It cost me seven hundred bucks.
And though I can’t say that I remember the entirety of the experience (HERE’S TO EXPERIENTIAL BLACKOUTS!), I can say with abject certainty that the whole thing fucking sucked. Sure, the removal of the tooth was the right move as the thing was viciously infected and said infection had had me vibrating pitiful and inarticulate on the couch with a pound of ice on my face for days but we’re not talking about right here, we’re talking about Xmas. We’re talking bacchanalian pleasantries and TBS dreams of Red Ryder defensive measures and reheated meat pie and blue home movies. We’re AT LEAST talking some fucking nitrous oxide to help me ignore the fact that the man with the vice, drills, pliers, et al. in my mouth (which I’m pretty sure he rinsed off in the sink after he broke to take a piss mid procedure) was engaged in such a chop shop job that people in the “waiting room” (his place of operation being an Orthodox family’s renovated garage) heard him say ‘Wow. That really is a lot of blood’ before informing me that I would need a bone graft or my ‘structure might collapse’ (whatever that means) or a Percocet script to help me get through the next three days without cigarettes or alcohol or anything to eat easily other than mashed potatoes, butter and chicken stock on top of ‘the expected oozing’ and panic that invariably sets in when your last vaguely functional molar’s been replaced with a half inch gash that still hasn’t closed too many weeks after the fact.
But he wasn’t. All he was talking was three shots of Novocaine (one of which missed and went straight in my tongue) and two Ibuprofen with one Tylenol every four hours or so, as needed.
Listen to Blacklisters.