It’s terrifying for a schizophrenic to undergo dental surgery and face a root canal.

I tried ignoring my aching molar for weeks, believing that if I simply chewed my food on the other side of my mouth, the infection would get swallowed.

Eventually my jaw swelled up like the head of a powerful C.E.O.

I had to face another dentist.

It was scary for me to have to choose between hearing voices again and the unbearable pain causing me to see stars.

It was a lot like waiting to get HIV results.

I remember from my psychosis that dentists were responsible for the implants in my teeth which caused me to pick up transmissions from the NSA inside my mouth.

The pain from infection in my gum line was overwhelming so I called the dental clinic that accepts my not so tasty dental insurance.

I remember being truthful three years ago when filling out the forms in the waiting room to be treated at the tooth factory. "Have you been hospitalized within the last three years?" the long and winding form asked me.

I boldly checked ‘yes’ and in the (Fill Out Only If Marked Yes) space I wrote: ‘Schizophrenia’ in sloppy handwriting.

Everyone knows my spelling is often off and I accidently scribbled ‘Skit on Oprah gave me diarrhea’ or something like that.

"Dr. Nagley will not be in until Friday," the receptionist informed me on Wednesday.

"Oh, my," I said. "I don’t think I’m going to make it until Friday. I’m coming in anyway," I moaned from the corner of my lips over the phone.

A skinny Black girl worked behind the counter at the dental clinic. She wore green eyeshadow and her lips were glossy like an MTV video chick. Her hair was parted on the right side above her deep brown eyes and it was her real hair, I think.

I was embarrassed to have assumed she was white over the phone.

"Oh dear, here we go– a sista," a voice in my head said. "She’s only a receptionist. She can’t throw you out of here when you are seeking medical attention," someone said.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I’m Charlie Taylor. I called a few moments ago. I would really like to see a dentist today," I said while flashing her with the budge on my pie hole.

"Oh dear. Please have a seat Mr. Taylor."

I picked up a copy of ‘Highlights’ from a metal rack. The only other optional reading material in the waiting room was the ‘New York Times’.

A few moments later a flamboyant-queen dentist picked up a chart and called my name.

He led me down a hallway with bright fluorescent lights, similar to the ones they have in psychiatric wards. He swished his ass like a bottom leading me to his private room in the bath house.

He briefly scanned my chart and tapped the top of my teeth on the bottom left side.

"Oh damn, it’s that one," I cried.

"You are going to need a root canal. Our root canal specialist is here today and can see you now," the polite homosexual offered.

"How much is this going to cost? How much of it will my insurance pay for?" I inquired.

"You’ll have to check with the front desk, but first, we need to get you started on antibiotics right away," he said while writing on his little pad.

I waited patiently for the second prescription for the real wonder drug to be written by the gay dentist.

He must have noticed what I was hospitalized for on my Medical History Form and decided not to offer me any mind altering drugs and a pass for codine.

By the time I made it to the font desk, someone else had stolen the slot on the schedule of the root canal specialist.

The very professional receptionist apologized and gave me some good news, "Your co-pay for the root canal is only $20. Come back on Friday to see Dr. Negley, he can likely get you squeezed into the root canal specialist’s schedule then."

I left there without any pain killers.

The antibiotics did not stop the pain. I didn’t sleep for two nights while crying from the extreme agony in my mouth.

I was angry at those who think crazy people should be forced to live through agony because our imaginations cannot be trusted.

"Fucking faggot dentist," I shouted and explained to my lover that the queer dentist was probably afraid to write another pain killing prescription because he writes far too many for his gay party-boy friends.

On Friday I saw Dr. Negley.

"Why didn’t you get your root canal on Wednesday?" he rudely inquired.

I explained the mix- up with the scheduling and batted my puppy dog eyes at him for something to stop the pain.

"Keep taking the antibiotics and make an appointment with Dr. Schwartz. His next opening is on Wednesday," I was medically advised while in pain on Friday.

My only hope was the sista who worked behind the counter at the front desk who had an arm that jingled while answering the phone.

"Look, there is no way in hell I can get by another week like this," I pleaded while hoping she would offer a phone number to a drug dealer in Bedford Stuyvesant.

The receptionist tried making a referral for me. "No, we don’t accept Cigna 5" she was told over and over again.

A Jew with one of those hats without brims interrupted the conversation between the Black girl and I to alert her of a change on his schedule.

"Dr. Schwartz, will you see him?" she asked.

He took one look at me and said, "Yes, of course."

The root canal specialist was not only Jewish but somewhat of a nerd. He reminded me of my best friend Richard from high school with a beard.

"I know how these root canals are. They are horrible things. I work at the V.A. hospital and soldiers wounded in battle say a tooth- ache hurts more than getting shot and injured in war," he explained while walking down the brightly lit hallway to his office all the way in the back.

His office wasn’t as nice as that of the secular dentist down the hall– the ones who wear the hippest of Diesel sneakers and preppie Banana Republic clothing under their short white skirts.

I noticed that the white tiles on the ceiling were brown from a leak above– a gloomy sight for one when that drill is turned on.

Dr. Schwartz talked on and on about politics and how he couldn’t wait for Bush to get out of the White House and I noticed shapes and images of angels and demons on the tarnished tiles above my head.

Outside a thunderstorm roared over Manhattan. I wondered if the dentist's drill was well grounded in case the place got struck by lightening.

It's hard for schizophrenics with tooth aches not to imagine they are God while sitting in dental chairs.

While I was waiting for the novocaine to kick-in I suggested to Dr. Schwartz that Hillary Clinton would likely win the White House. He didn’t tend to agree with me, perhaps because she’s a female, but I was in no condition to piss him off and argue with him.

"Did you see Cast Away, with Tom Hanks?" he asked while giving one more tiny pinch between my cheek and gum.

"Oh, yes."

"Remember that part where he knocks out his tooth with an ice skate he found washed up on the shore?" Dr. Schwartz asked.

I laughed hysterically, like I often do with close friends over an inside joke, because I realized I felt like a cast away the last two nights.

"Tooth pain is no joking matter," the Rabbi like dentist said to me while clamping a dental dam down over my face like a Lesbian heading to a pie eating contest.

I smiled at him and was grateful that our veterans are being treated by men like Dr. Schwartz and closed my eyes while the saint performed a miracle inside my tortured tooth.

"Well, we are done here," he said to me much sooner than what I had expected.

"Do you need anything for that pain or are you one of those brave souls who can bare it?" he asked me while smiling at me.

"Oh no, no, no. I’m a sissy, give me the drugs,"

He laughed at my Tom Hanks joke and gave me what I needed.


The Black chick was smiling at me as I stopped by to give her my $20.

"Thank you so much for what you did for me," I said to her.

"You are welcome, Charlie!" she said to me in a voice as beautiful as Aretha Franklin’s.

I sang "I Knew You Were Waiting for Me," as a thunderstorm ended, the sky parted and the sun came out in Manhattan as I left the dental implant factory with a new canal in the place where the NSA once hid its dental implants.