Tooth and Nail

by Linda D. Dahl

  I was sixteen and had just returned from a week of summer camp sponsored by my high school. When I returned home, I waited in the Hardee’s parking lot for my mother to pick me up. But she never came.

  My friend’s mom, refusing to leave me stranded, drove me home, to the house I had been living in with my family for eight years. Embarrassed, I told her not to worry that no one was home and I was sure they had just run to the store for something. But that was only partially true. When I went into the house, it was completely vacant—of people and furniture. My family had moved without telling me, even though I had spoken to my sister two days before. If it weren’t for a forgotten box of utensils, my mother probably wouldn’t have even shown up when she did, several hours later. “Well,” she had said, shrugging, as if that was all the explanation I deserved.

  The payback party was the last time I had tasted tequila, and I had avoided it ever since.

  “Can you explain how it works with promoters and managers?” I asked, wanting to learn as much as I could about the business side of things.

  “Okay, the promoters are the ones that put on the show. They make money through tickets, broadcast rights, pay-per-view, things like that. Then they have to pay each boxer a certain amount of money, win or lose, based on negotiations. That’s where the manager comes in. He is the one that tries to get as much money for his fighter as possible. Then he keeps a fee for himself, which can’t be more than a third of the purse,” Dr. Landau said, taking more tiny sips as he spoke.

  “So why are Tom and Frank the ones delivering the payments?” I asked. Before every fight, they carried around large envelopes of blue safety checks with handwritten amounts.

  “That’s because, in New York State, the promoter has to bond the total purse with the commission so they can’t just run off with the money. That way, the fighters know they’re gonna get paid.”

  He picked up another glass. “The next two—and these aren’t the best, just what they had on the menu—are the reposados. The word itself, reposado, tells you what it is. To repose or rest. The tequila is poured into an oak barrel so it can age, anywhere from two to eleven months. It has a balanced flavor, a mix between the spirit and the wood,” Dr. Landau said, moving his hands like he was conducting his own mouth. His love of tradition and precision animated everything he did. Even suturing. He still used a metal syringe with individual glass bottles of lidocaine when he anesthetized cuts.

  We tasted the two straw-colored liquids, passing them on to the next imbiber before they even reached our prospective gullets. They didn’t sting as much as the first two. Like so many things, they were dulled by time and darkness.

  “And finally, the anejos. These, my friends, are my favorites. They are basically reposados that are allowed to age for a year or longer. And, in my opinion, the longer the better. They use old whiskey and cognac barrels, so the flavor infuses the tequila,” Dr. Landau said, lifting one of the glasses so we could peer through it. Backlit by the fabricated dusky light of the casino, the amber liquid looked much darker than the others. He closed his eyes and took the first sip, giving the liquor time to coat his tongue and palate, before swallowing it down slowly.

  Touching the glass to my lips, I felt my head spin into a slow vertigo. I remembered how I had impressed my residency interviewer by correctly explaining why alcohol makes us dizzy. Alcohol dilutes the endolymphatic fluid in the semicircular canals of the vestibular organ, making the fluid lighter. Every time we turn our drunk heads, the endolymph sloshes around a bit more, making our brains think we are going much faster than we are. My brain already knew I was moving too fast. The alcohol just gave it an excuse.

  * * *

  Two days later, a little wobbly from what had become our ritual of afternoon drinks, I went back to my room to get ready for the awards banquet. I let my hair down and changed into a silver Donna Karan dress, reveling in the possibility of finally meeting one of my boxing idols. At the conference, they had announced that the special guest of the night was Oscar De La Hoya. I almost couldn’t breathe.

  Walking through the casino, I navigated my way through the maze of slot machines and card tables, using overhead signs for guidance. There were no clocks or hints of natural light, merging day and night into one long dusk. It was like call nights during residency, when the only way I could tell the time of day was by what was on the televisions in patient rooms. I breathed in deeply, taking in the fruit-scented air, the music piping in through the sound system slowly seeping into my awareness.

