A Caries Nation

Most of us are only dimly aware of the existence and function of the National Institute for Dental Research. Indeed, the machinations of the International Monetary Fund are like a shining beacon of clarity compared to our knowledge of the NIDR. Being dimly aware, as opposed to being totally cognizant, has been found to be a comfort in so many avenues of our daily lives, but in failing to recognize the contributions of this federally funded organization, we do the NIDR a great disservice.

Pure research, to the particular breed of cats that pursues it, does not necessarily have to have a goal. It can take many paths, detour, veer off on seemingly unrelated tangents, and frequently end up back at the proverbial Square One. At the moment, there is a waiting period of more than six months to even register for admittance to Square One, but that's inconsequential. As long as the funding holds out, a serendipitous result could occur at any moment.

A case in point: After six years of exhaustive research by dedicated scientists studying every conceivable facet of pink vulcanite denture material, irrefutable evidence pointed to the fact that it bore no more resemblance to actual human tissue than AstroTurf does to dichondra or Pamela Lee to real women. This conclusion was later confirmed by the Psychic Friends Network under the direction of Dionne Warwick.

Without the people who unselfishly devote their professional lives to pushing the envelope of R & D -- research and development to we laypeople -- we'd still be using one-fluted burs made from pot metal, trying to cope with nondesigner toothbrush handles, and denying the public the benefits of carbamide peroxide.

Not all of the dental research is being performed at the spacious NIDR headquarters in Washington, D.C. Grants are farmed out to projects deemed to be worthy, regardless of their venue. We dropped in to check up on the progress of Dr. Alfredo Schmutz, a reclusive party on the order of Howard Hughes, who conducts his esoteric experiments in an unwindowed, unventilated demolition-bound annex to his garage.

If Dr. Schmutz were to grow a full head of finger-in-the-light-socket hair and lop a full meter off his stature, he would bear a stunning resemblance to Albert Einstein, famous for his trivia answer E=MC2. It has long been the controversial contention of Dr. Schmutz, who comes from a long line of eccentrics, that the Germ Theory, as applied to dental decay, is criminally wrong. Recall that it was his grandfather, Dr. Percival Schmutz, who first discovered the basic unit of tooth decay, the carey, which he named after the musical lament "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," a popular ditty of his time. After lengthy experimentation on little woodland creatures, he learned that the carey could not function as a viable entity except when bonded molecularly with one or more other caries and that's why one almost never hears the singular term "carey" any more. It was the elder Dr. Schmutz's belief, now largely discounted, that dental decay was the result of "parlous and vitreous humours" incurred by the excessive consumption of rhubarb.

Eyes bright as new pennies, cheeks glowing like twin Pippins, I enjoin Schmutz at his door.
"How goes the research, Doctor?"

"Who wants to know?" he replies, eyeing me narrowly through the peephole. "You come poking around here from Hanes or Fruit of the Loom?"

"No, why?" After reluctantly granting me admittance, he quickly obscures some papers lying on his desk and slams a drawer on a partially consumed pastrami on rye while flicking a dollop of French's Spicy Mustard off his tie.

"Because," he says, lowering his voice and hastily securing the door behind him with multiple locks and a length of chain, "word has leaked that I'm on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, and I fear I may be targeted for termination by mercenary gunsels of the dry goods trade, obliged to expunge me from this mortal coil."

"Good Lord, Schmutz, what have you discovered?"

"Sure you're not from Jockey, Manhattan or Cambridge Classics?" he casts about fearfully, peering myopically under his desk.

"Why would these people want to do you a mischief for God's sake?"

"Because -- are you ready for this? -- I have found that dental decay, caries if you count yourself among the cognoscenti, is directly related to too-tight underwear! You might as well know; it'll be in all the journals within a fortnight."

"I thought that was an infertility problem," I offer tentatively.

Schmutz scoffs, "That's what they all thought. I have researched the dental records of Willie Shoemaker and other top riders. I've looked into lawyers' briefs, studied Italian falsettos and dropouts from the Vienna Boys Choir. Rampant caries, every one of 'em!"

"I don't understand the correlation," I puzzled.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" he snaps, waspishly, "You're not a trained researcher whose grant is about to expire in six weeks. The underwear manufacturers are not going to take this lying down, Buster. I've just a short time to record the DMF statistics of 5,000 boxer-shorts-wearing people to prove my hypothesis ere I'm taken out by the underwear consortium. Good day, Sir!"

Unconventional, yes; controversial, of course; nuttier than a fruitcake, perhaps, but Alfredo Schmutz and other researchers of similar determination and single-mindedness of purpose cannot help but take our breath away and point to the dawn of a new tomorrow.