Later, after letting it fester, she’d say, “Well, tell me. Do you care about anyone else’s feelings? Do you have any respect for me at all?”
Of course I had respect for her. Let’s say the day’s scheduling worked out as planned and we had five cleanings to perform all at once. To minimize wait times, and to maximize my turnaround, I would normally require three if not four dedicated hygienists. But I had Betsy Convoy. Betsy Convoy, with the help of one or two rotating temps, could manage all five chairs. She could X-ray, chart, scale, and polish, tutor each patient in preventive treatment, leave detailed notes for my follow-up exams, and still manage to supervise the staff and oversee the scheduling. Most dentists won’t believe that. But then most dentists have never had a truly great hygienist like Mrs. Convoy.
“Well?” she’d say. “Why aren’t you answering me?”
But most days I would have cheerfully stood by and watched her die. Better her dead, I thought, than being around. I would never have found anyone to replace her, but Betsy Convoy being around, there was the true Calvary. Poor Betsy. She was responsible for our efficiency, our professionalism, and a good portion of our monthly billing. Her internalization of Catholicism and its institutional disappointments suited a dental office perfectly, where guilt was often our last resort for motivating the masses. Handing out a toothbrush to a charity patient, she’d tell that person, “Be faithful in small things.” Who does that? But then, out of nowhere, I’d imagine her getting fucked doggy-style by a muscular African on one of the dental chairs.
“Of course I respect you, Betsy. We couldn’t go on without you.”
Later, at the bar, I’d be the last one to leave, she’d be second to last. She’d say, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “How are you going to get home?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Connie’s gone, dear. She left two hours ago. Come on, let’s get you home.” She’d put me in a cab, she’d say, “Can you handle it from here?” I’d tell her, she’d say, to the cabbie she’d say, “He lives in Brooklyn,” and then I don’t know what.
We’d take a one-off trip somewhere far-flung. I’d fight and fight and say no fucking way, but somehow she’d get me on that plane. We once flew from JFK to New Delhi and from New Delhi to Biju Patnaik and from there took a train fifty kilometers inland, where we walked through the cesspool streets in sweltering heat as limbless beggars crutched behind us issuing soft exhortations. The clinic was little more than two armchairs under a luncheon umbrella. We were stationed right next to the cleft-palate folks. It was enough just to see them at work. I’d say to her, “I can’t believe I let you drag me to this goddamned country.” She’d tell me not to take the Lord’s name in vain. I’d say, “Might not be the best time to demand a show of respect for the Lord. How much respect did the good Lord show these kids?” Pulp necrosis, tongue lesions, goiterlike presentations on account of the abscesses. I could go on. I will go on: stained teeth, fractured teeth, necrotic teeth, teeth growing one behind the other, growing sideways, growing from the roof of the mouth, ulcers, open sores, gingival discharge, dry sockets, trench mouth, incurable caries, and the malnutrition that follows from the impossibility of eating. Those tender infant mouths never stood a chance. A sane person doesn’t stick around in the hopes of making a dent. A sane person takes the next plane home. I stayed for tax reasons, that’s it. A solid write-off. And I liked the roasted lamb. You can’t find lamb that good even in Manhattan. Mrs. Convoy said we were there to do God’s work. “I’m here for the lamb,” I told her. As for God’s work, I said, “Seems like we’re undoing it.” She disagreed. This was the reason we had been put on earth. “Pessimism, skepticism, complaint, and outrage,” I said to her. “That’s why we were put on earth. Unless you were born out here. Then it’s pretty clear your only purpose was to suffer.”
A finished biography appealed to Mrs. Convoy more than a work in progress. All the important men in her life were dead: Christ the Savior, Pope John Paul II, and Dr. Bertram Convoy, also a dentist before a fatal stroke. Betsy was only sixty but had been widowed nineteen years. I always considered her alone, if not chronically lonely. But she was never alone. She was in the tripartite company of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, as well as the irreproachable presence of the Virgin Mother; in fellowship with saints and martyrs; one in spirit with the pope in Rome; deferential to her bishop; confessional to her priest; and friend and comfort to all fellow members of her parish. If the Catholic Church had come under assault for its many sins, inside the church the bonds had never been stronger, and Betsy Convoy needed no one’s sympathy for widowhood, solitude, or the appearances of a barren life. I was convinced she would never die, but if she did, and though her funeral amount to a very modest affair, she was bound for happy reunions in a better world, in the brotherhood of a loving multitude, while her tombstone was still fresh with wreaths of everlastings.
