Is it safe? My trip to the dentist

The list of Nazi villains in motion pictures is long and dubiously distinguished.

In the Honorable Mention category there is Henry Gibson (of Laugh-in fame) and his cheeky turn as the leader of the Illinois Branch of the Nazi party in The Blues Brothers.  You have, also, the Ronald Lacey who’s scorched hand will forever be recalled by Indian Jones fans. 

The runner up prize goes to Christopher Waltz’s Oscar-winning turn as the infamous SS Colonel in Inglourious Basterds.  “Ah, ah, ah!  Wait for the cream!”.  

In the final account, though, the crown goes to Sir Lawrence Olivier for his sinister interpretation of the blood diamond ruffian, Christian Szell in John Schlesinger’s 1975 thriller “Marathon Man”.  Street handle “The White Angel” due to the shock of platinum hair on his pate, the nemesis to Dustin Hoffman’s meddlesome doings dispenses his ire not with the barrel of a gun, but the tip of a dentist’s sickle.  All the while, inquiring to his young victim, “Izzit safe?”

In it’s review of Marathon Man The New York Times noted that Olivier’s take on the Nazi dentist was “. . . too cruel, too evil to be believed and yet memorably credible — frightfully, shudder-inducingly persuasive.”

The legendary thespian’s own opinion on playing part was an insight into the film trends of the time and an acknowledgement of the diabolical nature of his muse.

“The best villains,” Olivier noted, “I think, are the ones that are amusing. I really don’t mind what I play, but this villain is really horrific. They tell me that’s the fashion.” 

For me, the Is-it-safe scene ruined an already lily-livered feeling about going to the dentist.  For quite a long time my phobia of dentists was akin to the fright some of my friends feel about entering a swimming pool (or even a bathing tub) because their mom took them to a Saturday matinee of “Jaws”.  Nicht gut!

I feel really bad for all of the good natured dentists who have prodded and poked my gum line.  There was the cheerful Dr. Lawrence Wong and his able-bodied side kick, Florence who made me spit into the sink as a kid in California.  I was sent home with an environmentally unfriendly balloon, a brand new Big Bird toothbrush, and a pat on the head.

In the mid 1990’s I lived in Washington D.C.  Bleeding edge dentists (pun intended) were adopting a kind of spa-meets-dental office vibe. My dentist, Dr. Sheila Labbate, was on trend, replacing glaring overhead lights with soft-glow lamps.  Low-dub House music that seemed more appropriate for the lobby of the Thomson Hotel on Connecticut Avenue flowed through a wall-mounted Bose speakers.  She even bore a striking resemblance to Marilyn Chambers.  But it was all for not.  Sir Lawrence still gave me the willy’s. 

When I moved back to Japan in 2016 I had a stroke of good luck; my work required me to go to an international dental clinic near to my office.  I postponed the appointment twice, and after some shameful scolding from our local HR Manager I mustered the courage to go.

High atop the Midtown Mori Building, the clinic’s sweeping views of Tokyo, cheerful staff and airy vibe somehow softened fear’s grip on me.  After an uneventful cleaning and “rinsu”, I was escorted to the reception area with a broad and pearly white smile etched across my face.  I had exorcised the demon of my consternation, and I dutifully made an appointment for my next cleaning. 

. . . “and he flossed happily ever after” . . . or so I thought. 

Japan is blessed with an excellent healthcare system.  If you are mortally injured a tidy ambulance crew will come and fetch you in five minutes and forty-five seconds.  You would have time to order a macchiato from the ER’s barista and still beat Singapore’s eight minute wait time.  

In more proactive instances, local ward offices often send along vouchers for a free check ups. It’s a whimsically bureaucratic way of ensuring that the citizenry is in good form.  So it was that one early summer afternoon my dear wife returned home, mail in hand and eyes fixed on me.

I had the sense that something bad was about to happen, the way that pavement wafts of an odd smell before a lightning storm.

“What’s that voucher-looking thing?” I asked, my radar seeking a signal.

“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me,” quipped my wife, laying down a PCC farmers market bag and her sunglasses.  “It is, indeed, a voucher for English-speaking dentists. You get a free check-up.”

“But . . . but I have a dentist,” I explained.d

“Well, it’s free,” she noted.

“A dentist who I really like,” I retorted.

“Well, would you like me to wait on hold with the Ward Office to shamefully cancel it?” she posited, her voice on the cusp of a mild escalation.

