Dull Pain

Are there two words in the English language that conjure up more dreariness when juxtaposed than the words "root canal"? I came down with a sudden-onset case of ouchytooth yesterday, and today the dentist said I might need root canal, or have a root canal, or be a candidate for root canal or whatever. It's a weird term, frankly. And so very, very uncool. You take James Bond—his medical problems mostly consist of getting shot through the shoulder or whatever. Root canal—phooey. It's like getting your brakes done. It costs money, it's a hassle, but there's something so quotidian and lame about it. It's pain, but it's pain that's sort of stupid and useless. People make great art out of certain kinds of pain—unrequited love comes to mind—but nobody makes great art out of root canal. Nobody even thinks about it unless they have to.

Which I do. At this moment—1:12 a.m.—I sort of wish there were all-night root canal parlors operating in Atlantic City or some other accessible casino town. That's because frankly, the tooth hurts like hell. I just took three aspirin, being fresh out of Demerol and morphine. I hope, but doubt, that the aspirin will do any good. I don't have many viable options at the moment. I could go to an emergency room and throw myself on the mercy of the court, but if they gave morphine or Demerol to every chump who came in holding his hand to his jaw and looking pitiable, they'd never keep any in stock. I think my only other option, if the pain continues or, God forbid, gets worse, is to rustle around in the basement until I find my rubber mallet and hit myself over the head with it. If you read this before the morning and have a better idea, send one in—I'm pretty sure I'm going to be awake.