Yesterday I spoke to my dentist for the first time in the six years that I’ve known him and we got to talking about my major. “Politics and business — you know what that means!” he laughed from behind the plastic mask and drew a dollar sign in the air, as though we were privy to some secret known only by certain people who believe they, and only they, understand how the world really works and everyone else, fools and dreamers. Like two guys who just found out they were members of the same elite country club, we exchanged the verbal equivalent of fist-pounds. A couple of buddy-buddy motherfuckers.
After he finished inspecting my teeth and declared me cavity-free, I bolted out of the dentist’s chair and for the exit. As the door closed, he waved and looked at me with a new respect… except I knew it wasn’t for me. It was for future-me, me with a dollar sign followed by a decimal point and zeroes, the me that made the Right Choices and could afford Nice Things. By the time I got home, my teeth still felt raw and sensitive, but even so, I brushed and flossed and gurgled mouthwash, to no avail. I thought about calling the dentist again, but decided it wasn’t worth it. What the hell was I going to say? “Doctor, I can feel something rotting back there. I think you may have missed something.” … no, that wouldn’t fly at all.