At this point it seemed that our conversation was like two kites whipping around in the wind.  There were moments that seemed close, but they never made a communicative connection.  I resolved to lose the battle and win the war.

“Fine.  I’ll go,” I conceded.  “But I’m going to call an audible and cook dinner on the grill tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” my wife rejoined in a typical nonplussed fashion. “The appointment is tomorrow.  Please be on TIME.”

Tomorrow arrived, and I biked in the sweltering Tokyo heat to the office of the Voucher Dentist.  It was housed near our metro stop in a rather gloomy building that looked to be the collective design of a North Korean dictator and a cranky kindergarten pupil.  Upon entering the dingy clinic I noticed that all of the lights were off.  Perhaps an effort to be ecological friendly?

The visual overload was broken by the bark of what seemed like a very fierce and unhappy dog.  It was not the harmless yipping of a Shiba Inu (ubiquitous in these parts), but a more husky and aggressive bay.  I felt as though I had heard it once before . . . coming from a German Shepard.

I never set eyes on my canine nemesis, making the audible encounter more chilling.

“Oh, you’ll have to excuse the dog,” issued a gentle voice from the reception area.  “He’s a bit loud.  We don’t have many patients so I expect he’s happy that you’re here . . . mister . . . bu-ra-un-su-tein . . . is it?”

The receptionist put me back at ease.  She was a short and confident woman somewhere in her early 60s, and she had kind eyes.  I was going to be OK.  After filling out my particulars in triplicate, she pointed to the dentist examination room.

“Please lie back in the chair,” she comported.  “Dr. Voucher will be in shortly.”

The examination room was dark, expansive and strewn with a wide variety of shiny, probing instruments.  Each one was laid meticulously on tidy sheets of medical cloth.  I awkwardly craned my neck up to take in the arsenal of instruments, when suddenly, as if on cue, Dr. Voucher entered his work chamber.  

“Konichiwa,” I said to him. 

“Ah, you can dispense with the Japanese,” he countered.  “I studied at UCLA.”

“How nice.  So you’re a Bruin!” I relayed with a smile.

“A what?” 

Perhaps he had spent all of his time in Westwood hitting the books and not the bleachers of the Wooden Center? 

He abruptly tilted the chair back and fixed great, dry swarbs of cotton into my mouth so as to better inspect me.  

“So, Mr. Brownstein . . . Brownstein . . . that’s an usual name,” he began.  “Where are you from?”

“Ah-e-ii-ga,” I responded.

“Really?” he countered, his timber tinged with incredulity.  “You don’t LOOK American.  Where are you from ORIGINALLY?”

“Ike I ed, Ah-e-ii-ga,” I confirmed, a cold sweat beginning to exude from my clammy epidermis.

“I know you said ‘America’,” Dr. Voucher noted.  “But you seem . . . somehow . . . a bit different.  Rather swarthy for an American, aren’t you?”

At that moment I recognized I was a victim of CRIP . . . Comically Racially Inappropriate Profiling.  Prostrate in the examination chair, I was hapless to do anything but chuckle a bit and pray for the end. 

After the final rinse I promptly filled out my exit paperwork and made for the stairwell and ensuing freedom of daylight.  I was just about to mount my bicycle for the ride home when I was confronted by the receptionist one last time.  

“Bu-ra-un-su-tein-san, you forgot to confirm the date of your next appointment,” she noted with a measure of concern in her voice.

“Let me kindly get back to you on that,” I said.

And so I peddled away to safety . . . the growl of Dr. Voucher’s hound fading into the background.

Epilogue

“It’s not right!” my wife insisted, after hearing about my dental debacle. “What a putz!”

“I’m sure he was just a bit confused,” I addled on, a bit of Stockholm Syndrome kicking in to defend my nemesis.

“Confused my ass!” she exclaimed. “This is such BOO-YA! It’s reprehensible, I’m going to do something about it!” (note to those who aspire to master a foreign tongue; there is fluent level, native level and understanding-the-context-of-BOO-YA-level.)

And with that, my wife picked up the phone and called the Meguro Ward Office Complaints Department. A cheerful Customer Service representative listened patiently as the recounting of my discriminatory case was summarized.

“Kimoto-san, thank you for bringing our attention to this dire misstep. We sincerely apologize for it, and we will duly take it up with Dr. Voucher. I can assure you that action will be taken.”

I felt like my own personal RBG was coming to my defense to mete out justice.

. . . and just like that, the two kites were flying en-sync.