Catherine Carpenter

Prof. Pechet
Expository Writing 11:30
March 25, 2011
The Dentist

I hesitantly tug the giant glass and steel door open. A tarnished bell resonates with a

soft, but shrill ring. The scent of rubber gloves, unpleasant disinfection, and cheap, pine-

scented air freshener washes over me like an ocean wave. The dialogue of some old Disney

cartoon fills the air, the scene glowing from the giant black plasma screen to my right.

Expensive, uncomfortable plastic chairs and old torn couches sit cluttered, waiting for souls

to fill their seats. Clusters of old magazines lie on tiny plastic coffee tables. The dim lighting

from the few, old lamps is offset by the natural light flooding in from the bank of floor to

ceiling windows. An enormous fish tank looms ahead of me filled to the rim with exotic fish,

coral reefs, and tacky figurines clad in diving gear. To my left lies a desk filled with a

computer, thousands of used pens, and mounds of paperwork. Behind the tiny, cluttered

desk sits a receptionist. Brittle, brunette hair pulled taught into a bun, glasses perched

upon her crooked nose, and adorned in mint green scrubs, she smiles at my presence.

Hammering away at her keyboard, she seems to have been expecting me as she motions to

the couches and chairs.

A couple apprehensive patients are already there. They struggle to avert their eyes

from the closed, threatening wooden door that leads to the exam rooms where ominous

high pitched whirring sounds are coming from. Occasionally, a muffled thud, a high-pitched

scream, or erratic wail echoes out from underneath the door. Bells ring when the next

patient, a child, wanders in with their parents, fear imprinted on his face. Suddenly, a
dental hygienist emerges from behind the heavy wooden door. With a cheery disposition,

she calls in patients one by one, “Barrington, Daniel!” or “Mues, Nicole!” Slowly, these

patients rise with a grim look etched upon their face, meander across the room to the

waiting doorway, and venture inside longing to be finished quickly with relatively few

problems.

Glancing around, I notice the grimy, peeling, sea foam green walls. Adorned to the

walls are dramatic “Before/After” photos. They show yellowing, asymmetric teeth in

crimson gums transforming into shimmering pearly white teeth. Surrounding the photos

lie hundreds of tattered newspaper clippings filled with wide tooth grins. Waiting, I can

already feel the taste of the slightly stale, bubblegum flavored latex gloves, the cool hard

metal of the examining instruments. I hear the chilling sounds of the teeth scraping, already

ringing in my ears. I feel the warm, sticky plastic covered vinyl chairs that never seem to

work correctly. I see the blindly bright light that stares into my eyes and the perfect teeth of

my dentist, an ideal advertisement for his practice. Time crawls by slowly like a snail.

Suddenly, the soft footsteps imprinted on the steel-colored carpet are audible. I

quickly glance up. Like an Olympic marathon runner in the final mile, my pulse quickens.

My hands clam up. My legs jitter as if an earthquake has hit me, and only me. I swallow a

boulder sized lump in my throat that had accumulated without my knowledge. Blood

pounds through my head. But even the loud thumping of my pulsing heart cannot block out

the dreaded words that echo out from the colorfully-clad hygienist’s mouth; “Catherine,

Doctors Matthews is ready to see you now.”