"All right! Stop whatcha doin' cause I'm about to ruin the image and the style that ya used to"

Reclining in the sterile, spiritless, off-white dentist chair – my legs cross at the ankles and my fingers interlace applying a generous amount of pressure into the tops of my hands that try to casually settle on my stomach.

With a basic comprehension of the appointment’s goals, I foolishly had envisioned a relatively simple procedure that inserts a dental implant (resembling a screw) into my gum line; the second step of gaining a new, artificial tooth. Although I had previously experienced the event, I had never been conscious for it. In fact, I didn’t realize it was a “surgery” until I the dental assistant passes me a waiver to sign, ya know, just in case.

I wait and wonder. But, nothing, not my doctor’s playful “boop” sound effects when she shoots me with Novocain nor the rookie assistant watching the process, prepares me for the vibrations and sounds of my dentist sawing into my gum.

Imagine holding a steak knife and attempting to sever a piece of meat that refuses to detach from the bone. You increase the amount of pressure applied to the serrated edge and may create a sharper angle in which the knife attacks the meat. There are strands of flesh refusing to break, but you keep gnawing at it with the blade.

Though I felt no pain, I sensed the phenomenon. The sound of the blade moving back and forth, grinding a bit further into my gums. The vibration of the solid mass resisting the perforated edge. The metallic smell from the fluid I knew was dripping to the back of my throat.

Upon reaching success and breaking the surface mere millimeters, which seemed like miles, she separates the flesh, creating a pocket for the grooved vial. She speaks with her assistant and turns off the funnel, designed to capture any COVID-19 virus particles. The sounds and voices are instantly amplified. The overhead oldies music is not loud enough to drown their sounds and my sanity begins to crumble. I ask for headphones, with none to be found, I beg for them. She assures me no one has them, but opts to restart the funnel. The loud sucking sound is paradise to my ears. I try to become mesmerized like I'm hearing waves crashing on a beach. I listen for patterns or other interesting noises.

A new sensation interrupts my bliss. Vibrations from a grinding device, like a drill, reminds me of the interlude of Digital Underground’s 1990 hit, “The Humpty Dance.” I feel my shoulders bounce, my hips sway as I suddenly hear the lyrics, “Oh, yeah, that's the break, y'all … Let me hear a little bit of that bass groove right here.”

Doo-reer doo-reer.

The vibes from the drill are inescapable as is the whole process. My jaw is searing with a soreness and as I open my eyes, I see bits of foreign instruments maneuver around my mouth in ways I'm not convinced are natural. I close my eyes again certain blood droplets are coating the back of my throat. I refuse to swallow and confirm their presence. Instead, I concentrate on the pressure my fingertips apply to the backs of my hands.

A spinning phenomenon overtakes me. The smell of cut flesh reaches my nostrils: an offending reek of metal and warm dog’s breath. Nausea sets in as well as the onset of a fainting episode.

I open my eyes for the dozenth time and see a nearly clear long piece of what might be floss dangle then settle on my lips. It moves slowly like a snake sneaking up on its prey. Aware of the soft tickling graze of a string across my lips, I close my eyes again, and apply even more pressure on my fingertips. My legs stiffen. My breathing slows.

The enormity of the situation comes to light and I withdraw into myself, feeling my soul give way.

She finishes, pleased with the easiness of the surgery and I wonder, for who?