Defending the Dental Office

In an effort to stem the tide of violence so prevalent in our society today, there appears to be a movement to appeal to the bad guys directly instead of through their lawyers. I notice in my travels about town posted notices on some establishments stating "Bookkeeping materials only within," "The operator has only $4.50 in change," "The manager does not have the combination to the safe. It is on a time lock that will not open until after the turn of the century."

Any perpetrator reading these discouraging messages will mutter "Dang!" then do his perpetrating elsewhere. At least that's the theory. A disappointed crook may well realize that crime is just too frustrating unless you're already rich and seek some other vocation such as CEO of a savings and loan association or a position in the government. On the other hand, those with short fuses may lay waste to the whole shebang; it's too difficult to call.
In planning for the future, which I understand lies ahead, it seems to me that dental offices need to do something more to beef up their security than to sterilize everything in sight. A notice posted on the reception room door advising would-be hit men that all we've got is 500 patient records with outstanding balances and if you want to take a crack at collecting these accounts, good luck! is probably not going to suffice. If a belligerent person shows up at the window demanding something, standard procedure is to offer him an appointment next Thursday at 2:30 p.m. This gives him an opportunity to cool down; but experience has shown that your average crook is not going to take kindly to this ploy, nor will your offer to call 911 to see if he can be taken care of sooner elsewhere placate him. If there is a large caliber gun involved in this discussion, chances are the person confronting you is not a patient. He is either a perpetrator or a salesman.

It is a well-known fact in criminal circles that dental offices have more gold stashed within than can be found at Fort Knox. The explanation that although we have a lot of polyvinyl impression material and a ton of green die stone, we're fresh out of gold bullion, isn't going to be entirely acceptable. Offering him some nice zinc-free amalgam isn't going to wash either.

We used to collect a small amount of gold from patients who were undergoing extractions or replacement of old gold restorations. Economically hip patients nowadays demand even the dust generated from cutting out an old MOD inlay in a bicuspid. "Paid $50 for that back in 1934," they state. "It's mine and I want it!" Right! Now what am I going to do when an AK-47 is pointed at my bald spot and I haven't the baksheesh to buy him off? "Why don't you try my lab man?" seems kind of self-serving, but I haven't ruled it out.

I have rehearsed my reaction to this calamity many times, and the best plan I have come up with is to grab my handpiece and snarl in my best Clint Eastwood imitation, "I've got an SS White 557 and I know how to use it, punk!" In my fantasy, the crook is always convulsed with laughter; and although I am relieved to find he has a sense of humor, he doesn't seem to consider a sample of Fixodent and a new toothbrush as adequate compensation for his trouble. Little does he know that if I could just get him to stand still for three or four hours, I could irradiate him to a cinder with the deadly beams from my powerful dental X-ray.

I have thought that perhaps in addition to enrolling my staff in CPR classes, we should all take up karate or one of those other ritualistic Oriental martial arts disciplines where, after years and years of training, we will be able to bust cement blocks with our foreheads and render our hands useless for anything but preventing our watches from sliding off. This could come in handy if a crook ever breaks into our office and hides behind a cement wall or a pile of lumber.

An even better plan might be to get a really vicious dog to protect our interests. We briefly entertained a menu of Rottweilers, Dobermans and pit bulls but abandoned this option after a consideration of the inadequacies of our toilet facilities.

The really vicious animal I have in mind is the one about the size of a mature hamster, one that always rides on the lap of an elderly lady, both of them driving the big Lincoln. This dog has been groomed by somebody with a perverse sense of humor, wears a diamond-studded collar, has a pink bow between its ears and, as a result, has a massive inferiority complex. It hates everybody. That's the kind of dog that would give footpads and other unscrupulous persons second thoughts about walking off with our unexposed film and glove supplies.

Possibly the best protection of all could be afforded by hiring an unemployed teenager who has spent the past 10 years hanging around mall video arcades during which he has single-handedly annihilated tens of thousands of bad guys, many of whom were from galaxies you've never heard of. Maybe if we promised to keep him supplied with batteries for his Walkman, he could even be trained to take out the trash. Or answer the phone, even if it wasn't for him.