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Rinse and spit The Dentist Looks FamiliarBy Rick Horowitz
The card in the mail said it was time to get my teeth checked -- fine with me. I'm totally committed to keeping my choppers chopping the way they're supposed to chop, and if that means giving them a professional once-over twice a year, I figure it's worth it. So I make an appointment and take myself over to the friendly neighborhood dentist's office. "Under New Management" -- that's what the sign at the reception desk says. It doesn't bother me; I've had plenty of different dentists in my life. Besides, a checkup is a checkup. Anyway, I'm sitting there reading old magazines when I hear a door swing open, and when I look up I see two men headed in my direction. The patient -- I know he's the patient, he's holding his jaw and he doesn't look happy -- I've never seen before. But the dentist... "I want to see you again in two months," the dentist is telling the other man. And then to the receptionist, "Give me a minute and send the next one back." I'm the next one. I wait until he's out of earshot, and then I catch the receptionist's attention. "That new guy of yours -- I can't put my finger on it, but he looks so...familiar." "That's Cheney the Dentist," the receptionist says. "He started here in January." I knew I knew him from somewhere! I see him on TV all the time -- giving speeches, making announcements, hitting the Sunday-morning talk shows. But this I never expected. "Cheney does dentistry?" I ask the receptionist. She just shrugs her shoulders. "Cheney does everything. He'll see you now." I put the magazines back in the rack and start walking down the hall. As busy a schedule as this guy has, I'm thinking to myself, and with all the other things he's doing, who'd ever guess he'd have the time to take on a dental practice, too? On the other hand, he seems like a very bright guy; he probably knows his way around a mouth. I'll give him a try -- what's the worst that can happen? Cheney the Dentist is waiting at the door. He helps me into the chair and ties a bib around my neck. "We need to drill," he says. "Excuse me?" "We need to drill." "But I'm just here for a cleaning!" He doesn't argue with me. It's as if he doesn't even hear me. He just goes about his business, adjusting his goggles, putting on a fresh pair of gloves. Then he steps on a pedal and tips me backward until my feet are flopping around in the air. I try again. "Shouldn't you at least get an X-ray first?" "We don't need X-rays," he says. "Your teeth are facing a crisis -- drilling's the only answer." He adjusts the lamp and starts stuffing me with cotton balls. "Floss!" I shout through the fuzz. "What if I floss more?" He just snickers at me. "Flossing may be a sign of personal virtue," he says. "Drilling gets the job done." "What about chocolate?" (I'm getting desperate.) "Couldn't we forget the drilling if I just cut down on chocolate for a while?" "And give up the American way of life?" Cheney the Dentist is finished talking. He reaches for his drill and revs up the motor; the sound of the thing sends jolts up my spine. He moves closer. Closer. "A call for you, sir -- it's the president." The receptionist is standing at the door, a phone in her hand. Cheney the Dentist puts the phone to his ear, listens and nods, then listens and nods some more. "Happy to do it, Mr. President," he says. "I'll be right over." He hands the phone back to the receptionist and peels off his gloves. Then he turns to me. "I have to go fight terrorism," he says. "I'll be back in a minute -- don't move." I may not have any wisdom teeth. That doesn't make me stupid. Posted 5/10/01. Looking
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Rick Horowitz
