belmont

by Kyle Cox

It makes sense that they use old dentist offices and hire out-of-work dentists. And as gruesome as you might think it, it makes sense that those out-of-work dentists take the job. How else are they supposed to make a dime these days?

This one seems pleasant, like he could have been my personal dentist at some point. He’s not quite as chatty as Dr. Riggs, but who knows how chatty she would have been under these circumstances. Still, he pats me on the shoulder with his gloved hand as he glances up at the camera over his shoulder.

“Just try to relax. I’m going to put this in for just a minute and then give you a series of shots to numb it.”

“But I am getting gas,” I say.

“Shhh.. Don’t speak.”

He grips my chin and I open my mouth, slow to stop myself, but stop myself I do, just before a word slobbers out. Maybe my last one. This drug, whatever it’s called, makes my mind wander and it makes me slow. I have chosen a full extraction instead of the alternative. I just couldn’t stand to drag it out over several days. Mel, down the street, opted for the “less-intrusive” option, but he had to go on for half a week sounding like an imbecile and mourning his old way of life until that putrid thing finally sloughed off in his wife’s spaghetti. Better to get it over with all at once and get used to my new life. I’ve earned it, after all.

Gas.

Will that really be it? At least I get to pick it, my last word. Most people don’t. But, before the last couple of years, most people didn’t have to spend the rest of their lives second-guessing the last word they picked. Introspective. That’s what I’ll be. I should be more so anyway. What’s the opposite of that? Extrospective? No, that’s not it. Extraspective?

His hairline is receding further than mine but he takes much better care of himself, overall. I have let myself go. Need to get back into exercise. Eat better. Should be easier now, I guess. Less time yacking. This gel tastes like chemicals and it’s running down my throat. I try to swallow just the spit and I nearly gag before I belch and half of it goes down and I sit up.

“Okay, okay. Here.”

He grips my shoulder and his helper puts a suction straw in my mouth. I hack once and then swallow and my throat burns around the edges of what’s numb. I didn’t notice her before. Blonde. Almost pretty but her face is turned down. Not quite like she pities me, more like disgust. I haven’t taken care of myself, of late. My wife wants me to get back in the gym. My last word. Gas? Gas? I start to chuckle to myself. I’m reminded of this joke my dad used to tell me. Tell me. Neither of us will ever tell another joke. Wait, I can think of that joke and tell the dentist, or whatever he is. He has sweat beating on his brow as he sets out his tools on his tray. I remember when dental tools used to come wrapped individually. For safety. But these aren’t tools I’ve seen before anyway.

Oh no. Ice cream. I scream. I chuckle once and then swallow hard and a tear runs down my face and into my ear. Neither will have any place in my life anymore. I’m foggy but if I can just close my mouth and grit my teeth, I’ll be able to focus and remember the joke. Not the joke. I’ll be able to fix this. I can ask them to wait. Let me explain the situation again. Wait. I need to get up. I can’t do this. I’ve changed my mind. I lean forward but they push me back down. I’m restrained. No. No. He slides a rubber wedge into my mouth and blocks my jaw. I try to talk but he comes in with the syringe.

“It’s okay. This is just a local anesthetic. I’ll tell you before we get the gas.”

The gas. Will that be it? I wriggle my tongue to avoid him. It strains and twitches as the syringe approaches my gum. I make a pitiful version of a scream. I must have gotten in the way. But no. It’s lasting longer and my tongue is burning and swelling up. Like it will burst. I glance over and through the light his helper is squeamish as she holds something. My tongue. She has my tongue locked in these long pliers. I can tell that she’s putting an effort into holding it tight but I can’t feel it. I try to pull my head loose, back and forth, but I’m stuck. He puts a palm on my forehead to steady me as he continues to pump the poison into my tongue. My heart is fast and swelling and then it slows and gets heavy. I moan through my nostril as warmth pours through me. I can’t even feel the pressure in my tongue anymore. He pats my shoulder again.

“Okay, we’re going to go ahead and administer the gas and when you wake up, it will all be over.”

No. No. I’m foggy but I need to close my mouth and buy some time to focus. I need to tell the joke. I need to tell them to stop. Convince them that it’ll be okay. I’ll fix it.

He squeezes my shoulder and rubs it with this thumb as he puts the mask over my pried-open jaw. I try to hold my breath but it’s getting pumped into me anyway. I hold out as long as possible. Ten seconds, maybe. The last thing I remember is my heart sinking down my chest and me hoping that I never wake up. He’s saying something but I don’t know what. Dizzy, I finally gasp for air and take in one big breath and breathe out through my nose.

Photo of Kyle Cox

BIO: Kyle Cox is the Editor-in-Chief of The Accent, an Arts & Literary Journal at the University of Science & Arts of Oklahoma. He is finishing up his undergrad in English Literature. He has been a professional sportswriter for nine years and his fiction has been published by Libre Literary Magazine.