Tooth and Nail

by Linda D. Dahl

  She thought a minute and twirled me around, stopping at my behind. “Girrrrrl, you got a booty on you! Baby got back! I’ve got something for that. It’s got a looootta stretch.”

  In the dressing room I looked in the mirror, twisting from side to side while I formed an opinion. Not bad. But now, the test.

  Bracing for disappointment, I squatted low to the ground, fully expecting the pants to burst. To my disbelief, they cooperated, moving with me almost as obligingly as spandex leggings. The side seams, although stretched to their physical limit, held strong. It was kind of a leotard and suit all in one, something I could possibly wear to the gym, if the need arose. And, although the legs dangled from my ankles like mermaid fins, I could easily have them shortened.

  As I was basking in my new pant-friends, the salesgirl came by.

  “Lookin’ good, girl! Wherever you goin’, you gonna rock that! I got you some tops and jackets to go with those pants. Then you will be da bomb!”

  * * *

  “You want to cut your hair off or just change the style?” Amber the drug rep asked, the next time I saw her. She had stopped by the office, as she often did, to drop off drug samples. She had one of those sleek, swarthy New York haircuts, so I asked her for tips.

  “You need to see my hairdresser. He’s Israeli, he’s hot and his salon is just a few blocks from here. Tell him I sent you and he’ll give you special treatment.” She was so kind, instantly treating me like a friend instead of a potential sale, now that we were talking about girl things. As she spoke, I tried to memorize her gestures and movements. She touched her sternum a lot when she spoke. And the hair toss: I had to remember that, too.

  At the salon, the hairdresser was hot, as promised, and so judgmental he didn’t even listen to what I wanted.

  “In your office...you are in charge. This...is my office. Here, I am the boss,” he said, combing through strands of hair to see what he had to work with. “This cut, this is bad.” He snapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth and lifted his head, the Israeli gesture for I disapprove. “I will fix. You will also need color.”

  He painted the roots of my hair with dye and covered the rest in gloss. Using a razor, he sliced my hair into wispy layers “to give it height” and just enough bangs to cover one eye. After the cut, he aggressively blew out my hair, nearly burning my ear with his metallic round brush. When he was done, he spun me around to flaunt the miracle he had accomplished.

  I scarcely recognized myself. My hair was shiny and bouncy and nothing I would ever be able to replicate on my own. And the bill was also something I wouldn’t be able to repeat. It was over $300 because he insisted on throwing in a hair dryer.

  * * *

  After my parents divorced, when I was finally allowed to adorn my face with pigment, I prided myself on my makeup skills. I studied women’s magazines more intensely than my math textbook, researching how to pick the right shade of lipstick and where to dot my cheeks with blush. Stealing into my mother’s bathroom, I would emulate the models on the pages, applying thick streaks of eye shadow. My results had more in common with an iridescent peacock than a movie star, but it was the ’80s.

  But between frozen winters, the poverty of college and the hippie/bohemian fashion it afforded, my skill set was lost.

  For my update, I would need professional help. I had seen ads for MAC makeup stores, with bizarrely painted models. RuPaul was their spokesperson. Although it wasn’t the look I was going for, it certainly was theatrical. Besides, department-store makeup counters made me nervous, the way the sales ladies peered over displays of lipstick tubes and tried to suffocate me under clouds of perfume. They also judged me harshly for not using moisturizer.

  “Hi, sweetie. Do you need any help?” a tiny woman with piercings in her lower lip and eyebrow asked, as soon as I stepped through the door. Her eyes were drawn in with thick, dark liner, carried well past the edges of her eye creases, like a miniature Cleopatra. With half of her head shaved and the other dyed fuchsia, she looked less like a makeup artist and more like a post-apocalyptic anarchist.

  “I’d like a different look. Maybe something a little sexier.”

  “Well, you’re not really wearing anything now...you have good cheekbones and such beautiful eyes. I’ve got some ideas.”

  She drew her armamentarium from a pouch secured around her waist and patted my face with tan and pink creams, pressing powders on my skin and dusting my eyelids with purples and browns. Her instruments were like a surgical tray, each meticulously crafted for a specific role. Just as it was with the haircut, I had no idea how I was going to replicate this at home. But I was certainly going to try.

  When she turned me around for The Reveal, I could hardly believe what I saw. The makeup was stunning in its subtlety, the style so expertly executed that, other than the fact that my eyelids weren’t naturally purple, I could barely tell I was wearing makeup at all. Yet, the effect was exactly what I had wanted—sophisticated and polished. And, yes, it was sexy. “You are a magician,” I said.

  She shrugged and smiled. “Just doing my job.” She had done more than her job. Not only had she shown me how good my face could look, she’d also shown me that I could be one thing on the outside without changing who I was on the inside. Just like an actress. Only the whole world was my audience.

