The Sunday Memory Drawer - Going to the Dentist

When I was a kid, perhaps the smartest thing the Mount Vernon, New York public school system initiated was the concept of the green slips. Everybody wanted one. You would be proud to bring it to your teacher once you got one. And it was something you strived to achieve every year.
A test score? Nope. The green slip was your validation that you had, yes, survived another check-up with the dentist. I can still see those green slips in my mind and, to this day, I imagine that I receive another one when I go for my three annual check-ups every year. The green slips got us all into regular and positive dental habits at a very young age. Perhaps the last smart thing that Board of Education ever did.
Of course, the route to my own personal green slip wasn't a simple one. Nobody likes to go to the dentist. I liked it even less. It was a scary place, made even more so by our family dentist, Dr. Reiner.
Okay, he was a nice man. Let's not confuse him with Dr. Caligari. Or Laurence Olivier's character in "Marathon Man." The problem was that Dr. Reiner was old. He looked to be 100. Given that he undoubtedly aged prematurely, his real age was probably closer to 80. Way too old to be playing in my mouth with some electrical apparatus with very sharp points and edges.
Despite his Moses-like demeanor, my family trooped off to Dr. Reiner regularly. Once again, all my relatives were medically myopic. In our tribe, physicians were handed down through generations like old clothing or vintage silverware. You went to somebody because your father went there and his father went there. The only problem is that doctors and dentists can't simply be restored with some spit and polish. Without that painting of Dr. Dorian Gray in the basement, these people all got old. And I was reminded by that every time I saw Dr. Reiner shuffle me into the examining room. An annual visit which was always preceded by my annual question.
"Why do we still go to Dr. Reiner? He's so old."
The standard volley was always returned.
"Because we do. You ask too many questions."
Dire matters were made even more disastrous when you realized where Dr. Reiner's office was. On the second floor of a row of stores on White Plains Road and 237th Street in the Bronx. Outside the window next to the examining chair sat the elevated subway tracks. And a train went by every two minutes.
Dr. Reiner would approach with one of his chosen weapons.
"Open wide, young man."
The sharpest point known to man would enter my oral cavity. And, then, suddenly...
CLACKETY CLACK CLACKETY CLACK SCREECH CLACKETY CLACK SCREECH CLACKETY CLACK.
There goes the 2:15PM Express to Gun Hill Road. Meanwhile, was that warm liquid in my mouth blood? Was that warm liquid in my pants something altogether different?
Imagine going in for eye surgery and your surgeon is Michael J. Fox.
I fantasized my mother getting him to sign the green slip without an examination. Did dentists take bribes? What was Dr. Reiner's price? How could I avoid going into that chamber of horrors? With a tottering old geezer poking around my mouth amidst the greatest cacophony of metal noise since the Industrial Revolution.
And I was one of the lucky ones. I never had any cavities. Still, I didn't even trust his hands with that little circular mirror. But it could have been worse. The rest of my family was always there for some more advanced work.
It's too late to do an official survey but I'm thinking most of my relatives didn't have a complete set of teeth. And nobody would actually hide this fact. They couldn't. When drunk, they would puke up their upper plate into the toilet. Or, like my dad's cousin Helen, lose them while swimming in the Atlantic Ocean.
Over time, I ran across more dentures than ever Efferdent could imagine. My dad's mouth was pristine. Few others were. And, whenever I went to the dentist with my mom, there was always some aunt, uncle, or distant cousin there to have an extraction done by Dr. Reiner. I'd sit quietly looking for the hidden shovel in my Highlights for Children puzzle. Meanwhile, on the other side of Dr. Reiner's dungeon, I'd hear the whirring of a drill. And moans. Lots and lots of moans. I'd pray for some sound to drown it all out.
CLACKETY CLACK CLACKETY CLACK SCREECH CLACKETY CLACK SCREECH CLACKETY CLACK.

Ah! Thank God for the 11:15PM local to Dyre Avenue. Gratefully, my time with Dr. Reiner would come to an end soon. I needed to go to another specialist.You see, I needed braces.To be continued.Dinner last night: Grilled sausage and sauerkraut at Stefan's in Santa Monica. Tasted fine, but the food went through me faster than it went. Sick as a dog two hours later.