What’s worse than a toothache? Going to the dentist for a root canal, that’s what. Especially if that dentist is in the Third World. If you like laughing, but hate pain, read my short story: Third World Dentist.
Third World Dentist
I typed The End, clicked Save, and put my latest novel to bed. I got up and stretched, then looked outside. The fierce desert sun was dipping behind the mountains. Jesus. . .what time was it? Seven p.m. already? I’d last eaten at five that morning. No wonder I was starving. With my girlfriend up in the States, I was bacheloring it in Nice Gary’s guest house on the Sea of Cortez. Good for focusing on my book; sucky when it came to meals. I looked in the fridge; saw empty shelves where food should’ve been.
I told my stomach, “Shit. We gotta go to the store.”
My stomach spoke up. “Gimme a break. I’m sick of your sandwiches.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one.”
“So, celebrate finishing the book. Treat me to something tasty.”
“Whattaya got in mind?”
“How about a couple cold ones and some chicken tacos at the beach?”
That did sound good. Just one problem. Nice Gary lived in a funky fishing village called San Feo, and the taco joints were at best sketchy. I needed guidance. Which is why I headed next door with a doobie. As usual, Nice Gary and his drinking buddy Evil Gary were pounding cervezas on the patio.
Nice Gary took a toke while considering taco options. As he passed the joint to Evil Gary, he said, “Don’t eat at Paco’s Tacos unless you want the runs.”
“I don’t.”
Evil Gary said, “In that case, don’t eat at Hilario’s, either.”
Nice Gary nodded. “No shit. Same with Ambrosio’s. Remember the cat scandal?”
Evil Gary laughed. “Which time?”
“Whatever you do,” said Nice Gary, “never go to Rosario’s. . .”
The Garys compared various taco joints; one-upping each other with vile stories of food poisoning. There was one place they hadn’t trashed yet.
“What about that new restaurant on the malecon?”
The malecon was San Feo’s beachfront road, where dozens of taco joints, bars, curio shops, mariachis, and fake jewelry vendors crowded the sidewalk.
“What new restaurant?” asked Nice Gary.
“I think it’s called Loco’s.”
“Loco’s isn’t new.”
“It’s got brand new signs.”
“Nah, they had it closed for a few months ‘cause of the bomb.”
“What bomb?”
“Just a spat,” said Evil Gary.
“Angry customer?”
“No, man, a cartel beef.”
“Really? Over tacos?”
Evil Gary’s shrug seemed to say, “This is Mexico. Get used to it.”
“So, it’s kinda dangerous to eat there?”
“It is if you order the carnitas,” said Nice Gary with a groan. “I ate some three nights ago and I’ve still got the squirts.”
“Better stick with chicken,” suggested Evil Gary.
I planned to take his advice.
Except for the poisonous pork, Loco’s, right on the beach with a sunset view and rock music on the stereo, had a killer ambiance. Even without bombs going off. Even so, the guys refused to join me. But with the munchies kicking in, I threw caution to the wind, hopped on my bike, and pedaled down to Loco’s. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a Tecate Beer chair with a cold Bohemia and a hot chicken taco in front of me. With the sky full of colors and a cooling breeze coming off the ocean, I felt no pain.
A moment later, I felt agony.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Chef Loco.
“I just tasted one of your tacos.”
A dozen potential diners edged away from the taco stand.
Loco told them, “He’s just kidding.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no, I’m not.”
“You only took one bite.”
“That’s all it took.”
“At least quit yelling. You’re costing me business.”
“Quit leaving bones in the chicken and I will.”
Five minutes later, Loco asked, “Still hurts, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I guess that explains the moaning.”
“You oughta be a detective.”
“And you oughta see a dentist.”
“Ya think?”
“Too bad they’re already closed.”
I sighed. After a long ten minutes, the pain subsided to a dull throb. But not till Loco pulled out a bindle of cocaine. “Here, rub some of this on your gums.”
I’d never used it for that purpose before, but I gotta say, it did the trick.