  11

  Patent leather soles clacking on the pavement, I made my way toward the Manhattan Center, barely able to stay upright. After hunting through several stores, I had chosen the shiniest, blackest pair of boots I could find, with heels so tall and narrow they looked like daggers. Walking outside in them, without the luxury of carpeted flooring, was a lesson in New York City sidewalks. With knifelike stabs of pain, they taught the balls of my feet about the density of concrete. Grates and cracks were suddenly everywhere, catching my spikes in their crevices and nearly ripping off the tiny heel caps.

  I was ready for the night, but I was also terrified. The shame police who had set up residence in my head told me I was doing something terribly wrong. Doctors weren’t supposed to dress this way. But tonight I wasn’t myself. Someone else would be wearing my body.

  My suit, cloaked by a burgundy lamb’s-wool coat, was as tight as my silhouette, clinging to my ribcage with each suffocated breath. I had my hair blown out so straight it moved, solid and liquid, like a particle wave, around my shoulders. I even walked differently, swinging my hips in a slow figure eight, trying to channel my inner Dom with each step. Peering through shimmering shadow and thick press-on lashes, I prayed she would show herself by the time I got to the venue.

  When I reached the front door, I stepped up to the security guard and flung my hair back, waiting to meet his gaze.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, looking me up and down, interested but unfazed. “Do you have ID?”

  “I’m the doctor,” I said, jutting my chin forward as I spoke. I opened my black bag and flashed the Athletic Commission badge that had finally come in the mail.

  “Wait, you’re a doctor? I ain’t never seen a doctor who looked like you before.” Clutching his chest, he leaned back and said, mockingly, “I think there’s something wrong with my heart. I need a doctor!”

  “Ha ha. I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “Be careful in there,” he added.

  “I will,” I said, smiling to myself.

  Once inside, I spotted Dr. Gonzalez with Frank and Tom in a prefight huddle near the ring. I tried to calm my impetuous nerves as I approached, setting down my bag and unbuttoning my coat. I stretched back my shoulders to let the coat slide off, but, instead, it got stuck on my upper arms, trapping me like a makeshift straitjacket. Twisting to get free, I inadvertently stretched my low-cut top past my bra, exposing its lace-rimmed décolletage to the three men standing in front of me. They stared in disbelief.

  “Hey, guys!” I said, rearranging my top and blocking
out what had just happened. “What’s my assignment?” I prayed I would be at the corner, so I could go into the ring. The Dom needed a stage.

  “Dahl, is that you?” Tom was the first to break the silence. He kept a sober face while trying to camouflage his reaction to my metamorphosis. But his nervous system betrayed him, sending a rush of nerve impulses to his left hand, shaking it like an essential tremor. “Um, Dahl’s ringside. Gonzalez you’re in the back.”

  Jackpot.

  “Nice outfit, Dahl! You been taking some pointers from the ring girls?” Frank asked, nodding in approval.

  “You’re looking kind of, uh, different. You look nice, it’s just not...” Dr. Gonzalez was noticeably perplexed. And being one of my medical brethren, his discomfort fed into mine, creating a tornado of shame inside me.

  Resisting the urge to cover my chest, I instead held my arms awkwardly at my sides and tried desperately to summon my inner Dom. And just like that, she emerged; perfectly formed and fully scripted.

  “You’re all behaving like you’ve never seen a female doctor before. Stop acting like idiots, and let’s get to work. Fred, start checking out the guys in the back. Frank, stick your tongue back in your mouth, and go find something to do. Tom, give me the paperwork. Anything else I need to know about?” She was a genius, calling all of them by their first names to keep them in their place, then giving them commands, as if they all had to answer to her.

  “I, uh, yes, I think. I only got here a little while ago. Let me check,” Tom stammered, ruffling through his papers like he was looking for a late homework assignment.

  I couldn’t believe how easily she’d unhinged them. And how quickly she freed me. With a tiny shift, the Dom had reversed over thirty years of conditioned behavior. But I couldn’t get too caught up in the moment. This was just a tiny victory, and her most important audience was fast approaching.

  “Hey, guys. You ready for tonight? There’re a lotta fights, so let’s get through this with minimal injuries,” the Chairman said.

  “Which corner do I have tonight?” I asked.

  His gaze was suddenly different. “Red,” he said, then turned to speak to Frank.

  I couldn’t believe it. The Chairman had never assigned me to the red corner. It was only for the winners.

  * * *

  Beyoncé was going “crazy right now” over the loudspeakers when the headliner entered through the side door of the arena. He danced his way to the ring, hopping and punching the air, opening and closing his lips around the thick blue guard that covered his teeth. The word CHOCOLATE was stretched across the waistband of his white satin shorts, flanked by KID on either side. Four men with matching TEAM CHOCOLATE jackets followed closely behind. They carried buckets filled with the Dove version of his namesake, showering the adoring crowd with candies. Kid Chocolate smiled and waved, revving up his fans until their cheering made the music inaudible.