  I hummed the song as I strolled, escalating my steps in time with the beat. The song moved from a quiet conversation, the light tap of a drumstick against a rim, to a river of piano, chords pounding out isolation and betrayal. When the refrain came I felt tears well up. I was in over my head.

  I stopped, staring straight into the nothing and everything that lay ahead of me. I had spent so much time, treading water to stay above the abyss, I wondered what would happen if I just stopped and let the ocean take me.

  “Everyone...knows I’m in...over my head, over my head...”

  * * *

  The banquet room was much like the one from the Cooney Charity fights. But, instead of a ring, there was a table topped with a short podium at one end of the room. Fifteen round tables were surrounded by eight banquet chairs each and adorned with flower arrangements in the center. Were it not for the still frame of the AAPRP logo buzzing through pixels on the projection screen, I would have thought I was at a wedding reception. There was seating for over a hundred people. Apparently, many more attendees were expected at the party than the conference.

  I saw Dr. Gonzalez and Dr. Landau and made a beeline over to where they were standing at the bar.

  “I’ll have an apple martini,” I said, answering the question they hadn’t yet asked.

  “Wow, don’t you clean up nice,” Dr. Gonzalez said, struggling to focus inebriated eyes on my neckline. His bronzed face betrayed the fact that he skipped afternoon lectures to lounge by the pool.

  “You look lovely, Linda,” Dr. Landau said, before turning to the bartender to order my drink. I enjoyed his company for so many reasons, but mainly because he was so respectful. Like many men, the twenty years he had on Dr. Gonzalez had given him a chance to ripen into a man of substance and wit. Unfortunately, it also made him too old and too married to be a prospective partner.

  As I took my first sip, I heard a commotion. Excited that De La Hoya was about to make his entrance, I readied myself, straightening my dress and sweeping my hair behind my neck. Surrounded by flashes of cameras and the enthusiasm of a gathering crowd, I could only make out a broad-shouldered man with a navy T-shirt. The mob moved slowly, pausing as it neared us at the bar.

  The center of attention was not the man I was expecting. It was Mike Tyson.

  “Linda, go! Get over there with him, and I’ll take your picture,” Dr. Gonzalez said, shoving me into the crowd.

  “No,” I said, stopping him. “I’m not a groupie.” What I really meant was that I wasn’t Tyson’s groupie. I was expecting to meet one of the men who had inspired my love of boxing. Instead, standing less than a yard in front of me was the reason I had stopped watching it.

  I found a place at one of the tables, leaving the disappointed Dr. Gonzalez to his own fandom, and took a seat next to Dr. Williams. “I didn’t see you at the lectures today,” I said. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Ah, I can’t sit through those things anymore. I like my time at the tables, if you know what I mean,” he said with a dimpled grin.

  “Kind of. I’m not much of a gambler, but Dr. Landau showed us how to play craps last night. It was the most entertaining $100 I’ve ever lost in twenty minutes,” I said.

  “I see Mike over there. Surprised you’re not trying to talk to him like the others. Everyone’s always trying to get a piece of him,” he said, shaking his head. “You
know, I was one of the doctors who defended him during that Holyfield situation. After it happened, the state of Nevada revoked his license. To get it back, he had to go through an independent medical review. They let him choose who he wanted on his panel, and he asked for me. He wanted a brother in his corner.”

  “So how did it go?” I asked, completely unaware of that aftermath.

  “He got his license back to fight in ’99 but then lost it again in 2002. For good,” he said, in a low voice. “He can’t fight for money anymore, but he’s doing these exhibition fights. Three rounds, just for show, plain clothes and all that. He just fought Corey Sanders in Ohio; now he’s in Vegas training for the next one.”

  “I want you to introduce me to him,” I said, curious. Dr. Williams had defended him, so I figured there must be more to him than the wild animal he had been made out to be. A tortured soul worth saving is hard to resist.

  “You know what, let’s go over there now. Looks like the crowd has left them alone.” He stood and led me to the man who would occupy the rest of my evening.

