Dentist sequel – The Extraction…(reblog)

A few days later, the dentist rang and said: ‘I rang the dental crowd and it’s sorted now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Someone mixed up your files with a 75 year old man.’
‘How?!’
‘I don’t know, but that other man had all his teeth extracted, and you still have most of yours. So that’s where the confusion was…how’re the painkillers?’
‘Middlin.’
‘Call in tomorrow so.’
And he hung up. The next day. The receptionist answered the door. ‘Oh, hello Thomas.’
I was in too much pain to correct her. She led me down a corridor towards the surgery. Green walls. Echo. Stuffed birds. Smell like liquorice. The dentist was in there and ready. Mask, white coat and antiseptic wash. He said: ‘Are you ready so?’
I sat back in the chair. He put on the big light and got a really long needle. He asked me through the mask if I was allergic to any anaesthetics or anything. Sounded like he was talking from the fat end of a traffic cone. I said no. He asked me if I was sure cos there was a fella here before that said he had no allergies and then he had a fit on the way home and crashed into the wall.
He held up the syringe, like something out of a film about Mind Control, and blinked. I said I was fairly sure I was ok and to go ahead. He shrugged in a way that said: ‘It’s your choice, so.’
As he put it through, and my brain froze in terror, unable to compute the mad agony, the receptionist said: ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Ger?’
Soon my mouth was stroke numb and I didn’t’ have any fits so it was time to take out the tools. Pliers, drill, dental angle grinders, scrapers, gum hoover, long metal rod with mirror on the back. I was feeling so positive about it all, I could have sang if my mouth didn’t feel like concrete. Something happened behind me with a tap and a sink and then he floated back into my vision, holding what looked to be a vice grips. “I’ll need you to be very still and relaxed.” He said.
I said ok and then he went at it. Tried to get grip but couldn’t cos the thing kept slipping off. He sighed and grunted a lot. Used the electric saw and a steel apparatus not unlike a shovel. I kept looking at the big light and hoping for the best. His eyes were huge through the goggles and you could tell he was a fanatic for this sorta thing. Stubborn molars, resistant to the latest technology. There could be a paper on this yet, at the very least, good material for the drinks at the next conference. Then I started wondering if he was qualified at all. The receptionist interrupted my thoughts when she held my head and muttered reassuringly. “It’s ok, Patrick, it’s nearly over.’
And it was. He was mad now. Takin it personal. There was a feeling he’d got to the crux of the problem and it was time for one last all out attack. He bit his lip as he caught it well and grasped with intense hatred and yanked like a man trying to start a broken chainsaw. There was a rupture somewhere in my brain. I saw roots dragged from the soil in the garden of Eden, sequoia’s torn like twigs, molar earthquakes. A crisis somewhere in my consciousness that something huge had happened. He stood back and held it up between the prongs and proudly said: ‘That’s her now! Take a rinse from the glass. Good man.’
Everythin was spinning. The room, the walls, the chair. I felt like a deer that had just been shot. I stood up, shook. They were around me. Him with the mask, her with the lipstick on her teeth. Everything was amplified, like on the cartoons when you’re hit on the head with an anvil. ‘Do you need to sit down?’ He asked.
And I did. So I did. Feeling the emptiness with my tongue. The receptionist said: “You have to be careful, you could fall over. And then you might lose another tooth! Imagine that, Barry!’
He wrote out a prescription then. Said to take these anti-biotics for the next two weeks and I should be fine. Don’t mix them with drink. The last fella that mixed them with drink ended up in the mental.
Outside, the sky frowned. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was. The receptionist walked me to the door. “Goodbye now, Paddy, don’t worry about anything, I’ll make sure your files are up to date this time, there’ll be no more problems. Just keep the teeth brushed, good man, and if you don’t, sure we’ll see you again soon, wouldn’t that lovely?!


