You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!
Dental care on a budget. That’s crazy.
In Dr. Wiggins Part one: You’ll recall that one of my beloved frat brothers had just broken my tooth with a small tree.
Looking like the elephant man, with a lip so swollen, and a tooth so “jacked”, I was in need of serious dental care. The problem? How to get relief on the budget of a Hatian dock worker.
I was a 20 year old USC senior. I had cobwebs in my wallet and no insurance. I did however have a nice tan and I was in rock solid shape. How does that matter in a story about dental care? Keep reading.
I needed a tooth fixed and I needed it quick. I was living at an off campus apartment on Scarff Street. We were the only USC students in the 12 unit building. The rest of the residents were families from the neighborhood, mostly Hispanics, and a few African nationals.
Scarff Street was across Adams, just 2 blocks from campus. But 2 blocks from USC might as well have been a socio-economic light year away for the people on Scarff Street.
More on Scarff Street in the chapters to come, but needles to say, we were known as the crazy white boys at the end apartment over looking the alley and the chop shop gang known as the Harpys.
Our next door neighbors came and went. At this particular time, it was a laconic African Dude who cooked food that stunk so bad I often found myself checking to see if the neighborhood dogs were missing.
I saw him with an ice bag on his tooth one day, so I thought, what the hell, maybe he knows a local dentist.
I banged on his heavy security screen. The inner door opened and I see two white eyes staring at me.
The smell of vinegar and mustard and dead dog floats through the cracks. I want to projectile vomit, but instead I ask the question I need to ask.
“Hey African Dude. Whose that dentist you told me about on Slauson?”
The eyes stare at me intently, trying to steal my soul. I notice a twitch in his hand through the mesh security screen.
I watch a nervous African dude spy me suspiciously. I gaze down to see him holding a revolver quietly by his hip. African dude always carried a revolver. It was protection. It was what it was. On Scarff Street, packing heat could be the difference between getting robbed and keeping your wallet. It could be the different between keeping the Harpy’s (the local street gang) from stealing your car battery. A handgun by your side just meant you were packing like everyone else on this deceptively evil little street.
“Dr. Wiggins,” he said in an accent so thick I have way expected to see a zebra bounce out from behind his couch.
And with that African Dude slammed the door closed. BAM.
“nice talking to you too African Dude,” I said my nose an inch away from the mesh screen.
When in South Central, you do what the locals do. If African dude says go see Dr. Wiggins that was good enough for me.
Monday morning, I was on Vermont avenue somewhere south of MLK blvd. It was pure ghetto filled with liquor stores and check cashing places.
I pulled up to a non descript off color stucco building. Like all the other buildings in this crime scene of a city, it was two stories tall and every portal was equipped with heavy metal security bars. I looked at the piece of paper in my hand and matched it to the address. There was nothing to indicate this was a dentist office.
I got out of my car and made sure that the doors were locked twice.
I walked up to the building’s entrance, passing a man sitting on the sidewalk drinking from a paper bag.
“Dr. Wiggins office?” I said pointing at the building.
The man sputtered something incoherently and pointed at the building mimicking me.
I was getting a bad feel as I walked to the entrance.
The door was heavyilly fortified with metal mesh. The windows had boards in them. The entrance was as inviting as a ballerina with a canker sore.
The sign near the door says: Boxers ring buzzer.
“Boxers,” I mutter aloud.
I think about walking back to my car. Then I run my tongue along the inside of my bridgework. It feels like paper clips and bobby pins. I swallow deeply and decide to push the buzzer.
BUZZZZZZZ.
After a moment there is a static filled woman’s voice that fills the small speaker.
“who dere?”
I feel awkward. “I’m here to see Dr. Wiggins. To get my tooth fixed.”
“You a boxer?” came the reply through the speaker box.
“A boxer?”
What the hell kind of question is that? I think to myself.
“No I’m not a boxer,” I respond.
“whatever.”
BUZZZZZ
I hear the security door unlock. I grab the door and pull it open and walk inside. I let the screen mesh metal slam behind me.
I am standing inside a narrow, dingy stairwell. There are 2 mailboxes on the wall. One of the boxes says: WIGGINS.
“What the ….”
I start walking up the stairs. The walls are lined with photos of boxers from obscure fights and gyms.
I get to the top of the stairs. The 2nd floor is brighter, illuminated by sun light filtering through half a dozen windows. Unlike any dentist office I have ever seen, the 2nd floor is one big open space. There are no walls, no barriers, just a large space, like a dance hall. The waiting room is next to the stairs. I know this because there is a floor rug, complete with chairs and receptionist desk. A black woman is behind the desk and eyes me suspiciously.
“You the boxer?”
“No I’m not a a boxer.”
“You in shape boy. And that busted lip. A white boy seeing doctor Wiggins and all. You sure you ain’t a boxer?”
I smile politely and point to my lip.
“No I just need a dentist.”
“Take a seat,” the receptionist says gruffly. “Dr. Wiggins will be right with you.”
I sit down and look at the magazines on the table before me. Ring Magazine, Boxing Illustrated, and Ebony magazine fill the space.
Since there are no walls, it is easy for my eyes to gaze past the waiting area in the large, open space. In the center of the room, like a boxing ring itself, there is a dental chair and some medical equipment. A young man in his 20’s is getting out of the chair. He is wearing a tank top and he is muscular, angular, like a boxer.
“Thanks Doc,” he says with a heavy Jamaican accent. He grabs his jaw and adjusts it. “I’ll pay you from my purse,” He says heading to the stairs.
An older black man in a white doctor’s coat turns to face the boxer.
“You win and I get 15%,” the older man says.
The boxer flashes a grin that reveals a gold tooth. He eye balls me suspiciously like a shark eye balls a bucket full of chum.
His stare is harder than his body, which is cut like a piece of granite. He nods to me as he heads down the stairs.
“You can see the doctor now,” the receptionist says pointing at the center of the room.
I eye ball the old man and his Frankenstein set up in the middle of this odd office and I feel the flight or fight instinct saturate my adrenal glands.
What the hell am I doing here, I think to myself. I feel my feet pawing at the floor, looking for traction in case the order to run is issued. At the same time, my tongue pushes against the broken glass that doubles for my teeth.
“You a fighter?” the dentist shouts.
If I’m not, I sure should be, I think to myself.
Tomorrow, up close and personal with Dr. Wiggins; boxing dentist extraordinaire.