One Chair Worth the Wait : Health care: Low-income people stand in line for a shot at seeing the volunteer dentists who provide free services at S.O.S. Free Clinic in Costa Mesa.

By 5 a.m., the queue outside the double doors at 1550 Superior Ave. is already a dozen strong. Teeth chattering in the chilly morning air, the rumpled group of men and women camped outside look as though they might have spent the night waiting to buy tickets to a rock concert.

But astonishingly enough, these determined souls have endured frigid temperatures, loss of sleep and in some cases, docked wages, all for a shot at seeing a dentist. The first 10 in line when the doors open at 7:30 a.m. are guaranteed a spot in the chair; the next five are given priority for the next morning, while the unlucky ones are simply advised to come back earlier next time.

The S.O.S. (Share Our Selves) Free Clinic is one of the rare places in Orange County--and one of just 120 nationwide--where low-income people can get their teeth filled, pulled or replaced, absolutely free of charge. The nonprofit organization provides a vital service for people who cannot afford insurance premiums but are still ineligible for the state’s indigent dental health care program.

“It’s just been exploding,” said Jay Wandalowski, executive director at the 4-year-old clinic, where volunteer dentists treated an estimated 400 patients and performed about $60,000 worth of dental work last month. “There is a tremendous need.”

According to the American Dental Assn., less than half of Americans have dental insurance. The cost of basic preventive care can average about $295 per year--far above the reach of many people earning minimum wage. Just 4% of these costs were covered by government programs such as Medi-Cal or Medicaid, the ADA reported.

While officials at the S.O.S. Free Clinic do not ask patients to state their source of income, Wandalowski stressed that the program is meant only for low-income people who cannot afford a dentist.

The clinic itself is funded through private contributions. About 90% of the patients are Latino, many of whom work as domestics, gardeners, auto detailers or are employed in other jobs where their employers do not pay for dental insurance.

One recent morning, Gumesindo Muniz, 83, waited anxiously in the waiting room to get fitted for a pair of false teeth. Affectionately known among the staff as the “Don Juan” of S.O.S., the retired strawberry picker said that were it not for the free clinic, he would have never been able to afford dentures. Teeth replacements can cost as much as $1,500.

“I just get a little retirement check every month,” said Muniz, who earned $4 an hour when he was still working. “Where would I get the money for this?”

By the time many people finally find their way to the dental clinic, their teeth are literally rotting out of their mouths, clinic officials said.

“This girl came in the other day who hadn’t brushed her teeth for two weeks,” said Brigitte LaFontaine, an assistant hygienist. “Her gums would bleed, so she simply stopped brushing. She wound up having to have gum surgery.”

Others had not seen a dentist in more than 30 years.

“You see a lot of tooth decay and poor oral hygiene,” said Dr. Virgil Galey, a former president of the Orange County Dental Society who volunteers at the clinic. “These are the kinds of mouths that we don’t even see in private practice anymore.”

Meanwhile, news of the clinic has spread like wildfire.

Monday through Friday, the examining room takes on the aura of an assembly line as jovial volunteer dentists clean teeth, fill cavities and take X-rays. LaFontaine hustles among the four dental chairs, stopping often to offer words of assurance in Spanish to a terrified patient.

Meanwhile, Dr. Craig Pinkner, an athletic 30-year-old dressed in jeans and sneakers, examines a middle-aged woman whose teeth are rotting beneath her partials.

She winces as he picks at the jagged peaks, all in various stages of decay. “She had a root canal sometime, but the tooth is still sore,” said Pinkner, also a volunteer. “It looks like we’re going to have to take it out before we can cement these (partials) back on.”

In another chair, Galey begins to work on Jadwiga Wawr, 59, an unemployed Polish immigrant who moved to Anaheim two years ago.

Wawr’s prognosis is a dental patient’s nightmare: Three teeth have to come out before she can be fitted with partials. Her daughter, Danuta Zaitoni, sits nearby, rubbing her mother’s arm gently as she translates the bad news into Polish.

“Are you sure you want to stay here for the extractions?” Galey asks Zaitoni, recounting an earlier incident in which an onlooker fainted at the sight of blood.

Zaitoni slowly nods her assent.

The hygienist brings over a hypodermic needle several inches long.

Galey removes his mask with gusto, injecting some much-needed humor into the occasion, as he prepares to extract Wawr’s teeth.

“It’s like a football player, when he scores a touchdown,” he says, grinning broadly. “He takes the mask off for the big score.”