Buy It, Treat It or Chew It

Back in the Glory Days of dentistry (March 11 and 12, 1969), it was not uncommon for at least one or two salesmen from dental supply companies to appear at my office on a weekly basis. We may laugh at this primitive marketing system now, but in those days it served us well. Most of the knowledge of dentistry we gained after dental school came from these weekly visits, particularly when the supply salesman was accompanied by a manufacturer's representative radiating bon homie and demonstrating the latest in materials and technology. This was before manufacturers smote their collective foreheads with the heels of their hands upon discovering that the proper way to showcase new products was to give seminars and charge admission.

But that was then and this is now. Call an 800 number and a disembodied voice exuding all the warmth of Robbie the Robot suggests that if you want the order department, press 3. Another voice, equally congenial, announces that all the order reps are busy, but if you will hold while they play the entire score from "Phantom of the Opera," your call will be answered in the order in which it was received, possibly even this week.

Those of us who are au courant, of course, order our supplies online. This way, we can eliminate personal contact with any creature, living or electronically generated, and don't have to apologize to anyone for not needing anything this week. The salesman and his samples are gone. I miss him. I'm sorry and it's my fault.

A common phenomenon known to all dentists, but never fully explained by Dear Abby or paranormal researchers, is that of the "phantom toothache" and its relation to the telephone. It works like this: Patient rings the office complaining of a toothache. "Been bothering me all night," he moans. "I need to see the doctor." An appointment is made and one of two things ensues:

1. The patient never shows up for the appointment.

2. The patient does appear, but is embarrassed to confess that the toothache has disappeared. This happens so frequently that at least two independent studies are under way to investigate the relationship of pain, real or perceived, to the physical act of lifting the telephone to make a dental appointment.

We called Professor Vladimir Zoronsky at Duke University, who confirmed that, yes, his department had received a government grant of $800,000 to study the phantom toothache phenomenon.

"Ve round up as many toothache complainers vhat ve can find," he told us. "Zen ve put zem vun at a time in room viz only telephone and tell zem to call zere dentist for appointment. Vun of us highly trained researchers viz a geschtoppenvatch zen records how long before ze toothache disappears."

"And?"

"Ninety-six percent of ze toothaches wanished between 45 seconds and vun hour after lifting ze phone."

"Wanished?"

"Yes!"

"Why do you think this occurs?"

"Ve haven't ze faintest idea," he admitted, "but ve have applied for anodder grant to find out vy I have zo many Vs and Zs in my speech."

Professor Zoronsky concluded that dentists should definitely install a dedicated telephone line connected to an answering machine that will give "phantom appointments." "Zis should solve ze whole furshlugginer problem," he said. "Have a nize day!"

It is curious that America's vast counterculture that has so enthusiastically embraced nearly every toxic substance known to medical science, including Twinkies and Ding-Dongs, has not become addicted to one of the most popular products used by about half of the rest of the world.

I speak of betel nut chewing. Betel nut is prohibited from use or import in Canada, which should make it wildly popular there, but so far the United States seems to have ignored it. Betel nut is not a commercial spinoff of a certain defunct British rock group, but seems to be a product of a thin coconut palm tree called areca.

Chewing these hard nuts is a permanent feature of the cultures of the Pacific, used as casually as a wad of Wrigley's Spearmint in this country. Word is that betel nut chewing is an acquired habit, somewhat more complicated than the more familiar tequila, lime and salt routine favored by enthusiasts in the Western world. A dedicated betel nut chomper, who can easily be identified by his colorful red saliva and Cajun-blackened teeth, will dust his nut with powdered lime and then wrap it in the green betel leaf before giving himself over to the pleasures of the cud.

The nuts are chewed and harvested by millions of people in India, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, the Philippines and American Samoa, who seem to agree that the mild, stimulating results are worth the trouble, even though "it can jangle your nerves a bit."

Betel nut contains a toxic substance, arecoline, which has been linked to esophageal cancer. Just the ticket to entice our subculture, under 30 folks to give it a whirl along with the traditional booze/tobacco/pharmaceutical delights already at their disposal. I pass.