A few days later, the dentist rang and said: ‘I rang the dental crowd and it’s sorted now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Someone mixed up your files with a 75 year old man.’
‘How?!’
‘I don’t know, but that other man had all his teeth extracted, and you still have most of yours. So that’s where the confusion was…how’re the painkillers?’
‘Middlin.’
‘Call in tomorrow so.’
And he hung up. The next day. The receptionist answered the door. ‘Oh, hello Thomas.’
I was in too much pain to correct her. She led me down a corridor towards the surgery. Green walls. Echo. Stuffed birds. Smell like liquorice. The dentist was in there and ready. Mask, white coat and antiseptic wash. He said: ‘Are you ready so?’
I sat back in the chair. He put on the big light and got a really long needle. He asked me through the mask if I was allergic to any anaesthetics or anything. Sounded like he was talking from the fat end of a traffic cone. I said no. He asked me if I was sure cos there was a fella here before that said he had no allergies and then he had a fit on the way home and crashed into the wall.
He held up the syringe, like something out of a film about Mind Control, and blinked. I said I was fairly sure I was ok and to go ahead. He shrugged in a way that said: ‘It’s your choice, so.’
As he put it through, and my brain froze in terror, unable to compute the mad agony, the receptionist said: ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Ger?’
Soon my mouth was stroke numb and I didn’t’ have any fits so it was time to take out the tools. Pliers, drill, dental angle grinders, scrapers, gum hoover, long metal rod with mirror on the back. I was feeling so positive about it all, I could have sang if my mouth didn’t feel like concrete. Something happened behind me with a tap and a sink and then he floated back into my vision, holding what looked to be a vice grips. “I’ll need you to be very still and relaxed.” He said.
I said ok and then he went at it. Tried to get grip but couldn’t cos the thing kept slipping off. He sighed and grunted a lot. Used the electric saw and a steel apparatus not unlike a shovel. I kept looking at the big light and hoping for the best. His eyes were huge through the goggles and you could tell he was a fanatic for this sorta thing. Stubborn molars, resistant to the latest technology. There could be a paper on this yet, at the very least, good material for the drinks at the next conference. Then I started wondering if he was qualified at all. The receptionist interrupted my thoughts when she held my head and muttered reassuringly. “It’s ok, Patrick, it’s nearly over.’
And it was. He was mad now. Takin it personal. There was a feeling he’d got to the crux of the problem and it was time for one last all out attack. He bit his lip as he caught it well and grasped with intense hatred and yanked like a man trying to start a broken chainsaw. There was a rupture somewhere in my brain. I saw roots dragged from the soil in the garden of Eden, sequoia’s torn like twigs, molar earthquakes. A crisis somewhere in my consciousness that something huge had happened. He stood back and held it up between the prongs and proudly said: ‘That’s her now! Take a rinse from the glass. Good man.’
Everythin was spinning. The room, the walls, the chair. I felt like a deer that had just been shot. I stood up, shook. They were around me. Him with the mask, her with the lipstick on her teeth. Everything was amplified, like on the cartoons when you’re hit on the head with an anvil. ‘Do you need to sit down?’ He asked.
And I did. So I did. Feeling the emptiness with my tongue. The receptionist said: “You have to be careful, you could fall over. And then you might lose another tooth! Imagine that, Barry!’
He wrote out a prescription then. Said to take these anti-biotics for the next two weeks and I should be fine. Don’t mix them with drink. The last fella that mixed them with drink ended up in the mental.
Outside, the sky frowned. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was. The receptionist walked me to the door. “Goodbye now, Paddy, don’t worry about anything, I’ll make sure your files are up to date this time, there’ll be no more problems. Just keep the teeth brushed, good man, and if you don’t, sure we’ll see you again soon, wouldn’t that lovely?!

The Dental Records crowd….