She’d order a book. It was called Stop the Scheduling Madness or The Way of the Zero-Balance Office or The Million Dollar Dentist. This last was written by someone named Barry Hallow. He wasn’t even a dentist. He was a consultant. Here’s a guy fresh out of business school, he’s desperate for a niche, he hears about the chronic problems that plague a dental practice, and he turns himself into an expert. He sits in Phoenix, Arizona, and writes a book. His proven methods can change your practice, your financial health, and even your life expectancy. Most of all, he writes, he can help you achieve happiness. Hey, who doesn’t want that? Anything less than complete happiness is for complete losers, really depressed people, old people losing their eyesight, and child actors who turn out to be weird looking. It wasn’t going to happen here, not with Barry Hallow. “We schedule inefficiently, treat insufficiently, and bill ineffectively,” Mrs. Convoy concluded, in the words of Barry Hallow. I took exception to the claim that we treated insufficiently. “We do not spend enough time,” she countered, “instructing patients on preventive measures, which in the long run would make them healthier.” “Preventive measures don’t pay the bills,” I said. “We’re running a practice here, not a master class.” “I know we’re not running—” “And besides,” I said, “we do in fact spend a hell of a lot of time on preventive measures, relative to other practices, but remember who you’re talking about here, Betsy. Human beings. Lazy, shortsighted knockbacks who you try rousing to brush after four glasses of Merlot on a Wednesday night. Ain’t gonna happen, no matter how much we preach preventive measures every time they deign to remember an appointment and drag themselves in here like children sent to pick up their toys. Just ain’t gonna happen.” “You have a low opinion of humanity,” she’d say, and ignoring her I’d say, “And it’s not like we’re asking much. The hands take care of themselves, the feet more or less take care of themselves. The nostrils require a little attention from time to time, as does the sphincter—that’s about it. A little oral upkeep ain’t a lot to ask in exchange for the good times. The bonobos spend their days picking themselves free of ticks and lice. They could be the bonobos.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’ve gone off the rails again. Just listen to me for one second, will you? Barry Hallow’s methods are proven, and if you just follow the twelve steps he lays out, then he guarantees… I have it written down here somewhere. ‘Take the time. The teeth will shine. And the patient will sign on the dotted line.’ ” “Swell little poesy,” I said. “That clown’s not even a dentist.” “I would like permission to put some of his methods into practice,” she said. “Will it require any more work from any of us?” “It’s likely to require a little more work from some of us, yes.” “Are any of them me?” “It’s likely,” she said. “No chance,” I said.
I kept a deliberately low profile online. No website, no Facebook page. But I’d Google myself, and what came up every time were the same three reviews: the one I wrote, the one I nagged Connie into writing, and the one Anonymous wrote. Don’t think I didn’t know who Anonymous was. I’d given the guy every opportunity to pay me. Fina
lly I engaged a collection agency. I don’t like collection agents any more than you do. Their strategy is to treat you overtly and in more subtle ways like a fucking loser until you’re so demoralized by their condescension and exhausted by their hectoring that you strike a bargain so that in a couple of years you won’t be declined at Macy’s again. Have you ever met a collection agent in a social setting? Of course not. No one has. They all turn into call-center managers or insurance adjusters. So yeah, I get it. But this guy was in to me for eight grand. I did the work. I made it possible—listen: I made it possible for this jerk to resume eating. I was owed cost at the very least. So what does he do? He gets on a payment schedule of twenty bucks a month and then promptly broadcasts his resentment that someone demanded he act honorably by posting a review calling my work shoddy and overpriced. And on top of that, he says I have cave dwellers! I don’t have cave dwellers. I make it a point to inspect my nostrils in the mirror before I go and hover over a patient. It’s common courtesy. But now the world thinks I have cave dwellers. If somebody’s doing a little research on the Internet for a new dentist, are they likely to choose the guy who might gouge them for lousy work while showering them with his cave dwellers? No. But there is no countering, no appeal, no entity to whom I can plead my case to have the post removed. So I’d Google myself every month or so, and when the review from Anonymous came up, as it did without fail every time, I’d curse out loud and feel the victim of an injustice, and Mrs. Convoy would say, “Stop Googling yourself.”
