Knocked out a filling earlier this week. One bad coughing fit and it popped right out of me, like a pimento from a Spanish olive. I held it in my hand, tiny and jagged in the crease of my palm, and stared. This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen. This kind of thing is wrong. This kind of thing has leprous connotations.
My roommate leans over to see, and laughs. He slaps me on the shoulder with a hearty, "That would be a filling." Thank you, dear friend, your amusement is utterly un-infectious. Infections. Oh god, there's a hole in my head that leads directly to a nerve. I'm not insured, so I make an appointment with NYU Dental School.
As I lie there with small fingers crammed into my mouth, clumsy with inexperience, I list Proust titles in my head to keep from biting down. His bedside manner includes multiple uses of the word "Um", pun-based-humor, and notably minty breath. He and his assistant gossip openly about fellow students, one of whom I must have seen pass in the waiting room; the tall strutting lab coat followed by several nurses and a cloud of self tanner. The other DDS candidates part to let him pass, avert their gazes and speak in murmurs. He's a fucking dental rock star. Baffling.
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