牙医诊所：穷人的SPA

刚从牙医办公室里回来。舒服。长叹一声。去一趟牙医诊所，竟然像刚从SPA里出来一样，通体舒泰。

穷人缺的不是钱，是时间。

今天的约会，本来就是Reschedule的。上个月的monthly SPRINT Demo改时间，一改，正好改成我的看牙医时间。我们自觉，改吧，就改到今天。正好今天又是这个SPRINT的最后一天，一大堆活计，却是不能再改了。铁定的牙约Dentist Appointment，给我忙里偷闲提供了足够的借口。

其实我们并不是革命热情高涨，不过一份工作罢了，都不敢叫它Career.问题是Agile/SPRINT这样一搞，我们这种从小就是好学生的好学生，绝对不会让自己考砸了。于是就这样甘当奴隶了。

牙医的病床舒服。有时候倒得过份了点，大部分时候正好适中。先是唧唧呱呱聊几句，等Hygienist一示意开始，便往上面一躺，你就可以闭嘴了（其实嘴张着），什么也不用说，什么也不用想；半躺半坐，半睡半醒，半个小时，也算是偷得浮生半日闲。

对了，reschedule之后，偷得的不是半日闲，而是两个半日闲。今天我自己去了，后天还要带甜瓜和蜜瓜去。改约时，要给三个人都放在一起几乎不可能，于是只好兵分两路。结果这个月的Demo又改时间了，居然就改成了星期四，我还是要Miss掉。又是牙医为上，不能再改了。转念一想，Miss掉又如何，难道从今往后山为棱，海水为竭，地球便不转了不成。:)

甜瓜蜜瓜都是乖瓜，每次来牙医这里都是欢天喜地，倒让我心中嘀咕：难道家里这般糟糕，让娃娃们觉得连上牙医那里去都成了款待。他们每次去，牙医助手们总是甜甜蜜蜜地哄他们，一般洗洗牙也不疼，更重要的是，临走时还让他们去珠宝箱里挑一样小礼物，有一样小礼物就是一张大嘴里两排白牙，后面一只弹簧，拧拧紧后就吧嗒吧嗒地在桌子上跳。

牙医诊所一年访问两次，每次去，牙医的太太要么就怀孕，要么就是刚生一个小宝宝，几年下来，他们都有三个孩子了。我自己的娃娃们也在长大，平时不觉得，去了牙医那里，才又发现，哟，又是半年过去了。

读过EB这首诗，第一次好像还真是就在牙医诊所里读的，Worcester离这里不远，很想知道她当时看的牙医诊所是在哪里：

In the Waiting Room

Elizabeth Bishop

In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.

I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.

Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?

The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.

Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.