You don't need it

 

Last November I went to the dentist downstairs in our building with symptoms very similar to what one feels when chewing on a bit of aluminum foil.

"Oh, that tooth has to come out," said my dentist in German.

I didn't doubt it, but I still asked why.

“Blah blah blah,” she replied as I struggled to understand her. And then, "Very expensive and painful."

Well, that sounded like something to avoid. But I wanted to keep my tooth, y'know?

When I told her I wanted to keep my tooth, she stood and walked over to a poster of a refrigerator-sized human tooth and showed me how much of my last molar was gone. It seemed only the salad crisper section remained.

"The root is in danger," she said.

"Just fill it," I said.

She shook her head at me and said a lot of stuff I didn't understand, but the gist was, "I'll fill it, but you'll probably be back in a day or two and we'll have to pull it anyways…"

"Just fill it," I repeated.

She filled it, and for five months I had no problems.

Until her stupid filling came out last week.

I made another appointment.

"Oh, it's that same tooth, isn't it, Herr Curtiss?"

"The tooth is fine. It's your filling that's coming out," I replied in the sentence I'd practiced ten times in front of the door.

"Hmph," she said, and sat me down.

Of course it was stupid of me to piss someone off who's got license to jab me in the mouth with sharp objects, but there you go.

She asked if she drill without Novocain.

"What!?” I asked. “Why?”

"It's just the filling. Not your tooth."

I remembered how strange it is recovering from a numb mouth, and reluctantly said ok.

So she drilled.

And drilled.

And then it suddenly wasn't the filling anymore. I writhed around, kicking and almost scattering her tray of instruments.

"Oh, did that hurt, Herr Curtiss" she asked.

“No smartass,” I thought, “it felt good.”

"Well, Herr Curtiss. The hole is bigger. That tooth should come out. Blah blah blah."

"How big is my hole," I asked.

I guess that's a funny question in German too, because she giggled and then went over to her wall chart again.

Blah blah blah, she said.

All I caught was that a root canal was very expensive and painful, and that I didn't need that last molar anyways.

But I wasn't really listening.

"Just fill it," I repeated.

"But Herr Curtiss, blah blah blah… and with private insurance it will be very expensive."

"Money isn't a problem. I want my tooth."

She harangued me further, and finally, I don't know why, I just relented. It was the very last one, after all. And I don't eat much meat anyways.

"Ok, take it," I finally said.

And boy did she light up! It was like Christmas morning for her, the little sickie.

She gave me a shot of novacaine, wrestled the tooth out, and stole it away. It was surprisingly quick and simple.

After, as she was hustling me out of the office, I asked if I could have the tooth. She seemed a bit disappointed as she put it in a little baggie for me.

We had a party later that night and after I was half-drunk I broke out the tooth as a party favor.

Strangely, though, I seemed to be the only one laughing.