Day 162: The Dentist

I know “everyone’s shit is all emotional right now” (President Camacho, Idiocracy), what with 4,000 COVID deaths a day in the U.S. and the storming of the Capitol by Trump’s henchmen. Keep calm: Biden's inauguration is only a few days away and there definitely won’t be any violence. The progressive, anti-Trump, Black Lives Matter-supporting police have everything under control.

Israel, a country of 10 million, is nearing 10,000 daily COVID cases, and we are currently in the second week of a hard lockdown with schools shuttered and travel banned. In a couple of months, there will be another national election, the fourth in two years. But fear not: Israel has vaccinated 2 million people (yes, 1/5th of its population) and I got my first shot today. My arm is killing me, they kicked me out of the building even though I said I was experiencing an allergic reaction, and I had to pay 10 shekel for parking, but otherwise I think it was worth it.

Amidst all the chaos, desperation, and lack of hope for any type of decent future, I have found meaning in my life: I’m in love.

Yes, I like my children most of the time and, sure, I love my wife, but until my visit to the dentist earlier this week, I never knew what it meant to be in love.

In Israel’s world of socialized medicine, only one cleaning a year is paid for, so I knew it would be a special visit. I left my house around 5:40pm for a 6:00pm appointment. It’s possible I was wearing pajama pants from a former student’s Bar Mitzvah; they’re plaid and they have big holes in the crotch. 

It was a perfect evening: nearly 70 degrees, a slight breeze, and a few clouds in the sky. I walked north to the end of our two-block neighborhood and strolled up a stone staircase towards a busy intersection. I pulled my mask over my nose, crossed the street, and made my way towards the Ramat Aviv mall, which is next to the office building in which my soon-to-be second wife works.

At the entrance, there was a Filipina nurse helping an extremely old Israeli man; I went in front of them because I don’t have a walker. The security guard was a brown-skinned gentleman, likely an immigrant from Ethiopia. I scanned my temperature, took the elevator to the 13th floor, and entered the dentist’s office. After some awkward English-Hebrew exchanges with the three ladies at the front desk, I was invited back to Room 1, the Room of Destiny.

There she was: 55-ish years old, dyed blonde hair, slightly overweight, white Reebok walking shoes, a mask, a face-guard, gloves, and a smock. Perfection.

I laid down in the chair and looked up at the face-down TV hanging from the ceiling. I couldn’t understand most of what I was watching and felt guilty for not giving my soulmate my undivided attention, so I refocused.

As she was about to begin, it occurred to me to ask if I should take off my glasses, but I hesitated because I couldn’t remember if the word for glasses was mishkafayim (glasses) or michnasayim (pants). I didn’t want to make that mistake and make her feel uncomfortable; I wanted to let things unfold naturally.

So I motioned to my glasses and said, “Im o bli zeh?” (With or without these?). She shrugged, indicating it didn’t matter one way or the other. 30 seconds later, she ripped them off my face with one hand and tossed them on the table. It was somewhere between romantic and aggressive. Or both.

In Hebrew, she told me to open my mouth, but I momentarily forgot what liftoach meant. She said it again. I opened. Over the next ten minutes, she commanded me numerous times to liftoach (open) or lizgor (close). Sometimes I got confused, and she yelled at me, “Takshiv!” (Listen!). It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

My dentist in America uses a manual scraper to clean my teeth; this hygienist used a rapidly vibrating, electric scraper which violently shoots water. She cleaned my teeth with reckless abandon, paying no attention to my receding gums, exposed nerves, and painful grimaces. 

I noticed she spoke Hebrew with a Russian accent. Her adverse experiences under the Soviet regime had clearly hardened her. She was a strong woman who demanded strength from others. She patted me on the chest a couple of times as if to say, “Suck it up, you little American bitch.”

The water from the tool she used squirted all over my face. She never offered me a towel. She unapologetically yanked my neck from one side to the other. She demanded I pay extra for a fluoride treatment. She barely said goodbye.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know if she’s vaccinated. But I know that very soon I will mysteriously need a root canal so I can return to her place of work and once again experience something between Little Shop of Horrors and grand masochism.

We’re never moving back.