I’ve been going to Dr. Lin since I was four years old, and for the last 30 years, she has always played 94.7 The Wave. Yes, that’s a smooth jazz station. Smooth jazz is a broad term here — they play plenty of R&B, neo-soul, and trip-hop. I wouldn’t have it any other way. When I outgrew the thrills of dozens of old Highlights magazines, Zoobooks, and a fading Patrick Nagel poster, I was finally able to soak in the sultry delights of “Mercy Mercy Me,” “Forget Me Nots,” and, of course, “Smooth Operator.”
With her hands in my mouth and sophisti-pop in my ears, she asks me questions about life, career, and family. She interrupts me halfway through my gagged answer to inform me of the unthinkable: she found two cavities in my back molars. I can’t believe it — I made it to 37 and have never had a cavity. I did get a root canal once from doing too much blow, but never a cavity.
In times like this, I remind myself of the importance of keeping things in perspective: Dr. Lin is one of the few constants in my disappointing life. She’s shown more interest in me than any of my exes and even my current girlfriend. With my hometown of Los Angeles rapidly changing into a sterilized dystopia filled with luxury apartments with all the charm of urgent cares, Dr. Lin’s office is a vortex undefiled by gentrification. Dr. Lin won’t be around forever, so despite these oral bumps in the road, listening to “When Am I Going to Make a Living?” while she fills the holes in my teeth is one of the simple pleasures I can afford myself in these bleak times.
This experience alone has forced me to adopt an optimist’s point of view on life. She drills and drills while “Why Can’t We Live Together” plays. Two tracks from Diamond Life back to back ain’t nothing to sneeze at. I ruminate on how my favorite childhood deli burned down and is about to be rebuilt as a combo Tesla-branded, take-out-only sando shop, but then I hear “Cherry Pie.” She hits a nerve, but I am having an out-of-body experience, damn it.
Dr. Lin asks me what my dad has been up to since he retired, and since it’s no simple answer, I decide to just pretend I didn’t hear her to avoid a bloody tongue. Instead, I ponder the lyrics: “Everybody wants to live, everybody wants to be together… no matter, no matter what color, you’re still my brother…” — and realize I just need to play this song for my girlfriend and she’ll stop arguing with me. Thank you, Sade.
