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When
I was 22, an oral surgeon told me that my teeth might one day be
found in someone else's mouth. At the time, I was living at
the Brooklyn, New York, headquarters of a religious organization,
working in its bookbindery. Each time I picked up an 80-pound bundle
of book signatures, my jaw felt as if it would snap apart and fly
out of my mouth. X-rays revealed that I had an impacted wisdom
tooth on one side of my mouth, and that the same thing was about
to happen on the other side. Oral surgery was required -- the sooner,
the better.
"These operations are usually performed by Brother Vanderpool,"
my dentist told me, adding, "He loves doing extractions."
His mouth widened into a Peter Lorre smile.
I smiled right
on back. I'd had only one cavity filled in my life, and the worst
thing I remember was that the dentist used a compound on my teeth
that reminded me of those lemon-scented daisies my Mom used to stick
on the back of the toilet to freshen the air.
Steven Vanderpool was lean, with spiky, close-cropped blonde hair.
It was the 1980s, and he dressed in an angular euro-chic style that
made me think alternately of Nazis and Max Headroom.
He was assisted
by his wife, Anna, likewise apparently Aryan, who had big, moist
blue eyes. Her primary jobs were to use the vacuum tool to suck
saliva out of my mouth and to stare into my eyes, making sure that
the anesthetic wasn't having too strong an effect.
If my mouth
hadn't been bristling with stainless steel dental tools, I might
have fallen in love with Sister Vanderpool that afternoon.
In between telling his wife things like, "No, not that tooth,"
and "You missed a pool of blood there by his tongue,"
Mr. Vanderpool would compliment me on the natural beauty of my teeth.
He would say things like, "For someone who never had braces,
you certainly have straight teeth."
After having pulled the two impacted teeth, he suggested going ahead
and removing the upper wisdom teeth for good measure. I agreed.
He dug in to the upper jaw, all the while praising me on the quality
of my remaining teeth. "Your teeth are very symmetrical; yet
they have a natural appeal. Very nice, indeed."
When he finished the operation, he said, "From time to time
I need to make false teeth, and I would like to use yours as a model.
Do you mind?"
"Ungg," I said. Or whatever it is you can say with your
jaws pried wide open and stuffed with cotton.
He proceeded to sort of scoop the plaster straight into my mouth.
It was essential that the rear teeth be accurately molded; unfortunately,
the chalky goop triggered my gag reflex. But under Anna's supporting
gaze, and after three botched attempts, we got a good cast.
That's when he told me that my teeth might end up in someone else's
mouth.
The doctor sent me back to my apartment up the street with a jar
of Tylenol 3 — the good stuff — and a wad of paper towels.
With the towels clutched to my face, I waited in the lobby of my
apartment building for the elevator to arrive.
The atmosphere at the residence of this religious institution was
kind of a cross between a college dorm and a monastery. For
example, we were allowed to listen to any music we wanted in our
rooms, provided it didn't get too loud, and it wasn't produced by
Death Row Records. So when Wade, who lived in the room directly
above me, showed up at the elevator with four of his friends, all
girls, all single, and mostly pretty, the afternoon started to look
up.
But, of course,
I was in no condition to talk. We waited for the elevator together
in silence. Then Wade said, "So, Joel, looks like you've
been at the dentist." I opened my mouth to make a witty reply,
but all that came out was a gobbet of saliva about the size and
texture of a raw egg white. As if on cue, the girls said in unison,
"Eeeeewwww!"
I rode the elevator alone.
In my room, I sighed heavily, popped a couple of Tylenol 3's, and
eased myself onto my back, flat on my bed. Sometime later —
minutes? hours? days? — I was shaken awake by Sophie Yukenawitz,
the nurse sent over from the infirmary to check up on me.
She was in her 90s I think, possibly older, and she had a corona
of thinning white hair that was as wiry and delicate as the filament
in a light bulb. If Tim Burton were in the cotton candy business,
his product would look like Sister Yukenawitz's hair. And
her face was about nine inches away from mine. So, when I woke up
I almost screamed.
Then I remembered where I was. And what had happened that
afternoon. And to this day, when I visit New York City and see someone
about my size and height with teeth with a symmetrical, natural
appeal, I look very, very closely.
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