Just Cyd.

Growing up, I always assumed other kids did things the way we did things: eye doctor was in a different county, dentist in a downtown skyscraper, pediatrician in another suburb. Imagine my surprise when I learned that no, not everyone does things like this. Some kids go to the dentist across the street from school, or can walk home from a checkup.

Our eye doctor was in Fairborn, OH, which is in Greene County, very near the Wright Patterson AFB, and the other side of the planet from our home, at least to me as a kid. It's also very near where dad grew up, so I can only guess that this was dad's contribution to our health and wellness. He was also always the one who took us to these appointments, usually in the afternoon; he worked an earlier shift than mom. and given that he was an employee of Generous Motors as we liked to call it, the vision insurance almost certainly through him as well.

Our dentist was in downtown Dayton on Second St in what I remember being called the Hulman Building, but is now called Liberty Tower. At 23 stories high, it was the tallest building in Dayton until a couple years before I was born. Kettering Tower (now Stratacache Tower) overtook it in 1970 but is far more boring to look at, so I never paid it any mind. Liberty Tower is a beautiful art deco building done up with details like brass and marble and all those things from when craftsmanship meant something. I can always pick it out of the skyline by its jagged castle-crown of a top, where all the other buildings are boring rectangles.

I can't remember which floor Dr P's office was on, but I think it was around the 15th. I do remember the awe of walking into the building in the early morning with all of the businessmen in their suits with newspapers and briefcases, and ladies dressed up for work wearing heels and stockings and rushing around. The lobby had a small newsstand in the back left corner which sold all sorts of candy and gum and cigarettes and magazines, and the worker always looked bored to tears and uninterested. The floors were marble, with detectible wear from decades of people traveling the same paths, and the brass details were worn to a dark patina in some spots and still shiny in others. There were 3 elevators, I believe, and in between two of them was the mail drop: so subtle, but so serious, with the US Postal Service in relief in the between the intricate details of the brass. I was never allowed to use the the mail drop - I can still picture The Look for even asking - but once I was lucky enough to see a letter drop from above and into the collection at the bottom. It worked! it really worked!

The elevators were unremarkable except for one thing: the buttons. Oh! the buttons! While I am the button-pusher in the figurative sense, my brother was the button-pusher in the literal sense, and this elevator was just too delicious to pass up. First, you must understand that there are rules for kids. Turns must be taken, and who is next for what should be an Olympic sport for the 12-and-under crowd. I believe the rule was one of us could push the button to summon the elevator, and the other would get to push the button for the floor. Sometimes an adult would beat us to one or both of these, which always took the wind out of our sails - buildings with elevators were so rare! The buttons in this elevator were unlike any others I have ever encountered. Rather than being round buttons, they were about 2" square, and ever so slightly beveled in to a 1" square center with the floor number. The lightest of touch would illuminate the square, so we learned early on not to smash buttons, as this was a much classier ride. On one particular day, I'm sure we were running late, and I'm sure it was winter - the winter visits always stick out in my mind. I want to say my brother was not yet school-age, so maybe 5? That would put me at about age 7, depending on which side of Thanksgiving we were on. The three of us piled into the elevator along with a host of businessmen, and before the doors could even close, my brother turned to the panel to select our floor, but rather than pressing ONE button, he took his little finger and ran it up one column of numbers and then down the other, swiftly illuminating EVERY SINGLE ONE of the 23 floors in the building. I can remember mom wanting to shrink into herself while also resisting the urge to beat my brother within an inch of his life, as now we were making these very important businesspeople late as well. Withering glances all around, as I looked at mom, perplexed, not seeing the issue.

Another visit, probably earlier than button-pushing incident, my brother managed to get out at the wrong floor before mom could grab him, and the doors shut with him on the wrong side. fortunately a few other people got out on that floor and held onto him until we could return to collect him. I mostly remember mom panicking, and possibly my brother crying by the time we found him again, what with strangers grabbing his arm tightly so he didn't vanish further into the abyss.

The office itself was like a different world, so high up! the décor was very early 1960s red and black mod, with boxy furniture in bold pleather, and piles of Highlights! for children on the tables chock full of more subscription cards than actual pages. On the receptionist's desk was a small pasteboard box (cigar box in my mind, covered in patterned paper, but quite possibly something that existed as-is?) that contained little rubber dinosaurs, similar to erasers, but definitely not erasers. These were our prize for completing our visit, but we'd often find ourselves playing with them while mom had her appointment and we were left unsupervised in the waiting room. I won't say we were bad kids, but we were curious and energetic and not what dental office employees wanted to deal with.

