Tom Kranz

Gripping the armrests with white knuckles, Roderick stared up at the glaring light to the exclusion of all else. His body was tilted back at a 30-degree angle. Submission. The scent of cloves crept into his nostrils, inexplicably familiar in this setting. He allowed his eyes to turn away from the intense light and dart around, searching for other things to fear. He found them, glistening chromium instruments that would soon invade his mouth. He grimaced while recalling images from Marilyn Manson's The Beautiful People video, rife with close-ups of horrifyingly complex metal appliances inserted into pried open jaws. "I hit a deer the other day," said Dr. Willard as he pulled on a pair of Nitrile gloves. "It came out of nowhere. He got lodged in my bumper, and I dragged him until I could pull over." The unwelcome image of a Range Rover slamming into a deer, then dragging the creature along a rural road, came at just the right time to maximize Roderick's anxiety. "Really?" he managed through the plastic suction hook that hung from his mouth. "I pulled off to the shoulder," Willard continued. "I could hear it squealing." Roderick flinched. "I got out to look. It was dark, of course, no streetlights on Route 15." "Of course." "The deer was embedded in my bumper and grill. Blood was gushing from its mouth. And that unearthly scream." Roderick's eyes pivoted to see what Willard was doing. He was preparing a syringe for a shot of novocaine. "I happened to have my gun with me," Willard continued. He looked Roderick in the eye for a moment. "I have a carry permit." Roderick nodded. "I grabbed it out of the center console, then returned to the deer and yanked her out of my front end. She was kicking. I had to be careful not to get nailed in the balls." His eyes, magnified by the thick glasses necessitated by years of staring into open mouths, grew even wider as he described the scene. "It's a 40-caliber Springfield Arms semiautomatic. You know, I've never done anything like that before." He approached Roderick with the business end of the syringe out of sight, that old dentist trick to minimize the anticipation of getting a needle in the gums. It went in smoothly and with only a pinch. Roderick still flinched. After only a few seconds, the needle business was finished. Willard placed the syringe down on his tray. "One shot in the head." He paused, reliving the moment. "Some brains splattered onto the ground. She stopped squealing and moving." He waved both hands as if clearing a space. "Done." He removed his gloves and stepped back. "That'll be numb in a few minutes." He walked out of the exam room and chatted with his assistant. Roderick reached up to tilt the bright light away from his eyes, then settled back into the chair. He closed his eyes and attempted to recreate the deer scene in his mind by replaying Willard's detailed description. He never said how the evening ended. Did he call 911? Did he get the damage to his car repaired? How did he sleep after shooting a deer in the head on the side of the road? Roderick reached into his mouth to touch the gum where he'd received the shot. It wasn't getting numb. The idle chatter between Willard and his assistant could be heard coming from the reception area down the hall. The assistant laughed, then returned to the muffled conversation. A moment later, Willard walked back into the exam room and asked, "Is it getting numb?" "No," Roderick replied. "Ok, Plan B." Willard backed up a step and produced a wrapped mask that would cover Roderick's mouth and nose. "We'll do some nitrous on top of the novocaine." Roderick had experienced nitrous oxide two root canals ago. He had still felt some pain but was less agitated about it. His eyes followed Willard's hands as he adjusted the gas flow, removed the sterile mask from its wrapper, connected the line to the cone valve, and placed it gently on Roderick's face. "Ok?" queried Willard. "Uh-huh," grunted Roderick. He closed his eyes and submitted. The nitrous had a sweetish flavor as it streamed over his tongue, palate, and pharynx. It wasn't unpleasant. He remembered to breathe evenly as he embraced the glow of the exam light against his closed eyelids. He heard Willard's footsteps behind him, then down the hall, then close by again. His sense of time became muddled. He heard a series of clicks and metallic scrapes, probably instruments being prepared for today's procedure. The sound of Willard's breathing grew louder, drawing closer to Roderick's ear. He was mouth-breathing at a quicker-than-normal rate. Roderick crafted a sylvan canvas of serenity behind his closed eyes with the sensation of a cool breeze entering his airway. The vaguely sweet taste and the gentle flow of the nitrous cradled his sensations in a comfortable purgatory. Nothing could hurt him. He sensed a metallic clicking sound closer than ever at his right ear, accompanied by Willard's loud breathing. Tension now gripped the muscles from his shoulders to the base of his skull, pushing the sanguine scene out of his brain and replacing it with free-floating dread. "You know," Willard whispered, "I've never done anything like this before." Roderick heard one more click, then felt cold metal on his right temple. The loud snap of a gunshot jolted him out of his euphoria. He felt the bullet enter his skull, plow through his brain, and exit the left side of his head, taking blood and brain matter with it, splattering against the wall. Roderick was terrified and confused that he was able to see the horror, hear the pop of the gunshot, and smell the expended powder. "No!" he screamed. "Nooo!" He shook his head violently until he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey." Roderick's eyes snapped open. "Hey, hey. Wake up, chief." Roderick caught his breath and violently shook his head to shoo the images away. He was still tilted back 30 degrees. Searing LED light still blinded him. The smell of cloves still permeated. He turned his eyes to face Dr. Willard, who was staring at him with concern through those thick glasses. "You ok?" he asked. Roderick blinked several times and took a deep breath before replying, "Uh, yeah. What happened?" "I extracted your tooth and packed it with antiseptic and cotton. You seemed to have a reaction to the nitrous." "I thought you--" Roderick began. Willard waited for the rest. "Never mind." "Bite down on that cotton for a couple of minutes until the bleeding stops, then I'll cover it up with a temporary." Roderick felt nothing in his mouth. The novocaine had finally kicked in. However, he had a world-class headache. His knuckles were white, and every muscle in his neck and shoulders screamed with tension. "Ok, Doc," he managed through clenched teeth. "Next time, leave the gun at home." Willard removed his glasses and pulled off the Nitrile gloves. He looked at Roderick as though preparing to speak, then simply smiled and said, "See you next time." ###