In the early spring of 1968, I patiently waited for graduation from Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara California . At twenty-six years old I looked forward to starting a new career in photography.  But, just before the celebration I was brought to my knees with pain from deep inside my jaw. There was something desperately wrong with a tooth and I had to find some relief. Dentists have never been my favorite people, but the magnitude of this pain soon drove to me to the local yellow pages. Under ‘Dentist and Oral Surgeons’ I found a listing for a doctor in my neighborhood. The phone was quickly in my hand as I called a Dr. D. Bumstead to make an appointment for that very afternoon.   

         At this time my mind never gave a thought to this doctor’s name. Maybe it was all that pain or maybe I had other things on my mind. In any event, his name didn’t set off any alarms.

On one side of the room was a glass window with a small chrome bell and sign that said ‘check-in.’ Ringing the bell a blonde-haired nurse soon appeared on the other side of the glass with clipboard in hand. With my jaw throbbing, I soon had my registration form filled out and handed back to the nurse. 
         “Have a seat,” she said smiling, “and I’ll call you when the doctor is available.”
Taking a seat in the vacant waiting room I prayed for relief and wondered at the blank and bleak walls. A few minutes later, the door next to the window opened and out walked the same nurse.
         She gazed upon the empty room, moving her head left and right, and then shouted, “Brian Ratty…is there a Brian Ratty here?”
         Slowly I stood with a queer look on my painful face as she repeated this strange shout for a second time.

Soon I was seated in a dentist chair in a small examining room. From where I rested, I could look down a short hall to see another small room at the other end with an empty chair. On both sides of this hall were closed doors. Moment’s later, out of one of these doors an older doctor appeared dress in a starched white smock. He had funny looking hair and moved with a waddle. As he shuffled into my examining room, he tripped over his work-stool and fell directly across my lap with a thud. Embarrassed, he quickly got to his feet and straightened his outfit.
          Grunting a few times he stammered, “hum…let’s get some x-rays.”

After the films were taken, his nurse took them into the darkroom to process. As we waited, the doctor noticed from my registration form that I went to Brooks Institute of Photography.
            “You’re a photographer!” he said with glee, “That’s my hobby. Let me show you my work.”

Returning from his office he had stack of view sheets for 35mm slides. And what pictures they were! All of his images were of dead and rotting teeth and gums. With great pride he pointed out his lighting techniques and exposure control. Then he got out his camera case to show me his equipment. All this time my pain grew deeper and my mind focused only on fear. Finally I heard the bell from the darkroom and knew his x-rays were ready. Thank God! 

When he returned with the films, they were still wet and inside a stainless steel processing holder. Holding them up to his examining light, so we could both see them, the chemicals dripped all over my lap.
            “Impacted wisdom tooth… just as I thought,” he said looking at the x-rays. Then turning to me, with a manic look on his face, he continued, “Let’s take all four of them out and I’ll setup my camera to document the procedure.”
            That’s when his name hit me like a freight train… D. Bumsted! I couldn’t get out of that office fast enough! My teeth weren’t modeling for his gum shots and I’d tough out the pain until I could see my family dentist. After Graduation it was a long drive back to my hometown of Portland Oregon. But, D. Bumsted would never lay a scalpel on me! 

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