Every summer, 20,000 interns swarm Washington, D.C.
The busy bees work at nonprofits, senators' offices and law firms; they buzz about on the subway; they share the succulent nectar of happy hour while waiting to jab some stinger into a sweet networking opportunity.
Lucky for me, I live in the D.C. suburbs. Which means, of course, that I worked in the D.C. suburbs. As a dentist's receptionist.
Friends, it may sound a bit less glamorous than city life, but I'll give you the story that will change the way you look at teeth.
As the interns hobnobbed with local celebrities, I was chatting it up with insurance company representatives such as Matt from United and Christy from MetLife. (Yes, it's true: We're on a first-name basis.)
As they metro'd to Dupont and bussed to Georgetown, I was maneuvering Beltway traffic in my '92 Mazda. Mulberry-colored, sideview mirror-cracked, with the paint peeling off? You bet.
As they punched the clock at the senator's office, I was racking up hours at the dentist's office -- a place where, when you think about it, much more important events take place.
On a typical day, I tiptoe in 15 minutes late. Jenny, the hygienist, is already in her room making small talk with the patient. I ease into my chair and suddenly perceive that one of the doctors is sitting at the secondary reception desk behind me. Catching my eye, he throws me back a scowl and asks, "Do you know Jenny hasn't shut up since the minute she walked in here?"
Office politics call for a noncommittal answer.
"Oh, she sure does love to talk!"
Perfect, perfect. My cheerful neutrality saves me from the dreaded office gossip label. But at the same time I've concurred with the assertion, thus avoiding making the Doc angry.
You never want to make Doc angry.
There's one very easy way to do it, though, and that's by being late. Me, I'm exempt, but I'm also not a patient. It's when he's all ready to go for a nice, thorough cleaning (in the dental profession we call it a prophylactic and periodic oral examination for short), and he sits on his rolly chair, waiting eagerly, and five minutes go by, and 10, and 20, and Mr. Zahn or Mrs. Moskovitch is still nowhere in sight. That is when I get on the phone, tearing up every home, office and cellular line, searching for Zahn or Moskovitch but only reaching young Zahn Jr. or Moskovitch Jr. who can't tell me where their mommy or daddy is because they are not supposed to talk to strangers.
"All my life, I am on time!" Doc announces. "I will not put up with this disrespectful behavior any longer. Dismissed!"
Out comes the red pen, on we go to mark "failed appointment" in the permanent record and no one sees Mr. Zahn or Mrs. Moskovitch ever, ever again.
You can really tell a lot about someone's personality against the humbling backdrop of the dentist's chair -- and I am not just talking about whether they are punctuality-challenged or gifted. I'm talking shy, haughty, energetic, despondent, perplexed -- you name it, we've seen it.
Sure, there are confounding factors. The woman who's in for the long overdue, three-hour root canal, for example, has less to be smiling about than the guy who just stopped by for his routine semiannual prophylactic and periodic oral examination.
Then again, some people are just nasty.
The worst are the ones who insist on being called "Doctor." No matter what field their advanced degree is in, these people are apparently plagued with a rare, unfortunate disease that blocks all activity in the modesty gene. Fact: These patients have earned the title of respect. More-to-the-point fact: Most people nowadays go by their first names. Perhaps somewhere between the drilling and the numbing a man proclaims, his words distorted by the metal instruments in his mouth, "You know, what the hay? From now on, it's John."
One day, a particularly special Doctor -- we'll just pick an arbitrary name and call her Dr. Shrew -- phoned the office to schedule her very first appointment with us. Having put another patient on hold to answer her call, I asked, exceedingly politely, if she would mind holding for just one minute.
"Is it going to be one minute or 20?" comes the snippy answer at the other end of the line.
Unfazed, I offer instead to take down her number and return her call as soon as I finished the first one.
During the return call, however, a curious event ensues. As we essay finding a suitable appointment date and time, Dr. Shrew seems to encounter difficulties in operating her electronic data organizer. She proceeds to ask -- without a shred of hesitation -- if I would mind waiting a minute while she "sorts out" her "devices."
What I should say: "Is it going to be one minute or 20?"
But such is my love for dental receptionist-ry that I opt for spineless, not snippy.
"Of course I'll wait!" I exclaim.
If she keeps up this behavior, however, Shrew may just go the way of Zahn and Moskovitch.
Yes, friends: Anger, attitude, scandal -- the wild and even wicked world of dentistry has it all. It's a dirty business indeed, but someone's got to do it.
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