Going to the Dentist, 1962

His office was in that old brick building next to Kit Kraft on Ventura Place.  I think that location was home to many doctors, but our dentist, Dr. Pershing, was the only reason we’d visit that building, often with the trepidation of any animal expecting to be slaughtered.

Dr. Pershing was older than Studio City itself. With a wispy mist of hair combed over his head, and thick spectacles, he could pass for anybody’s grandfather. I’m sure he had several of his own. But we were his patients, and that was a different story.

Teresa and I would go in for our regular check-ups, with that weird smell of medicine permeating the office like it does hospitals, mortuaries, and other health-affiliated institutions. Maybe the walls were green, to calm us down, but I don’t remember.

The dental chair faced the window, but it was mottled, so pedestrians couldn’t see inside, nor could we see out.  I’d climb up into the seat, which Dr. Pershing could adjust this way and that, aiming that overhead lamp into my mouth so he could see the remnants of the past years sins more clearly.

Thankfully, my mother didn’t allow us to eat too many sweets. Part of it was due to the economic constraints in our home. She thought it was better to eat nutritious food, than waste money on junk. But it was also because my mother was pretty healthy herself.  She’d been a professional dancer, and always watched her weight.

The cookies in our cupboard were healthy things like Fig Newtons, Ginger Snaps, Toy Cookies, and upon occasion, Sugar Wafers.  No Oreos for us. We got those at our friend’s homes who were better off than we were.

“Open wide!” Dr. Pershing would demand, and thus began the ordeal of keeping your mouth exposed for a good 45 minutes while he poked, prodded, and pulled your lips apart to conduct his investigation.

Upon occasion, I would have a cavity that needed to be filled, punctuated by a shot of Novocain, which made my lips blubber like an elephant seal. Then the whirring would start from that long-armed instrument reaching into my mouth to drill a hole large enough to stuff a load of laundry.

Soon, he’d work his magic with silver, knotting up the hole, and sending me on my way. Maybe he gave me a prize of some sort for being so cooperative before he’d hand my mother the bill.

Over the years, I’ve been pretty diligent with brushing, flossing and getting my regular checkups, and I feel lucky that my teeth have never given me many problems. I hear of my peers moaning about implants, root canals and bridges, and I’m thankful that my teeth have been spared from the construction done at the dental office.

But if you want to talk about knees, that’s another story!