The Manny Diaries, Part Three: Evil Dentists

Manny had been gone for almost seven weeks. We'd spoken to him a couple of times and he sounded just terrible. Mumbling and slurring, he told us that he had "the flu" and that I had really fouled up everything by using his real name.

"You never use that name!" he said, sotto voce.

"Of course, of course," I apologized. "I'll be sure to use your fake name from here on out."

He told us that the place in which he was living was a particular type of hell. He had rented a 6 x 10 room in his friend's apartment and she kept the heat at 90 degrees. He boiled his dinner on the radiator. His landlady forbade him from walking about the apartment in his underwear and so he'd had to purchase a pair of pajamas, which was irritating to him. His landlady also didn't allow him to cook (his one true passion!) and so he was spending bundles of money on takeout meals. He was really sad.

So when he called not long thereafter, sounding sober and cheerful, we were pleased. He announced that he was headed back home, to us, but only briefly. He needed to stop in and fiddle with his possessions. Then he was off to California for a week.

He showed up. He'd gotten a haircut! He looked like a changed man. He launched into cooking with a new fervor. He was overjoyed to see the boys.

"So why are you off to California?" I asked.

"I need to see this dentist," he said. "This criminal dentist who needs to fix my tooth. He's a criminal! He's a Mexican! He's a criminal!"

Manny had visited a crooked dentist while he still lived in CA, and when he woke up from the ether with an aching jaw it was revealed that the dentist had pulled the wrong tooth. The dentist had pulled a perfectly healthy tooth and left the rotten one sitting there.

Evil Dentist Quiz! Which one is the rotten tooth?

"That's like cutting off the wrong leg!" I said. "Do you really want to go back to this man?"

Without tooth insurance, returning to Dr. Nasty-Pliers was the most affordable option. Because the man had pulled the wrong tooth, he'd make good by charging Manny only, say, $350 for pulling the correct tooth. And maybe a bunch more for the implant and a new tooth. So it was cheaper to fly to CA then to see a reliable dentist here in NY.

But Manny was all in a sweat and a dither about the dentist. He couldn't stop talking about him. Every time I came down for a glass of water he'd spring out, perseverating about the "evil dentist," who would surely devise something painful and criminal while he was under the gas.

"Dentists can cause people pain...on purpose!" he said. "Why, this man might do me real harm! Miss Jennifer! Miss Jennifer, do you hear what I am saying? This could be very bad. He might try to kill me."

"Don't go to him!" I counseled. "It's not worth the money saved. He sounds like a terrible man and a worse dentist. I know a nice dentist right here who could help you."

But his ticket was purchased and the hotel booked; no turning back. He asked me to show him how to record a voice memo on his iPhone so he could go into the dentist's office "wired" and record the evil criminal while he (Manny) was out cold. I squawked, "Testing, testing, I am an evil shady dentist!" into his phone and demonstrated how he might stuff it inside his shirt when inside the man's office. I'm sure this was ill-advised and would have gotten him whacked if discovered but I was trying to be helpful.

Then he packed a bag and headed out. He was planning to stay in NYC for the night and would board the plane the next day.

He never made that plane flight.

The Baby Slagmounts Fashion Show

I know you've been waiting for this one, you heartless birthday party haters!

So, my boys usually get their hair cut by a grandfatherly neighbor of ours who works in a barber shop, the real old-fashioned kind with the pole outside and the photos of the Twin Towers on the wall and the containers of Barbicide, or whatever that potion is called that sanitizes the combs. It's very quiet there except for the snip, snip of the scissors and the occasional banter from the Italian regulars. He does a fine job and he charges about 15 bucks for both boys. Then they get their lollies and we go home in a sticky, happy stupor.

It had been a few weeks since we'd been to see our old pal for a haircut, and unfortunately he is open only on Saturdays on the weekends. Our boys badly needed a hair adjustment, but it was a Sunday.

"No problem!" said I. "There is a place in Larchmont Village called SHARKEY'S. It's all about 'cuts for kids.' Let's go there and get the haircuts over with." I felt disloyal trying out Sharkey's, but figured it was a one-time deal anyway.

So we walked into Sharkey's. First of all, the place was a melee (aha!) of noise and visual stimuli. Televisions blared at every haircut station and music pounded ominously from a back "party room." (Who has a birthday party at a hairdresser?)

To add to the disturbing quality of the place, a child in a wheelchair who was there getting her hair cut was barking and groaning in a horrible, nerve-rending fashion. With every guttural scream, her parents would say hopefully: "Ice cream? You want ice cream? Yes, sweetie, you WILL get your ice cream. Now be a good girl." My boys' eyes got big and round as she flailed and howled, and while I'd like to say it was a good exposure for them to the diversity of life it really just wasn't.

While we waited for our haircuts the party guests started to arrive. They were all tiny JonBenet Ramsays of about the age of six, with their twank moms traipsing behind them. (Twink + skank = twank. Yeah, I just coined it. Use it and pay me royalties.) The moms were all unbearably cheesy and wore too much makeup and pranced about in their high heels. The baby slagmounts went into the back room for what I determined from a menu of options at the counter was a "glamour girl birthday party." They were to get hair treatments, dress up in tawdry fashions, and get mini-cures (awww...that's manicures for wiwwy widdle guwls!) "Be a princess for a day!" gushed the flyer at the front desk.

We heard the pulse of disco music, which always scares me in connection with birthday parties. I now have a Pavlovian reaction of terrible fear. I fought my flight impulse and decided I would venture to the back room under pretext of using the bathroom. On the way, I saw one of the twank moms collaring her young JonBenet, who had had the audacity to have paid for a creepy mechanical ride that was like a mini ferris wheel, taking her around and around and no doubt about to strangle her by her feather boa a la Isadora Duncan. (Who has a birthday party at a hairdresser that has a crusty-looking "ride" in the back room?)

"Jordan Taylor!" she shrilled. "They are about to have the fashion show and take the photos and you are going to MISS IT. Get in there RIGHT NOW, young lady!"

In the back room, the little girls were prancing about on a stage with lights blazing. A bunch of sundamaged and over-jeweled grannies were oohing and aahing appreciatively, while the moms applauded and snapped photos. All the girls looked like they were auditioning for the role of Wonder Slut 2008. I tried not to stare as I darted into the bathroom.

One girl who was evidently younger than the rest--she looked about four--refused to take part in the shenanigans. Her exasperated mother dragged her out while talking a mile a minute on her cell phone: "She won't do ANYTHING. She won't dress up, she won't get her hair done. We're just going to LEAVE. Well, what do YOU suggest I do?!"

I thought of offering a suggestion, but I still have to live in this town. Although I'm sure that most of these moms were bussed in from a friendly little place down the line called HELL. They sure didn't look like local moms.

Meanwhile, the boys had been patiently succumbing to their haircuts--the stylist was actually quite friendly. They sat in a chair built like a big jeep and zoned out to Elmo's World while the music from the back room blasted. In addition to the candy-colored experience of the chairs, the TVs, and the decor, the store was absolutely filled from floor to ceiling with things for sale. Puzzles, toys, gadgets, hair goop, hair sprays, jewelry, headbands, nail polish, rubber animals, feather boas. Just navigating through the place was an exhausting experience, and I'm sure worse for mothers whose wee slagmounts tug on their arms and beg for mom to buy them STUFF.

In the end, the boys' haircuts cost $56, including a tip.