They reckon all good writers have problems with their teeth. That’s about the only positive thing I could take from the terrible pain. Then the dentist said: ‘You’ve given me a false name, are you tryin to pull somethin?’
I said: ‘No, it’s genuine, my mouth’s about to explode with some kinda toothache.’
‘That’s what I mean.’ He said. ‘Your records show you’ve no teeth at all.’
‘No teeth?’
‘No teeth.’
‘But I have teeth, why the hell do you think I’m here?!’
‘Well. Now. That’s what they’re sayin.’
‘Who’s sayin?’
‘The dental records crowd.’
The receptionist walked in and said: ‘Well, Gerry, how are you?’
‘It’s not Gerry, it’s Mick.’
‘Oh, Mick, that’s right. You lost all your teeth.’
‘I didn’t, no. Most of them are still here.’
‘Oh.’ She said, and walked out.
‘Well…’ said the dentist. ‘You better ring them. I can’t do anythin with you til it’s sorted out.’
He gave me the number and I went outside. And called. A calm woman answered and I said: ‘My records show I’ve got no teeth.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
‘But I have teeth, there’s a mix up.’
‘That’s impossible, you have teeth but…?’
‘My records show that I don’t.’
‘What happened them?’
‘What happened what?’
‘Your teeth?’
‘Nothin, they’re fine. Well…I have a…’
‘So you HAVE teeth?’
‘YES.’
‘And your records show you DON’T?’
‘Yeah, so can you change them?’
‘The records? Oh No.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re dental records, they’re inviolable.’
‘But they’re wrong!’
‘That may be, but here’s not the place to deal with that.’
‘Where is?! You’re the office of dental records!’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘How can you not know?’
‘You should go to the hospital where you were born, and see what they have on file.’
Hung up. Went to the hospital. The woman behind the counter squinted at my mouth and asked: ‘You have no teeth? But I can see teeth, your mouth is full of teeth.’
‘Exactly. So my records are wrong.’
‘Have you rang the dental records office?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what did they tell you?’
‘To come here.’
‘Why?!’
‘I don’t know. They just said…’
‘Here, try this number.’
Went outside and tried it. A young fella answered with: ‘Yes??’
He was one of these new age pricks with a Kardashian accent. Probably hailed from the backarse of BallyMacWard, except when he was on the phone.  I said: ‘I need to change my dental records.’
‘Oh….k….? Why?’
‘They say I have no teeth.’
‘Were you in an accident?’
‘No.’
‘Did they just fall out?’
‘No. I still have them, my records are wrong, and the dentist can’t deal with me til it’s sorted. So if you don’t mind…’
‘Oh, you’re pretending to be someone else?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Someone else is pretending to be you, then?’
‘Eh…possibly.’
‘Have you rang the guards?’
‘No, I haven’t rang the guards, I’m in agonizin fuckin pain and…
‘Let me tell you somethin, sir.’
‘What?’
And he hung up. The little bollox.

I rang back the dentist and the receptionist answered. I said: ‘Hello, I was in this afternoon, there was an issue with my dental records.’
‘Oh, LIAM, hello! How are you getting on?’
‘It’s not Liam, it’s Mick.’
‘Mick, of course. Any luck finding your teeth?’
‘No, the dental office were no good, or anyone else.’
‘Oh, you see, no one is allowed access to their own dental records except the dentist, and they can deal with it for you, they can be very strict about it, do you want me to tell the dentist to ring them for you? That might help.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be great.’
‘Ok, Peter, it’s no problem.’
‘It’s not Peter, it’s….hello? Hello?’
But she was gone.

*

 

Paddy backs Ruby Walsh at the races…

We were working for the races. Doing security. Checking tickets for the VIP stadium where you had the best view of the track. Paddy was at the bottom door, an eccentric mid fifties. He opened with: ‘Hey, Micky…?’
I was at the middle door. Pretended I didn’t hear him. The he said again: ‘Hey, Micky…?’
‘Yeah, Paddy?’
‘Was there many here last night?’
‘A good few.’
‘A good few?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A few thousand I suppose?’
‘Around that yeah.’
‘Around that. Ok. What time was the last race?’
‘Eight or so.’
‘Did you back any horses?’
‘No, Paddy, never really my thing. And we’re not really supposed to.’
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah.’