Loco threw in two apology lines (this time for my nose) and a bonus beer.
When he brought a second beer on the house, I said, “Thanks, Loco. That’s thoughtful.”
He shrugged. “Anything to keep you quiet.”
His strategy wasn’t born of mercy, but it worked, and soon I was smiling. With me quiet and his taco stand refilling with unwary customers, Loco was smiling, too.
Fifteen minutes later, I told Loco, “I might as well have one more Bohemia. Maybe it’ll fill me up.”
“You still hungry?”
I gave him a dark look.
“Right. Let me make you another taco.”
I help up my hands. “No fucking way.”
“Don’t worry. This time I’ll take out the bones.”
“Why not every time?”
Loco rolled his eyes. “You want one or not?”
In retrospect, I should’ve known better. But I’d worked through lunch, had limited common sense, and after a strong doobie, the munchies were insistent. Besides, as long as I chewed on the other side of my mouth, I’d be fine.
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“Let’s find out,” said Loco.
Huge mistake. As his restaurant emptied out for a second time, Loco stopped smiling and gave me a hostile look. I gave him one right back.
With all the compassion he could muster, Loco said, “Get the fuck out of here and never come back.”
“Give me the rest of your cocaine and you’ve got a deal.”
_ _ _
I got up the next morning pain-free. Which seemed weird, considering how agonized I’d been twelve hours earlier. With my empty stomach grumbling, I wanted a decent breakfast. At the same time, I was afraid to eat. The smart move? Start with something soft. After looking in the cupboard, I settled for corn flakes. It’s hard to beat soggy corn flakes when it comes to defensive eating. I took a bite and went through the roof. I might as well have munched a cattle prod.
Excruciating pain pulsed in my upper jaw—also, my lower—and I yelled, “Jesus Christ, Loco, how many fucking teeth did you break?”
Loco couldn’t hear me, but I yelled at him anyway.
Nice Gary, who could hear me, shouted from next door, “I told you not to eat there.”
Like that helped.
I got the name of Gary’s dentist. “Dr. Dolor? Seriously?”
“What?”
If Gary spoke Spanish, he wouldn’t have to ask.
I told him, “That means Dr. Pain in English.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
Not what I’d call a good recommendation. Despite Gary’s comment and the doctor’s dubious name, I called at nine sharp. Which gives you an idea of how much I hurt.
When a receptionist answered, I said, “Whew, I’m glad you’re open. I’ve got an emergency.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I have an emergency.”
I was fluent in Spanish, and I was pretty sure appointment and emergency sounded nothing alike.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Mike Good.”
She said, “Mine’s Rosita,” and then. . .nothing.
After a long and awkward pause, I said, “About that emergency. . .”
“Let me check. . . That’s funny; I don’t see it down for today.”
“That’s because it’s an emergency.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Just take my word for it.”
“I don’t think so. What’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure. . .”
“Being unsure isn’t an emergency.” Then, “Why do you keep sighing?”
“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”
“I’m the only one here at the moment.”
I gave it another shot. “I can’t eat anything without extraordinary pain.”
“Try using less salsa.”
“Not that kind of pain. I might’ve lost a filling or something. The point is, I need to see the doctor right away.”
Nothing. Except for heavy breathing and wet noises. Like she was eating raw meat. Or else having sex with it.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Are you still there?” She seemed annoyed.
“Well, yeah. . .”
“Is there something else?”
Wasn’t extraordinary pain enough to get me in the door?
Upping the ante, I said, “Well, I could probably use a cleaning.”
After a deep sigh, you know, to let me know I was putting her out, she said, “Fine.”
“I’m glad you think so. When can I come in?”
“How about next Thursday at. . .”
“I can’t wait till next Thursday. This is urgent.”
“Just how disgusting are your teeth?”
My bad. I’d confused the brainy receptionist with that second option.
“Forget the cleaning for now. Let’s focus on the emergency.”
“The one you’re not sure about?”
