The Case of Richard Nixon and the Novocaine Curse
The sonic pick whined, faded. My dentist dabbed my cheek, suctioned spit from my mouth and said, “There we are. Go rinse.”
I rinsed. I spat. I listened dutifully to a lecture on flossing. I paid the receptionist, and wandered out into the bright sunshine, feeling rather like Richard Nixon. My cheeks felt heavy-jowled; my lips fat, puffy, the result of the novacaine.
When I got back to the office, my assistant, Marcia, flagged me, and steered me towards one of the board rooms, hissing, “Carver’s taken ill. You need to cover his presentation to the clients.”
“Shit,” I said. It came out like, “Thhhit.” I shook my head. “No can do, Marthia. I’m novacained to the gillth.”
“Do your best,” said Marcia, shoving me into the room to face Trilobyte Systems’ top marketing team.
“Hello, folkth,” I said and launched into Carver’s spiel. Twenty minutes later, I wrapped up.
They stared at me. One gestured subtly to the side of his mouth.
Suspicion dawned…I had been drooling noticeably for the last five minutes.