  When they saw each other, they embraced: a man hug that lasted almost a full thirty seconds. What flowed between them was more than just recognition. It was fermented understanding and warmth that grew from standing by someone in their darkest hour.

  “Mike, I want to introduce you to one of our doctors. This here is Dr. Dahl,” Dr. Williams said, gesturing toward me.

  “Oh my gosh, aren’t you pretty. You a doctor? Why don’t you come over here with me, and let’s talk awhile...” Before I could even say hello, he led me away from Dr. Williams to his place at the foremost table to the podium. “Why don’t you have a seat here. You so precious.” His voice was higher than I had remembered from television, and slow, prolonged by his airy lisp.

  The moment we sat, we were surrounded by people taking photographs and otherwise ogling us. He poured water into a glass and set it in front of me. Our conversation had suddenly turned into a public speed date.

  “So, tell me about you. What sign is you? You got a boyfriend?” he asked, in one long, unpunctuated string of words. Up close, he was more obtrusive than I had imagined—gap-toothed, thick-faced, round-nosed and tattooed. But he had a sweetness that surprised me.

  “I’m a Sagittarius, and no, no boyfriend,” I said, with misplaced honesty.

  “Yo, Sagittarius! You women kill me! I’s a Cancer.” He shook his head sheepishly, like a teenage boy talking to his crush. Our interaction felt so intimate, the hum of people around us drowned into the background.

  “So, where do you live now?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but I didn’t know what else to say. I knew very little about his personal life and didn’t want to squander the moment.

  “I live in Phoenix. Raisin’ pigeons.” He seemed proud of that, almost beaming. “Homin’ pigeons. I just love how they go, and then they come back. It’s so peaceful up there on my rooftop...” he continued, talking about his home, his hobbies, his kids.

  “Is that Maori?” I asked, almost touching the tattoo on his face.

  “You know about that? Sheeeuut! You so precious!” he said.

  “I read a lot,” I said, referring to one of my favorite books, The Bone People. It was about a Maori family and their traditions. The Maori use tattoos, or ta moko, to identify tribal associations. Unlike regular tattoos, ta moko are considered sacred, carved into the skin by chisels.

  “I wish they would just leave us alone so we could talk,” he said, referring to the growing crowd around us. If he didn’t already feel like a caged animal, I could see how this kind of constant intrusion by voyeurs could drive him there, especially if he couldn’t block them out.

  “The ceremony is about to start. I should go sit with my friends,” I said, standing to leave. “It was nice meeting you.” There was no way I could stay there. I didn’t know how long I would be able to maintain this conversation, and I wanted to avoid the impending embarrassment of being asked to move by the intended owner of my seat.

  “Wait, don’t go...or just...come back later. Will you come back?” he asked, more of a plea than a request.

  “Of course,” I said, surprised at his neediness, returning to my place next to Dr. Williams.

  In the time I was gone, the table had filled with Dr. Gonzalez, Dr. Landau, Dr. Rosenberg and their respective wives. They had a lot of questions, each laced with wonder, judgment and jealousy: What is he like? What was he asking you? Why did you sit there for so long? Weren’t you scared? Why were you even talking to him? Don’t you know how dangerous he is? Did he hit on you?

  I spoke in vague terms, unsure of the answers myself.

  As the banquet wore on, the guests became more inebriated, and the thank-you speeches turned into sermons. But the crowd’s attention was still on Mike. He was such an enigma. A tragic hero. Not even violence, jail time or accusations of rape could curtail his popularity. There he was, after everything he had gone through, drinking in gallons of alcohol along with the crowd’s adoration. He so badly yearned for love and acceptance and, curiously, he was still open to it. Life hadn’t completely hardened him. Somewhere, deep inside, there was still hope. And that hope made me want to forgive him. If he could come out the other side of his life a better person, wasn’t that more important than hating him for his past?

