I dreamed last night about my dentist.
Okay, it was a nightmare.
Is his Don Mills suite still Zap Central for dentalphobes?
He has a thriving sleep dentistry practice. Or is that had?
What has the pandemic done to him?
Is he okay?
What will happen to me--and all the other geezers whose childhood dentists were sadists from old westerns--if Dr. Dave's office goes dark?
I will do exactly as I did the decade before I found him.
Nothing.
In the nightmare, I drive--as my sister and I do annually--to north-side Metro to find his dental suite is now a Starbucks.
"Sweet Jesus!" I cry, sis hugging me in tears. "Where are our little cups of pills? My knockout IV? We are doomed!"
"They sent me an e-mail," she wails. "They were counting heads!"
I wake up screaming.
Remember Happy Tooth?
He begs kids to brush their teeth.
I curse his chirpy voice.
"Hi kids! I'm Happy Tooth! Don't forget to brush!"
I brushed. My teeth turned against me.
Where did that damn Happy Tooth live?
Not in my mouth.
Mine's a town of troubled loners.
And they're worried sick.
Send your dentist a Christmas card.
Pray it doesn't come back.
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