Dentist the Mentalist or It was Just Five Bucks Me: Melissa! Melissa! I have a tooth ache! Melissa: Edward! Edward! You have no dental insurance! Melissa always thinks of money first, and then me, maybe. My toothache would not go away, and my constant molar-moaning pushed me above the “Lifetime Movie” in Melissa’s world. Melissa: Why don’t you find a cheap dentist and quit your whining? I looked in the “Yellow Pages” and there he was. A small ad in the palm reader section,                     “Dentist the Mentalist” Free tooth extraction with every five-dollar palm reading! Just five bucks? I had five dollars, a palm, and a toothache; the Gods were smiling on me. I called the office and set up an appointment. Surprisingly, they told me to come right over; they had openings that afternoon at 2, 3, and 4 o’ clock. Oh, I thought: it really is my lucky day. I drove to the mental/dental office with palm in hand and pang in fang, hoping to leave with a well-read palm and no toothache. The receptionist was a sullen, fiftyish brunette. Receptionist: If you’ll just sign these release forms Mr. Hurst, then we can get started. Me: This says ya’ll are not responsible for SPDS. What is that anyway? Receptionist: Sudden Patient Death Syndrome. It’s just a formality; you want to see the dentist or not? Well, it was just five bucks. I signed the paper and followed a lanky, blonde, dental hygienist dressed in black leather and chrome chains through a dungeon-maze of hallways (her teeth were white, if somewhat sharp). The screams emanating from numerous doorways were a chilling reminder: I had indeed arrived at the dentist office. The cackling receptionist chanting “Dead man walking,” behind my back didn’t set my mind at ease, either. But, it was just five bucks.   The room. A wooden straight backed chair with six-inch wide leather straps stood alone in the middle of a dinghy, windowless room. A wall of objects, both blunt and sharp, hung on pegs to my right; a car-hauler’s wench was mounted to the back of a small tractor near the door. I didn’t ask.   Since there was only the one seat, I stood. A diploma hung on the wall from the Sally Struthers school of Dentistry, Mentistry and Doughnut Identification. Ahh…another specialty: reassuring.     The Dentist entered. I was expecting Hannibal the Cannibal. Now, I was longing for Hannibal’s kind face and gentle demeanor. He barked a quick hello to me; then spun his owl-like head towards his assistant. She cowered back, leering, but respectful of her eerie employer. Some trepidation nagged the back of my mind.   Dentist: Rachel, run down to extraction room 3. Take three tourniquets, a mop, and a copy of the guy’s release form. Oh, and make sure my liability insurance is up to date. Rachel: Yessir! …and she darted out. I was alone with “the dentist.” He spun his manic gaze in my direction. Dentist: The five bucks has to be paid up front. So many people forget the poor dentist after they’ve found release…ugh…relief. I paid the money and was led to the chair. As the Doc was cinching down the last “strictly precautionary” steel reinforced leather strap, Rachel returned. A quick glance at me and a negative shake of her head to the Doc, and then she was stillness in the dark corner. Dentist: Too bad. But he had a weak heart—for a professional athlete. Rachel giggled. I felt a twinge of apprehension convulse my body with gut wrenching spasms. Dentist: Easy there. We don’t want you hurting yourself; that’s my job! Ha! Ha! A sense of humor: that’s not as reassuring in a homicidal maniac as you might think. But, it was just five bucks. I opened wide—to scream for help. Too late. Let the dentisting begin! He plunged a sixteen inch titanium needle into my left tear duct, ripped it into my sinus cavity,  jobbed it through the  roof of my mouth, and finally hammered the spike into a sensitive area in my right jawbone—that stung a little. Then he went to work attempting to prize out my tooth. Dentist: You may feel some slight pressure. A crushing force collapsed the right side of my head. Dentist: This may sting a little. The left side of my face caught fire. The 7 ounces of Novocain’s tenuous grip barely held me back from the gates of hell. Me: I thmell thmoke! Pleathe thtop; I thmell thmoke. Hep! Hep! I ith on thire! He heeded me not, but continued practicing brute dentistry on the timid tusk. Hammers, saws, massive drills and curse words flew through the air. It felt as if I were chomping down on exploding, railroad spikes. His leverage-foot crushed my Adam’s apple, while he strapped razor wire around the hesitant molar. Dentist: Looks like I’m gonna’ have to tractor-pull it out. The assistant sprang gleefully to action. She pulled on the frayed engine rope of the antique wench next to the door and then hauled the end of the steel cable over to the dentist. He attached a clamp and the cable to my balking bicuspid. She cast me a reassuring leer. Here, I attempted to express my concern. Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!! The leather-clad dental demoness went back to the wench and pressed a blood red nail to the start button. Dentist: You might feel a slight tug. My spine twisted up from the bottom—and my left shoe flew off. Here, I was feeling a genuine discomfort. But, it was just five bucks. Dentist turning to his assistant: Wench! You Wench! He nudged me with his elbow to make sure I caught his little word play. I politely replied, “Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!” He then handed me a pen and paper to write with, and asked would I like more Novocain. I wrote: Please turn off the wench, or cave my skull in with that ball-peen hammer hanging on the wall—and put my shoe back on—my foot’s getting cold. Dentist: Turn the wench off?  You misunderstand; this: turns the wench on! The faltering fang fled from my mouth. Jawbone, ganglia, and two foot of spine snapped back into place (more or less). The mechanical wench ground to a halt while the maniacal wench gasped in dental delight. Dentist: Feel better now, don’t ya? I hope my Judge and jury have been to the dentist recently. But, it was only five bucks.