(originally published in The Sparrow's Trombone)
I had an appointment with the dentist of my subconscious, and I drove to his office, imagining vague psychological oral concepts while maneuvering through traffic, the freeway tunnel seeming like a giant mouth about to swallow me.
I arrived at the dentist’s office and sat in the waiting room. There were two other patients in the room. One was thumbing through a copy of ‘Doggie World’ magazine, images of dogs being imprinted upon his subconscious mind. “My pet cocker spaniel appears in my dreams every night, running to and fro in the hallway, chasing my shadow self,” said the patient, whose name was Bill. The other patient in the waiting room sat in a corner chair, curled up into a fetal position, biting his fingernails.
The dental hygienist entered the room, looked at Bill, and announced, “You’re next.”
Bill said, “I have 3 statements:
(1) I want a jar full of silk.
(2) I want to do it doggy-style on the magazine table.
(3) Puppy-dog litmus in the vinyl undercoat of the garment manufacturer!”
The dental hygienist mulled this over, and said, “No, I won’t do it doggy-style with you, but I do have a jar full of silk.”
The administrator at the counter had been watching this, and quickly cut in, “I’m sorry sir, but your insurance does not cover these services, especially the silk.”
Bill seemed disappointed, mumbling, “Well I’ll need to check with my insurance company about this,” and walked out the door, under the administrator’s watchful glare. The hygienist returned to the back, and I continued to wait, reading ‘Cat World’ magazine, enjoying cat images.
After a few minutes, the hygienist reappeared. She uncurled the other waiting room inhabitant from his fetal position and led him back to the dentist. I looked up discreetly from ‘Cat World’ magazine as the dentist said to the patient, “Mr. Floom, your incessant teeth-damaging nail biting can be traced to a Freudian infantile maladaptive oral fixation resulting from unresolved childhood emotional conflicts. However, we can treat this with some drilling into your unconscious mind.” The dentist picked up a drill and studied a diagram in an instruction manual while the hygienist gave Mr. Floom a shot of anesthetic near his temple. The dentist pushed a button on the chair, and restraining straps snapped forward from the armrests to help secure the patient in place. The hygienist then closed the door.
After about 30 minutes, Mr. Floom had a serene look on his face as he was escorted out of the office. “The dentist will see you now,” said the hygienist, and I was led into a dental chair. The dentist announced that he would be pulling out teeth that correlated to psychological issues. One incisor represented money investment problems, and a molar symbolized my sleep difficulties. Another incisor was said to represent deep-seated feelings from childhood and would be the hardest one to pull out, requiring excessive amounts of anesthetic. My gums needed to be scraped to resolve various relationship issues, and a root canal would delve into the deepest psychological core of my behavior.
As the hygienist arranged the scrapers, probes and retractors, images from ‘Cat World’ magazine filled my head, and primal instincts took over. I hissed, meowed, and pounced at the dentist. The hygienist administered a sedative, and I was soon snoring peacefully, dreaming of more cats.
When I woke up, I wanted to make another appointment with the dentist of my subconscious, but the receptionist informed me that it was not up to my conscious mind, and the dentist would make the appointment when the time was right.