All of the glitz and glamour of the building faded when it was time to use the restroom - it was located in the stairwell, between floors. A key was needed to access the restroom, and I often had panic attacks about finding my way back to the correct floor and office. the stairwell was a very institutional grey and lacking every bit of the flourish that the public areas boasted. it was all metal stairs and concrete and pipes and railings. it was like another world, and I often imagined I'd be kidnapped or held hostage in that inner hellscape.

Visits to the dentist were traumatic to me once I started needing fillings. I won't say much more than that because I'm trying to get past it, but when I mentioned to my current dentist Dr K that my childhood dentist was a monster, upon hearing his name, my current dentist confirmed "Yeah, he was known for being a bit rough." I believe professional courtesy prevented Dr K from saying more, but the look he gave me acknowledged my trauma, and he's been a gem ever since. Dr P's office had the old-school dental chairs with attached sink in glorious shades of mint green and orange, and he wore the weird dentist-shirt with the button on one shoulder, and the faux-clerical collar that never made any sense to me. No masks, no gloves, not sure I remember hand-washing, but I do recall his hands were clean and nails neatly trimmed; no brake-fluid stained skin or jagged hangnails here.

Some of the best memories of the dentist are not of the actual dentist, but across the street! Back then, there were department stores on the corners of Second and Main Streets. The Rike's parking garage was directly across the street from the dentist, so that's where we'd park. This parking garage had two main features that we kids adored: a donut counter, and a tight spiral exit. Mom swears that she had no choice but to give in to our badgering, but after appointments, she'd get us each a donut. At the time I didn't think much of it, but how odd is it to have a bakery case or two tucked into the entrance of the stairwell of a parking garage? I mean, captive audience, sure, but I've never seen anything like that anywhere else at the time. Our dental appointments were always in the morning, and always with mom, so with donut in hand, she'd schlep us back out to the western suburbs to school, and then backtrack to work.

Rike's Parking Garage was one of those things I miss about the Dayton of my childhood. Yes, I miss Downtown Dayton Days and taking off school to shop with mom, or getting to shop on my own while she had extensive dental work done (and then laughing my ass off as she tried to smoke a cigarette with most of her mouth numbed with Novocain), but I don't think I ever got to take the wild ride that is the exit spiral of that parking garage. As I said earlier, I mostly remember wintertime appointments. Here is a fantastic photo of that parking garage in all her glory, with that spiral exit and ramp right into traffic. Winters in Ohio meant snow, and back in the late 1970s and early 80s, we DID get snow. snowplowing technology being what it is, there's only so much that can be done for snow that's drifted and collected on those twisty ramps, and even without snow, it was a tight fit, nevermind traffic trying to merge from the floors as you descend.

The incident in question happened in winter, after a big snow. the spiral's surface was grooved to help with traction, but there was no shortage of scrapes and marks along the outside wall to remind drivers that caution was a must. Snow was banked up high against the outer curve, making the turn that much tighter, and our harried mother that much more high-strung. We'd parked higher than normal, meaning a longer than normal descent. We were thrilled! "Faster, mom! go faster!" we screamed at her as she inched her way down, sliding and not always stopping when she commanded the car to do so. She may have screamed back at us, but refused to take her eyes off the road in front of her. The lineup of cars behind us didn't help matters. A Chevy Nova from the late 1960s isn't a huge car - two door, hard top, back seat that'd be prohibitive for mature adults to use - but to mom, the whole thing was too much, a couple of rowdy kids bouncing around the unbelted back seat squealing for death while the rest of the world looked on, dour and disapproving. It's possible there was punishment later, but I'm pretty sure by the time we'd make the trek back out to Trotwood, mom would've been so eager to be rid of us that she'd have filed that away in the box of Things To Stew Over and Blow Up In A Rage At A Later Date. that part happened for sure, many times.

It wasn't until I went to Durham back in April that I got to experience one of these death-spiral parking exits for myself - The Corcoran Street Parking Garage near DPAC has the same type of exit! it's a few floors shorter, but as I pulled out of the garage after Darren's show in April, tired and excited and overwhelmed and hurting, and hit that spiral exit, I suddenly had a much better appreciation for all those times mom told us to shut up.