backforthmenu Excedrin®. “So, what do you do for a living?” “I’m an art director at a skateboard company.” That always sounds dumb coming out of my mouth, but that’s what I do. “Our warehouse is right across the street. Just across Lomita.” I realize then that neither he nor the other two people in the room are listening. They are politely killing time, waiting for my anesthesia to kick in. Super Bowl Sunday 1996 I cracked my left, bottom wisdom tooth in half at Megan’s place. Now, over a year later I’m getting it, and the one bove it, pulled after taking three weeks worth of Excedrin Extra Strength® tablets every three hours. Only after I reach the oral surgeon’s office am I told that I’m not covered by my employer’s insurance. Oh well. I fill out the forms anyway, I’m in too much pain to back out. The nurse slides some paperwork across the counter and I sit down to write. Please circle Yes or No for each of the following questions; 1) Have you ever taken a hallucinogenic? Hmm. Trick question? What if I’m not honest and die from the anesthesia... what if I’m honest and they decide they can’t do me today... I toss around the idea of leaving it blank, but that automatically implies guilt. I toss around he idea of leaving... no... the pain. So I mark the truth and hope they don’t ask me about it. But I’m ready to explain; “I’ve only ever experimented with LSD and Ecstasy. Once each—and that was years ago.” I hand the note back and sit down again to wait, wondering if all the nurses look it over and snicker; “I told you he’d mark that one—look at his goatee, he’s an experimenter!” Once on the table, strapped in, I don’t look at any of the other three people in the room, though in my peripherals I see their blue smocks and hats. Doctor Cordova on my left, two female nurses, or assistants, on my right. I look straight up at the acoustic ceiling and feel the needle prick as I answer his question. Not the usual count-backwards-from-ten fare. This doctor was truly different... he looked like he stepped straight out of a Daniel Clowes’ “8-Ball” comic (Clowsian?). A short,—5’ 2”—second generation Hispanic via... Argentina maybe. His hair perfectly combed and blown into a gray-speckled helmet. His demeanor smooth and his voice as well. While waiting in the stark, light blue “operating” room I look out the window into the parking lot. Gray drop-nose Porsche parked in the corner. His? Wow, this adds a whole new dimension to his personality. He finally comes back in to start, and tells me this is my last chance to leave. Instead of leaving, I ask him where the bathroom is. I must seem nervous. I’m not though, I don’t think. When I get back into the room, I wait, again. Five more minutes. Then, finally, we are all ready. He grabs my arm, rather forcefully, and guides me into the horizontal position. I’m now costing him money. “So, what do you do for a living?” I answer and watch the ceiling begin moving. Then suddenly it stops. I wait. No one is in the room. What the hell? When are they going to get started with this? Then I realize the left side of my mouth fells funny. I poke over there with my tongue. Gauze. Blood. I look over at the clock—it’s 20 minutes later. I sit up. Dizzy. A nurse comes in to guide me to a waiting room. I begin to fell steadier. “Do you have my teeth?” I ask. They give them to me along with a prescription to Vicodin and Penicillin. Vicodin. I remember Adam liked the Vicodin when he had his wisdom teeth pulled—in fact, he and Sal went on a Vicodin binge for a month or so. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Turns out the Vicodin makes me sick. Nauseous and dizzy. I spend the next day in bed unable to eat until I figure I should stop taking the stuff. Back to the Excedrin®. 3/29/97 ELECTRONIC CONTROL CORPORATION Logo on a machine at the dentist’s office