She’d say, “What do you have against other people?” And I’d say, I’d be sitting at the front desk, in one of the swivel chairs at the front desk, doing paperwork or something, and I’d look up from the paperwork, and I’d say, “What do I have against other people? I have nothing against other people.” And she’d say, “You alienate yourself from society.” And I’d say, I’d turn physically in the chair to look at her, and I’d say, “Who alienates himself from society?” “You don’t have a website,” she’d say. “And you refuse to create a Facebook page. You have no online presence. Barry Hallow says—” “And for this I’m being accused of alienating myself from society? Because I don’t have a Facebook page?” “All I’m trying to say is that Barry Hallow encourages everyone to have an online presence. An online presence guarantees more business. It’s proven. That’s all I’m trying to say.” “No, that’s not all you’re trying to say, Betsy,” I’d say. “That’s not at all all you’re trying to say. If it was, you wouldn’t have accused me of alienating myself from society.” “You have misunderstood my intentions,” she’d say. “I think you have willfully misunderstood me.” “I don’t have anything against other people, Betsy. Do I understand other people? No. Most people I don’t understand. What they do mystifies me. They’re out there right now, playing in the fields, boating, whatever. Good for them. You know what, Betsy? I’d love to boat with them. Yeah, let’s boat! Let’s eat shrimp together!” “Jesus Mary and Joseph,” she’d say, “how did we start talking about eating shrimp? I’ll never forgive myself for bringing this up.” “No, don’t walk away, Betsy, let’s hash this out. Do you think I can just willy-nilly without a care in the world go out there and go boating?” “Who said anything about going boating?” she’d say. “Think I can just toss everything aside and go tanning and rock climbing and pick apples and shop for rugs and order salad and put my change in the same place night after night and wash the sheets and listen to U2 and drink Chablis?” “What on earth are you talking about?” she’d say. “I was only trying to convince you to build a website and get on Facebook to improve our billings.” “I have no idea why I can’t do those things,” I’d say, “but I can’t. I want to do them. Those ordinary night-and-weekend things. Holiday things. Vacation things.” “Please stop stepping on my heels,” she’d say. “You know as well as anyone just how small this office is.” “Don’t you know,” I’d say, “how much I’d love to go to a bar and watch a game? Don’t you know how much I’d love a whole bunch of buds, a whole bunch of dude buds hollering ‘yo’ at me when I come through the door, ‘yo’ and ‘mofo’ and ‘beer me’ and ‘hey bro’ and all that, all my best dude buds on barstools drinking beer, watching the game with me?” “I am going inside to tend to a patient now,” she’d say. “I’m afraid we will have to continue this conversation another time.” “I would really like that, Betsy, to cheer and jeer and hoot and root alongside a band of brothers. I would love that. But do you have any idea how much attention you have to pay to a Red Sox game? Even a regular-season Red Sox game?” “I have decided that I am going to stand here and listen to you until you are quite finished,” she’d say, “because I feel I have touched a nerve.” “But just because I choose not to have dude buds, don’t think I don’t worry about what I’m missing out on. Don’t think I’m not haunted knowing that I might be missing out on things that I’d much prefer not to be missing out on. I am haunted, Betsy. You think I alienate myself from society? Of course I alienate myself from society. It’s the only way I know of not being constantly reminded of all the ways I’m alienated from society. That doesn’t mean I have anything against other people. Envy them? Of course. Marvel at them? Constantly. Secretly study them? Every day. I just don’t get any closer to understanding them. And liking something you don’t understand, estranged from it without reason, longing to commune with it—who’d ask for it? I ask you, Betsy—who would ask for it?” “Are you quite finished now?” she’d ask. “This is turning out to be one of the longest ordeals of my life.” “But do you want to know what I don’t understand even more than I don’t understand the boating and the tanning? Reading about the boating and the tanning online! I was already at one remove before the Internet came along. I need another remove? Now I have to spend the time that I’m not doing the thing they’re doing reading about them doing it? Streaming all the clips of them doing it, commenting on how lucky they are to be doing all those things, liking and digging and bookmarking and posting and tweeting all those things, and feeling more disconnected than ever? Where does this idea of greater connection come from? I’ve never in my life felt more disconnected. It’s like how the rich get richer. The connected get more connected while the disconnected get more disconnected. No thanks, man, I can’t do it. The world was a sufficient trial, Betsy, before Facebook.” “I take back my suggestion that you have something against other people,” she’d say, “and I’ll never suggest a website or a Facebook page ever again.”