  By the end of the night, he stood with a group of people, including an eighteen-year-old blonde, for a photograph. Easing in for the shot, he eyed her hungrily. His interest in women included far more than just me.

  “It was nice meeting you, Mike,” I said, stopping back as promised.

  “Wait. Where you goin’? Wanna hang with us?”

  “I’m not sure. I have plans,” I lied, waving and walking away from him toward the exit. Sitting amid a crowd of people was one thing. Being alone with him was something entirely more dangerous.

  “Wait!” he almost yelled, running after me. “Hang with us! Please!”

  I looked into his bloodshot eyes. I had stared into that abyss of darkness before. Through Jerome’s eyes. They weren’t so different, he and Mike. They reacted the same way to fear. But Mike wasn’t scared of anything anymore. His worst fears had already been realized, and he was left hanging by a thread. “All right. What did you have in mind?” I relented, watching him visibly exhale in relief.

  He wanted to go back to his hotel with his trainer and some friends but, first, we had to make our way through the Luxor to his car. Proceeding toward what we thought was the exit, he entwined his arm in mine, thanking me over and over again for agreeing to come. The five-minute walk was stretched to twenty by the clusters of adoring fans who stopped us every few feet. They wanted a picture of the champ with his presumed wife. Without correcting the misunderstanding, he instead leaned in to my neck and confessed that he wished it was true.

  As we approached the Maybach Mercedes awaiting him, I realized that everyone else had disappeared. We were alone. The driver stepped out and opened the door, and I felt pangs of apprehension. I could still walk away. But I wasn’t one to walk away from monsters. Not when I was sixteen and my mother had locked me in my bedroom with my 300-pound stepfather to teach me a lesson, collecting bruises like jewelry with each slam against the wall. Or when, three days later, he showed up at my job to take my car and I stood unmoving—outside in the freezing cold—daring him to touch me again.

  Mike sniffled as we climbed into the car.

  “Are you sick?” I asked, deflecting my anxiety by changing roles. “I’m an ear, nose and throat doctor. I can help with that.”

  “Nah. I just like to party,” he answered, chuckling to himself. He threw his head back and sniffed harder.

  I didn’t know what partying had to do with having a cold, so I persisted. “I like parties, too, but you don’t have to suffer. I could get you some medicine.”

  He shook his head and smiled, not trying to exp
lain what I didn’t understand, then pulled out a small book of photographs. “These here my kids. Five o’ them.” He named four, stumbling on the last. “He’s the little one. Look at them chicken legs—he think he a tough one.” He laughed again to himself. “This here’s they ma.” She was a beautiful, light-skinned black woman who, I remembered reading somewhere, he’d met while he was in prison. She had been a medical resident, and he had been her patient. He must have seen something familiar when he looked into my eyes, too.

  We arrived at the hotel, and I was told to wait in the car. Mike went in first, then the driver returned to escort me through the back entrance, up a hidden elevator, to Mike’s room. I had never seen anything like it. The palatial living space was encased with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, turning the Las Vegas strip into a living painting. Michael Bublé crooned through the speakers. I relaxed on the couch, watching as Mike rolled the biggest joint I had ever seen and then fell into the chair opposite me.

  “So, Doctor, where you from? You so precious,” he said before breathing in a huge hit of smoke.

  “I’m from the Midwest. My parents are Syrian, but my father’s family comes from Chechnya. I’m sure you’ve never heard of—”

  “Chechnya? No shit! I know the president. Me and him is friends.” He explained how they had met in the French Riviera when he was there for a “private visit.” He told me about the people from the area; how they were warriors and fighters; how he respected them because they were some of the toughest people he had ever met. He knew more about my heritage than I did. “The Russians, they wanted me, too. You know how that goes.” I had no idea. “They got a little jealous, so I had to visit them after.” He laughed to himself, reliving other memories he didn’t want to share, and drew more smoke into his lungs. “You my Chechen queen,” he said, squinting his eyes at me. I had always been ashamed of my heritage, but I loved how those words sounded coming out of his mouth.