I sensed a failure to communicate. And not due to language issues.
“Look, what if I come right now and the doctor squeezes me in before. . .”
“You can come now if you want.”
“Well, good.”
“Not if you expect to see Dr. Dolor.”
“Huh?”
“She won’t be here.”
“Well, what time will she be there?”
“Monday.”
“That’s a day, not a time.”
“You’re smart for a gringo.” I sensed insincerity.
“But. . .it’s only Friday.”
“Yes, but Dr. Dolor is in Guadalajara at the annual dentist convention.”
Annual convention? I considered the odds. After cursing my luck, I asked, “Do you have another dentist you can refer me to?”
“Of course.”
“Thank God.”
“But Dr. Hernandez is also in Guadalajara.” After a moment, she added, “Growling at me won’t help.”
“Sorry, Rosita; I’m a little frustrated. Also, in terrible pain. What am I gonna do?”
“Try not to chew anything.”
“For three more days?”
“That’s the spirit. So, what time next Thursday. . .”
_ _ _
Monday morning at nine, I barged into Dr. Dolor’s office. Behind a desk sat a scowling receptionist. Like she was mad to see me. In her mouth, half a burrito. I looked at her name tag. Rosita. Little Rosie. Little Rosie weighed about 300 pounds.
After complimenting her mustache, I said, “I’m Mike Good, here for my nine o’clock emergency.”
She pointed the remains of the burrito at a couch. “Sandra will be right with you.”
“Who’s Sandra?”
“I am,” said a pretty girl in a white smock. She stood about 4’11”; looked about fourteen. “Come in and have a seat.”
A glass wall separated the outer office from Dr. Dolor’s inner sanctum/torture chamber.
As I walked through the door, I asked, “Where’s Dr. Dolor?”
“Since there was nothing urgent on her schedule, she’s taking an extra day of vacation.”
Nothing urgent? I shot Rosita a look; she shot me the finger.
I smacked my head. “Aw, man. . .”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sandra.
Where would I start?
“No offense, Sandra, but you look kinda young to be a dentist.”
“That’s because I’m still in high school.”
As I took a seat, I asked, “So, why are you here?”
“I’m just interning for my aunt over the summer.”
“You mean, there’s no one here who can fix my tooth?”
“Fix your tooth? Aren’t you here for a cleaning?”
“What? No.”
After checking with Rosita, Sandra said, “That’s what we have you down for.”
I glared through the glass wall at Rosita. She twirled her mustache and glared back.
Sandra said, “I might as well clean them while you’re here.”
“Um, I don’t think so. You touch that tooth and I’ll come out of this chair.”
“Which tooth is bothering you?”
“I don’t know.”
Sandra gave me a look. “How could you not know?”
I sighed. “Maybe you can take a gentle look around and figure it out.”
When she picked up her little mirror and the inevitable pointy thing dentists love to torment us with, I said, “Be careful in there.”
“Open wide.” After a minute or so, she said, “Hmm. . .I don’t see anything.”
“All my teeth are gone? I guess that explains the problem.”
Sandra shook her head. “I don’t see any problems. . .except for your corny sense of humor.”
“Well, something’s wrong in there.”
“What happens if I. . .”
When I came out of the chair, Sandra said, “Good! I think we found the tooth.” Then, pointing at the outer office, “Quit screaming; you’re scaring customers away.”
Same thing Chef Loco said. I recalled his method for silencing me, and turned to extortion. “You want me to quit screaming, give me cocaine.”
Sandra pointed at the door. “Get out before I call the police.”
After a few harsh words with Rosita, which she ignored, I left with an agonized jaw, a major league frown, and an appointment with Dr. Dolor for the following morning. Also, a gnawing hunger. Desperate, I drove home and heated up a can of chicken noodle soup. Nothing much softer than that. Ever so carefully, I tried a spoonful. I was thinking: Yes! Then: Noooo. . .aarrghgh. . .