I was a dentist, not a website. I was a muddle, not a brand. I was a man, not a profile. They wanted to contain my life with a summary of its purchases and preferences, prescription medications, and predictable behaviors. That was not a man. That was an animal in a cage.
She’d say, “When was the last time you attended church?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Never is not an option. Everyone has been to church at least once. Try being honest.” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No one worships a little blue leprechaun. First of all, leprechauns are not blue. Second of all, you know as well as anyone that leprechauns did not make heaven and earth. I see no reason to believe in leprechauns and every reason to believe in God. I see God in the sky and I see God on the street. Can you really sit there and suggest that you do not feel God at work in the world?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “One cannot feel the work of the Big Bang. Why must you always bring up the Big Bang when we’re trying to have a discussion about God?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “But you can’t be good on account of the Big Bang. You can only be good on account of God. Don’t you want to be good?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Metaphysical blackmail my patootie. I want you to answer me. Do you think you’re good?” I’d say yes, I thought I was good. And then she’d say, she’d think about it for a minute, and she’d say, her voice would drop and she’d put her hand on my arm, and she’d say, “But are you well?” she’d say. “Are you well?”
Mrs. Convoy and I joined Connie at the computer station. Sure enough, up o
n-screen was a website for an O’Rourke Dental. So there are two O’Rourke Dentals, I thought at the time, and poor Mrs. Convoy is confused and will be disappointed. Then Connie clicked on the “About” page. There we were, the four of us: Abby Bower, dental assistant; Betsy Convoy, head hygienist; Connie Plotz, office manager; and me, Dr. Paul C. O’Rourke, D.D.S. It wasn’t a second O’Rourke Dental. It was our O’Rourke Dental, my O’Rourke Dental.
“Who did this?” I demanded.
“Not me,” said Connie.
“Not me,” said Betsy.
“Abby?” said Connie.
Abby quickly shook her head.
“Well somebody had to do it,” I said.
They looked at me.
“It certainly wasn’t me,” I said.
“You must have,” said Mrs. Convoy. “Look, there we are.”
We looked back at the screen. There we were.
The picture of Mrs. Convoy on the “About” page of the O’Rourke Dental website was originally a senior-year portrait taken from her 1969 high school yearbook, a black-and-white headshot she found flattering insofar as she did not object to it and one that made her seem, despite a postwar bouffant painfully out-of-date by 1969, young and almost comely. It held absolutely nothing in common with the buzz-cut battle-ax to my immediate right. Abby’s picture was a professional headshot, glossy and airbrushed. Was Abby some kind of actor? How should I know, she never discussed anything with me. The picture made her look glamorous and dramatic—again, nothing at all like her real-life counterpart. Connie had been denied a picture, which upset her unreasonably. She took it as an indication of the disposability of office managers. I said nothing about the fact that no one had ever called her an office manager before. The picture of me was surveillance grade, taken just as I was descending a flight of stairs—specifically, those leading down to the subway stop at Eighty-Sixth and Lex. I looked like a terrorist wanted by the FBI.
To Rise Again at a Decent Hour: A Novel Page 3
