There is a reason I have never taken a job at a haunted house. First, the pay sucks and it is hard to get forty hours a week, and I am not the least bit scary. If I raise my voice and growl as I contort my face into a gut wrenching grimace, even small children just giggle and pick their nose. I'm am as frightening as say, Mr. Rodgers. But one time in my life I scared the bejeezus out of one guy.
It was 1990 and I had just gotten out of high school when my mother took me to the dentist before I was too old for her insurance to cover me. The dentist told us that I needed to have my wisdom teeth removed pronto and scheduled me an appointment with the oral surgeon. At first I was delighted, as I thought that an oral surgeon just corrected peoples ability to perform oral sex and I felt that I needed all the help in that department I could get, but no, I was getting teeth yanked.
I was going to go by myself, but my mother went with me, as the surgeon said that I shouldn't drive afterwords. The hot dental assistants rubbed their large bosoms over me as they prepped me for my operation. The gray haired old codger of a surgeon came in and we laughed at some stupid BeeGee's song that was playing on the muzak. He put the mask over my face and asked me to count backwards from one hundred. I made it all the way to ninety-seven and drifted into the world of erotic dreams of a young teenage man who envisioned the dental assistants awakening him with their soft caresses that promised oh so much more.
I came to with a buzzing in my head that was accompanied by a numb pain as if I had been assaulted with a crowbar in the neighborhood of my jaw while I was out. I laughed and giggled as they lead me to an examination table that was wedged at the back of a storage room. This was my first experience with laughing gas. I laid there until they closed the door and left me alone. I stared at the ceiling as it kept spinning in a half circle only to snap back where it belonged, only to start over again. I sat up so I wouldn't be sick and stared at my feet hanging thirty yards from the floor. This was like being spinning kind of drunk but I was stricken with an overwhelming urge to giggle uncontrollably. I had to collect myself. I had to find something to focus on. My gaze wandered about the room and settled on a box of balloons, black ones, and I plucked one up and proceeded to inflate it. I had a hard time blowing it up between bouts of giggles but I managed. What I didn't know was that I was bleeding, a lot. I just thought that my spit glands were working overtime after having my mouth open for so long.
I heard the assistant coming and she was talking to my mother in a very business type tone as she opened the door. I glanced up with a madman's grin as they looked me over and announced that it was time to go. I gurgled my acknowledgement and let go of the balloon. It made three laps of the room spraying blood and saliva everywhere. The assistant was sorry to see such a hot young stud like me get away, but she hid it bravely by gasping in horror at the mess I made.
I remember putting one arm in the sleeve of my trench coat and spinning in circles like a dervish chasing the other sleeve until my mother helped me pull it on. The car ride was a pleasant blur as my mother explained that we were going straight home after a quick stop at the drug store downtown on the square to get my prescriptions filled. She told me to wait in the car and went inside. I sat and let my head loll from side to side until this had lost it's entertainment value. I was overcome with an irresistible urge for a cigarette and I didn't have any. But here was a drug store right in front of me. They would have them.
I got out of the car, closed the door and took a few faltering steps before my progress was halted. I spent three minutes figuring out that I had shut the tail of my trench coat in the door. I tittered as I freed myself. I went inside and hoped that I could walk right up to the counter, make my purchase and leave. Such was not the case. There was a small line of little old ladies ahead of me and by the time it was my turn, my mouth was flooded with blood to the point I couldn't speak and I just had to point and grunt until the startled cashier picked the unfiltered cigarettes I wanted.
I went outside and plopped down on a bench and basked in the late afternoon sunshine as I open the pack. I fished one out and looked up as I was lifting it to my lips. A tall, portly, gray-haired old man was walking past sporting a polo shirt, plaid pants and had the white leather belt and shoes to match. He smiled and said good afternoon. I was about to return his greeting when I realised that my mouth could no longer hold back the flood. I turned and spat on the sidewalk and created a dinner plate sized puddle of blood. I looked him in the eye and wished him a good afternoon through a blood stained smile.
He stiffened. He turned pale. His eyes opened wide and he high-stepped it around the corner two blocks away before I could wipe my chin on my sleeve. I'm sure to this very day he warns his grandchildren about the dangers of smoking and drugs and retells the tale of meeting some wild-eyed madman who spat blood and told him to have a nice day.
I lit my cigarette and laughed to myself until long after the gas wore off.