For dessert, I aimed a whole mess of bad words at Loco, Rosita, and myself.
_ _ _
I was not in a good mood when I entered Dr. Dolor’s office on Tuesday morning.
Dr. Dolor guided me to a chair, and I said, “Thank God you’re back. You gotta help me.”
Dr. Dolor looked me over, then frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“You are too thin.”
“Well, yeah. I haven’t eaten in days.”
She shook her head. “You’ve got to get off the meth.”
“What?”
“You could lose all your teeth.”
“I don’t use meth.”
“No?”
“No. The thing is, I ate at Loco’s Tacos and. . .”
Dr. Dolor cut me off with an understanding nod. “Food poisoning, huh? You should know better than to eat there.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d like to help, but you need a regular doctor.”
When I finished sighing, I explained about the bony taco, the extraordinary pain, and my lengthy crash diet.
Sandra said, “I looked at his teeth yesterday, but. . .” She finished with a shrug, as if I made the whole pain thing up.
I said, “No offense, Sandra, but I think I need a second opinion. You know, from a real dentist.”
Dr. Dolor said, “Well, open wide and I’ll take a look.”
“Wait a second. I need novocaine first.”
“Don’t be silly; I’m just taking a look.”
“Just be careful with that pointy thing.”
“Why do patients always say that?” Then, “Quit screaming.”
In the outer office, Rosita was calming people down, probably telling them I was a notorious wimp. I would’ve argued if not for my low tolerance to pain.
“A little tender?” asked Dr. Dolor, cracking herself up.
“If by tender you mean excruciating. What did you just poke?”
“This tooth right. . .”
More screaming. Two quick shots of novocaine.
When the pain subsided, I said, “Maybe you could just show me on the x-rays.”
Glancing at her now-empty waiting room, Dr. Dolor said, “Good idea.”
She studied the x-rays for a bit, then pointed at a molar.
“See that?”
“See what? There aren’t any fillings in that tooth.”
“No, but that vague shadow right there might be a hairline crack. It’s hard to tell.”
After five minutes of prodding and prying with the pointy thing, she said, “Well, if that tooth wasn’t cracked before, it is now. I’m just not sure how far.”
“Aw, man. . .”
“Heh heh, sorry. Let me see if we can save it.”
She said something to Sandra and a few new tools appeared on her little work table. They looked suspiciously like tiny hammers and chisels. But only because they were.
“What are those for?”
“Just sit back and relax.”
“Relax? In a dentist chair? I’ll need stronger drugs.”
“You’re funny.”
Who was joking? And how could she be so goddamn cheerful when I was so grouchy? And why did Rosita come in and hold me down? When Dr. Dolor buckled the restraints, and forced a bear trap into my mouth, I got a bad feeling.
Assured I was helpless, Dr. Dolor grabbed a hammer and chisel and attacked my tooth. I swear to God, I would’ve bit her if not for the bear trap.
Whack, whack, whack.
“Mmphph. . .”
Whack, whack, whack.
“Mmphph, mmphph. . .”
“Almost done. Oops. . .uh oh.”
“Mmphph?”
“I guess we can’t save that tooth, after all.”
Is that what she’d been trying to do?
She said, “I’ll have to take it out,” and I thought: Fine, get rid of the damn thing. Until she picked up her new tool. “Mmphph?”
“You’re probably wondering why I’m not yanking it out.”
I tried to nod, but Rosita wouldn’t let me.
“Normally I would.” After pausing to giggle, Dr. Dolor said, “But I broke the tooth off while trying to save it. Ironic, no?”
I agreed. “Mmphph.” Then I asked, “Mmphph mmphph?”
“What’s with the little pick axe?”
“Mmphph.”
“I’m going to remove it the old-fashioned way.”
“Mmphph?”
I suspected Rosita had a dark side, what with the choke hold and the chortling. And when the blood started flying, I knew Dr. Dolor did, too.
If you enjoyed Third World Dentist, you’ll love Turning On, and all the books in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure series.
