with the rest of the day. It's still only nine in the morning and I can tell it's going to be a great day.
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