A rich couple walked up to my door, his suit, her feather hat, she asked: ‘Where do I go?’
I asked: ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Well…’ she said: ‘Here?’
‘Ok, upstairs or downstairs?’
This was when she produced her ticket and said: ‘What does this say?’
I read it, went: ‘You’re in the wrong building.’
She revved all her wealthy horsepower and said: ‘No, we’re not. Sheila said to come here.’
‘Who’s Sheila?’
‘She organised it.’
‘Organised what?’
‘The dinner.’
Your man chimed in then, with: ‘We’re here for dinner with Sheila.’
‘Well you have tickets for the other side of the stadium…’
‘The OTHER side?!’ She said. ‘But Sheila said to come here.’
‘Sheila was wrong.’
‘Excuse me?’
Your man had the phone out now.
Then three underage came along and tried to slip in behind me.
I stopped them with a hand and said: ‘Tickets?’
They all said together: ‘Tickets?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh.’
And they disappeared. Meanwhile, your man was off the phone and said: ‘Sheila said we’re to go across to the other side of the stadium.’
‘Ok.’ I said.
‘This is ridiculous.’ Said your one.
‘I’d hate to see this place if there was a fire.’ Said your man. And they went away.
Paddy was waiting patiently at his door. The he said: ‘Hey, Micky….?’
‘Yeah, Paddy.’
‘What was wrong with blondie?’
‘Wrong tickets.’
‘Wrong tickets, oh yeah. Do you think we’ll be late tonight, Micky?’
‘Not sure, Paddy. Depends on the crowd.’
‘Depends on the crowd. Oh yeah. Do you like this job, Micky?’
‘It’s ok, Paddy.’
‘They’re nice people, aren’t they, Micky?’
‘They’re not too bad.’
‘Ruby Walsh is riding later too, Micky.’
‘Is he?’
‘He is, Micky. Will you back him?’
‘We’re not supposed to back horses, Paddy.’
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah.’
A woman came along and said: ‘I’ve no ticket but my kids don’t know I smoke, so can I slip out there for a quick pull?’
‘Go on, so.’
‘Thanks.’
She went outside. Braced the wind as she lit up, dragged hard and exhaled into the gratified cold. Paddy didn’t say anything this time. We just sorta stood like sentries til something happened.
That’s when mass started downstairs.
The priest could be heard over the speakers blessing the track, and the punters, and wishing everyone luck.
After, the commentator went through the line up. There was talk about Ruby Walsh but not much. I looked over and Paddy was gone somewhere. Probably to the jacks or for a sandwich or something. The woman came back from outside and said thanks and then she said she was rushing to put a bet on.
Few minutes later, the next race was on and Paddy was back and it was busy. Jimmy the supervisor came and he was holding a betting slip in his hand. I said: ‘What’s that?’
‘Got a good tip.’ He goes, ‘from a steward. Ruby Walsh.’
‘Are we allowed bet?’
He shrugged, said: ‘Depends.’ And walked off.
Later, when it was calm again, and the crowd were gone for a drink before the next race, it was just me and Paddy. I waited for him to open as I knew he would.
‘Hey, Micky?’ He said:
‘Yes, Paddy.’
‘Did you back Ruby Walsh?’
‘I didn’t Paddy, no. Did he win?’
‘He did, came in at 22-1.
‘Good man, Paddy.’
‘You’d right to back him.’
‘How much’d you win, Paddy?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have to collect it. Do you think I should go and collect it, Micky?’
‘You better, Paddy.’
‘Do you think?’
‘I do.’
‘Will I go now?’
‘Go on.’
‘Right so, Micky. Thanks.’
‘No problem, Paddy.’
‘It’s not a bad job when you make this kinda money, sure it isn’t, Micky?’