The most intimate relationships I’ve had in my life have been with dentists. And I’ve had more of them than I’ve had teeth, from Western New York to Colorado. Unfortunately, they have been one-sided relationships in which I have had little input. They say “open” and I comply.

The doctors do all the talking, and typically they try to keep the conversation light. They pride themselves with being able to do small talk while leaning over my prostrate body with their headlight frying my iris. Sometimes they ask me questions while my mouth full of cotton or tubes (I think there is a bit of a masochistic streak in them, and what I hear, when their stomach is close to my ear, is not so much growling because it’s lunchtime as it is a sardonic giggling). My reply is always some pirate-like variation of “aaargghh.”

But lots of times they get real serious, and sometimes downright ornery. Like when my mouth has been propped open by one of those devices that Anthony Hopkins wore in “Silence of the Lambs” while he was in the cage, and my jaw starts convulsing uncontrollably. Since neither dentists nor their assistants are trained wrestlers who have mastered the art of the headlock, they are forced to take a break, which may last up to two hours, depending on where they go for brunch.

Upon their return, they look at me as if to say, “Oh, you’re still here.” Of course by this time the drugs have worn off, and the dentist gets to do his favorite trick again, which is “numbing” me up. “You’re going to feel a little pinch,” he promises, to which I respond with a spirited AAAAAAARRRRGGGHHHAAA!!!

The dentist’s drills have two purposes. The first is to terrify the patient into submission with the sound it makes. The depth and width of the cavity determines which drill is required. This can range from the deep grinding sound that makes your head shake like a jackhammer, to the super high-pitched whistle of a bit that could deafen a dog in seconds. This is just the prelude to their actual use. Next comes a flurry of nubby fingers in plastic gloves rearranging your mouth and lips like you are Mr. Potatohead. Meanwhile, the assistant keeps rehooking the plastic candy cane tube over your lip and chin as you listen to the slurp and gurgle of sucking saliva.

Despite the physical closeness involved in these intimacies, there can be a sense of loss, of loneliness, even betrayal. I remember having a molar pulled at a special discount practice in Colorado. I might have had an inkling of what was to come, but I decided to ignore the 10-gallon cowboy hat hanging from the ceiling and the rodeo wallpaper with bull riders and bucking broncos.

But since I had already paid for the procedure (I got a discount for paying in cash, and then another discount for paying in c-notes only) I went for it. You might ask, what could be more ominous than a rodeo theme in a dentist’s office? My answer is, being completely ignored! Throughout all the lassoing, bucking and headlocking, neither the dentist nor his assistant seemed to acknowledge a living, breathing, suffering creature strapped in the chair between them. I have to admit, the assistant was pretty hot, but to be stuck in the middle of a conversation that sounded something like verbal foreplay was humiliating beyond the pale.

Part of what makes a relationship intimate is a sense of nostalgia. I remember, as a child in Dr. Musacchio’s office in Fredonia, the set of Highlight magazines there in the waiting room (where I was to be imprisoned for at least an hour). The hidden Pictures part was the best, followed by Goofus and Gallant. In retrospect, the distinctive qualities of those boys helped shape who I am today, which is neither of them. And if I had to choose between them, despite Goofus’ embodiment of all the deadly sins, I would take him over Gallant, who was an obnoxious goody-two-shoes suck-up sycophant.

Years later, as a 15-year-old idiot, I got my front tooth knocked out by two brothers from Dunkirk during a dance at the hub. What followed was 57 years of rue and woe. Not to mention an awareness that 15-year-old girls are not to be trusted!

I remember one time coming home from the dentist with good news: I had only three cavities! This was an 80% improvement over my last check-up. But mother was distracted by my four sisters who were pulling out hunks of each others’ hair trying to be the first one in the bathroom. So I rewarded myself with a mouthful of candy corn I’d stashed away in my room from Halloween.

Musician, writer, house painter Pete Howard lives in Dunkirk. Send comments to odyssmusic20@gmail.com