Kevin at the Dentist

I’m sitting in the waiting room. It looks like every other waiting room, with posters and leaflets overlapping on the walls. I squint and try to read segments of each one while waiting for them to call my name. The displays are too far away and I can’t see what anything says, but I do manage to catch ‘FUNGAL’ because it’s written in block capitals. I get bored and turn my attention elsewhere. The child opposite me picks his nose, and I look away immediately and tap my feet to some imaginary beat. Eventually, somebody says, “Kevin,” It’s such a stupid name. I grab my coat and get up and rush over into the room straight ahead without making eye contact with anyone.

They start by taking some X-Rays, and I know it’s bad because of the way they look at me. I’ve had teachers look at me like that. Mum and Dad too. They tell me they need to do some work on my back teeth, and I nod and say “Okay”, so they lean me back on the chair and I wait for it all to happen.

They jab me a few times and it really stings, but then my entire mouth goes numb and I can't tell which feeling is worse. I squeeze my eyes shut but the harsh white light still penetrates my eyelids. The guy leans over me and I can tell he’s prodding my teeth with some fine metallic device because of the vibrations, but I can’t feel a thing. He hunches forward and I can hear his stomach grumble. He sniffles to cover it up, but that only draws more attention to it. It’s like that video where that boy coughs in class to cover up the sound of his fart but then it makes his fart more obvious, like he was announcing it beforehand. That was a really funny video.

The dentist asks me what I do for a living, and I don’t understand why he is trying to speak to me because my mouth is completely numb, obviously, so it just comes out in garble, like “fish-hee schmee-huh.” That makes him laugh but it’s a bit frustrating because I am trying to tell him I am a history teacher. Well, technically, that’s not even correct, because I’m unemployed at the moment. That’s why I can make all these appointments, because I am doing nothing else with my time. The dentist picks up another object and I feel a sensation like something is drilling into my tooth. It’s weird when you can’t actually feel it, it’s like something is happening somewhere outside your body, and you can only feel the residual effects.

I can’t tell how much time has passed but it’s probably only been about five minutes. I’m not very good at being in my head, but I don’t suppose anybody is. Anyway, it’s not like I have much of a choice. I’m lying here, limp, with my eyes tightly shut, and I just have to use my imagination.

Some music starts playing. I can’t tell how it started because both the dentist guy and his assistant are hovering over me. Maybe one of them has a remote in their pocket. Well, at least now I have a better indication of the passing of time. Piano covers play one after the next, starting with Adele, then that one by Lewis Capaldi (you know the one), and it’s enough to make me want to cry. Some water squirts onto my face but I don’t think either the dentist nor his assistant can tell, because they don’t try to wipe it off. It sort of just settles and absorbs into my skin. When it dries, it’ll leave my skin drier, which isn’t helpful because I’m trying to get better at moisturising.

I think about fifteen minutes have passed now, because about four songs have played, and they’re all covers of pop songs which are maybe around three and a half minutes in length. They are talking in hushed voices to each other, and I don’t understand why because it’s not like I would understand what B6 triple apex means anyway. They use some elastic to hold my mouth open, and my throat feels very dry.

I can’t ask them how much longer is left because my mouth has now been pried open, so I make up games in my head to pass the time. First, I imagine I’m playing these covers in the Royal Albert Hall, as if I invented these songs, as if I’m actually any good at the piano. I tried learning when I was seven but Mr Knowles said I was “not dexterous enough”. But in my head, there are people weeping in the audience because I’m just so good. And when I’m done playing Seven Years, I get up and take a bow, and I get a standing ovation that lasts for minutes, but only about five seconds in my head.

Something jabs into my gum. “Sorry,” says the dentist. I don’t know why he apologises because I can’t feel it anyway.

I think we’ve passed the half hour mark, and my mind goes to other places, like that job application to Sunny Greetings that I keep putting off. I don’t know why I can’t just do it, I’d be so good at writing greeting cards. I just can’t think of anything funny right now. The deadline for that has probably passed by now anyway. Do I care? I can’t really tell. Every day is the same regardless of whether or not I have a job. Maybe I should do things to spice it up, like get up at sunrise and go for a jog. Or get lunch at the new deli down the road, instead of a cheese on toast in my box apartment. I make a mental note to do these things but I know that I just like the sound of them in theory, and I’ll never actually get round to doing them.

Imagine what it would be like if I actually tried.

Maybe if I just stayed in this chair long enough, with my mouth pried open and miniature drills poking at my gums, I’d be able to think of something, come up with a plan. Because right now, there are no distractions. That is, not unless you count the hauntingly sentimental cover of Dance Monkey which is playing in the background, and now I can’t help but think about the Kidz Bop version and now I'm thinking about those brainwashed autotuned children instead of my own future, a future that is drawing closer and closer by the day and

I feel the light come off from above me. Someone removes the goggles. “We’re done,” the dentist gives me a big grin, and he has very lovely white teeth, like pearls. I suppose it would be ironic if he didn’t. He explains that the numbness will take a few hours to wear off, and then he says he'll see me in six months.

I know I’ll forget, but I say thanks, and grab my coat before I leave the room. I fish a tangled mess of earphones from my pocket and listen to a podcast on the Amazon review serial killer, whilst one-handedly google-ing recipes for pasta bake that take under half an hour. I hope the numbness will have worn off by then.