backforthmenu 25 Baby Jesuses. It’s January. Raining out. I park the car and run into the dentist’s office. The hygienist will be right with me. I sit. The magazines always suck... I pick up an issue of People. It’s not long before they call my name. The seat reclines and lowers my head to a level even with my feet... maybe lower. Feels lower. My elbows rest in comfortable leather slings. “Would you like me to turn on the TV?” The grey monitor is perched in the corner near the ceiling. “No thanks.” “How about a magazine? We’ve got People...” “That’s okay.” “You sure? Well, if you get bored, the magazines are back here.” She’s behind me, I can’t see where she’s pointing.” “Okay. Thanks.” This is quiet time. Rare. Nothing needs to be done in the next few minutes. No one needs me at the moment. The world grinds on outside without me. I fall asleep. “Mr. Jenkins!” I’m awake, I’m awake. “How you doing today? Regular cleaning? You’re late for it.” She says this with a singing tone. I’m always late for it. I am strapped in a dental chair, a slim, middle-aged mother’s hands stuffed into my mouth. She wears a face mask and protective eye gear and picks at my teeth with a sharp instrument. The hygienist remembers me and starts in talking right away. “You have two kids, right?” “Ogh.” “Oh yeah... Emmet. What is he, 4 now?” “Hree agh haah.” “I have a 4-year-old. Well, a 4-year-old and three others. All girls.” I remembered this from my previous visit. “My 4-year-old just had her Christmas pageant at pre-school. She was sooo, excited, because she got to play the Virgin Mary—my first to be the Virgin Mary in the pageant. You know, my three other daughters went through the same Catholic pre-school and none of them ever got to play the Virgin Mary. Then my forth came home one day and gave me the good news... Looks like you’ve got some de-calcification happening up here.” Scrape, scrape. “Does that hurt?” “Noogh.” “The other girls missed out—played shepherds. Your son in pre-school?” “Uhph uh.” Her hands are stuffed in my mouth chipping and scraping away with silver tools. I don’t mind that part (though I’m always waiting for the slip and slice of the gum) it’s the weight she rests on my lower jaw that hurts—but how do I tell her that? “That’s good. Anyhow, she got the part! She was the Virgin Mary in the school Christmas play!” Scrape, pick, chip. I little blood droplet lands on my glasses. “So we go to the Christmas program... and the one thing my daughter failed to tell me was that this year, the school had decided to let anyone who wanted to play their favorite part, play it—so there are TWENTYFIVE VIRGIN MARYS! One of them a BOY!” She doesn’t have an offended tone, but one more of amusement. “I’ve heard of political correctness, but this goes full circle, doesn’t it? I mean, afterwards there was a pile of 25 baby Jesuses in the hall!” 1/15/00