The Old Number Twelve

They took a tooth from head today at 1:27 p.m. The number twelve tooth. An upper bicuspid partially broken off while eating a crab roll in San Francisco. And it was of no comfort to hear the doctor tell me how nice my teeth were with their really long roots.

The appointment took place in the 700 building and I rode the elevator to the eighth floor and entered an office on a corner space, which I would get the corner chair. It was a wonderful view of downtown and the 405 bridges. There was also a very visible Red Lion's head right in front of me from the Red Lion Hotel, lots of people doing lots of work while suspended eight stories up in the building next over, and a nice view of the new tram.

Looking around the room, I noticed that I was in some maxillofacial chop shop, a system of executing pariodontal precision in a timely manner. Hanging on the wall was a computer monitor and all of the appointments were in shifts with mine and three others seated at once. The doctor came in, gave me the novocaine, then went into the next room and numbed them up. Same procedure when it came time to do the work - one room then the next, always leaving a nurse behind to finish up.

My tooth did not come out easily. Must have been those long roots. I even had to re-up on the novocaine after much pulling. The pressure feels exactly like bone pulling away from bone. They stitched me up and gauzed the gap. I checked out, walked to my car and spat at least a half cup of bloody saliva. It bled for the next hour or so.

Making it home I started eating codeine and wrote this.