My childhood dentist had a basement office. With fake wood panelling on the walls, a massive poster of BJ Birdie holding a toothbrush, and toys of the 80s. I picture his receptionist with blue eyeshadow and hairsprayed bangs; whether this memory is accurate or not, I do not know. I do know with great certainty that the door into his office was located past the furnace room. This is the room of strange noises, thumps and wheezes: terrifying to a child. Deadly, when located next to the dentist.) There was no hygienist in this little outfit. The dentist did everything. He was tall and old-ish and had very bushy eyebrows. When he was leaning over my face, I could see his nose hairs. This was the first time I realized such a thing existed. He was not much for talking. He gave instructions: "Open. Again. Spit. You can rinse now..." And at the end of every visit, he would say the same thing. "Well, there doesn't appear to be any problems, but I'm going to take a...