One of my teeth exploded this morning. It hung about for years doing precious nothing. Even so, I protected it from nutty scientists. "Your wisdom teeth serve no purpose, you know. Should I pull them out? It won't hurt very much." Some even offered to do it for free. Just kidding. To which, clever boy, I had a stock reply. "Well, they haven't bothered me so far. And I'd rather keep what I've got, if you don't mind. You know. Mother Nature and all." Ungrateful stump! Now I worry its remnant with my tongue. The tip's started to bleed. And what a useless way to go! Do you think that I was gnawing on a bone when it broke? Dad always encouraged us to do so. "Go on!" he said. "Think of our ancestors. They had bloody strong teeth. And that's because they ate preys whole. Watch. Watch how I pulverize everything, bones and all." But the fact is that I wasn't. The silly tooth broke on a piece of bread of the gummy bear variety. The kind that they bake in the United States and drop on Afghanistan. Why do we call them wisdom teeth anyway? Without stretching imagination, I can see myself lying on an operating chair. My eyes flit or stare. My fingers paw at the plastic cover and my mouth has gaped for hours. Pretty green assistants look at the stump, grin, and go. I figure out why dentists wear masks. But I am at his mercy and I must be polite. "I have a small problem, doctor." He grins, not knowing that I know. He exclaims unnecessarily loud. "Oh! You still have your wisdom teeth? They're useless, you know. This one's got to go out. Can't save it, I'm afraid. Should I extract all four while you're here? I'll do it for free. Just kidding." So, there you have it. I'll rip them out. I'll be bruised and depressed. But I'll make Mother Nature pay because Dad won't admit that he wears dentures these days. (October 2002)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