  I looked out into the crowd: an ocean of men. When I had first started working the fights, they seemed to distribute themselves randomly. Now I saw order: neat clusters of machismo drawn together by a common thread. The Italians clustered together in long black coats, button-up shirts and hair slicked back by hard gel. Teamsters formed a collective, dressed in their least sullied jeans and T-shirts decorated with whimsical sayings like I only drink beer on days that end in Y. Then there were the home boys, who stretched do-rags over their short Afros and let big-waisted jeans fall to midthigh. Not to be confused with the gangsters, and those wishing they were, who analyzed the rest of the crowd through bloodshot eyes and unnecessary shades. Other men, hordes of men, filled the spaces in between, hungry for something they weren’t allowed in their everyday lives.

  I guessed they really just wanted freedom. Comfort and responsibility can create its own kind of oppression. Somehow, the physicality of hunting and catching and killing helped them regain a more visceral sense of who they were. But since that kind of self-expression was no longer allowed in civilized society, they had to settle for being witness to it.

  The music changed to reggaeton, the steady underbeat punctuated by alternating rhythms and a handful of boos from the crowd. Kid Chocolate’s opponent entered through the same door, bouncing from side to side, head buried under his hoodie like a too-tall, dancing Yoda. Once inside the ring, he pulled back his hood, unveiling a head-shaped display of paisley patterns and letters. From the surface of his left bicep, an elaborate tattoo of a little girl’s face smiled at the crowd. He stretched his obliques, ignoring the noise outside his head. After a few minutes, he settled onto the stool at the blue corner, surrounded by his team.

  After the announcements and three clangs of the bell, the fight began.

  Eyes locking, the two men walked toward the center of the ring. The oily sheen of Kid Chocolate’s skin made him look bronzed. He circled his opponent, testing his jab. When he saw an opening, he threw a punch, swiping and missing the moving target of his opponent’s head as it jutted backwards.

  “Work da jab, work da fuckin’ jab! Stop waiting on da jab! Keep it goin’. Right back.” A man, straining to contain his enthusiasm, stood behind me, shouting instructions at his fighter. Focused on the action, he leaned in, accidentally bumping my shoulder. My usual reaction would have been to ignore him, but that was not how the Dom worked.

  “Excuse me. You need to stand back. This area is for commission only,” she said.

  “Uh, oh I’m sorry, Miss. I just watchin’ my fighter—”

  “That’s Doctor, not Miss. You need to stand there.” She pointed a foot away, near an enormous cut man, aptly named Blimp, who was staring at the exchange.

  Too shocked to answer, he looked her up and down, hesitating at her chest. She maintained her stance, outwardly unaffected and internally pleased that she had his attention. After a few seconds, he shook his head, remembering where he was, and backed up slowly.

  In the ring, Kid Chocolate remained focused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sweat assembled in beads and dripped off bent elbows and knees.

  “Underneath, there ya go. Right back. Down da body. Down da body.” The same corner man shouted more instructions at his fighter, but with less confidence, glancing over at the Dom apologetically.

  Kid Chocolate slowed, grounding his stance. He pulled back his arm and landed one swift punch on his opponent’s chin, sending his head back into full extension. Slowly, the other fighter fell backwards, collapsing against the ropes. He staggered, shaking his head, and tried to stand. Worried he would not be able to get back up, I readied myself to climb into the ring, but the Dom held me back.

  “Five, six, seven.” The referee held his hands within inches of the boxer’s face, showing him with fingers how many seconds he had left to recover. When he got to ten, he rubbed the boxer’s gloves against his shirt and peered into his pupils to get a read. Satisfied he had enough consciousness to continue, he glanced over at the Dom and nodded. She nodded back.

  “Fight!” he said.

  Kid Chocolate moved in quickly, chin tucked. His punches were fast and tight, as if his gloves were attached by elastic to his torso. I cringed internally with each blow, feeling the hollowness without the pain, anticipating the one that would finally darken his opponent’s soul. Legs already unsteady, he wobbled beneath his weight. He wouldn’t last much longer, but the Dom didn’t want to stop the fight too early. She knew the value of humiliation, its sour bite and bitter aftertaste. So she waited.

  “Uppercut, uppercut! Keep it goin’! Right back.” The man behind me yelled in cadence with his fighter’s punches, keeping rhythm like a tribal chant.

  Kid Chocolate’s head moved like his neck was a spring attached to his body. He backed his opponent against the ropes, beating his chest like a slab of meat. Then, seeing his prey relax into the giving-up place, he pulled back his elbow and thrust a mighty punch into his jaw. His opponent’s neck twisted tow
ard the ceiling, eyes rolling behind closing eyelids. Legs buckled under deadweight, and he landed flat on the ground. It was a knockout.

  Heart pounding, I climbed onto my chair, then stepped over to the table in front of me, wavering in my boots. I steadied myself on the ropes, then climbed between them.

  I stood in the ring, suddenly aware of my public unveiling. I felt a hush, possibly real but more likely imagined. I was onstage, and I felt naked. My costume suddenly felt all wrong, too trampy and desperate. The neckline of my top was shamelessly low. My too-tight pants had crawled into uncomfortable crevices. I had been so focused on the knockout, I had forgotten who I was supposed to be. I wanted to cover myself and run.

  Looking around the crowd, I took a deep breath. I knew these men, hormones raging through their hearts and groins. They were the real reason I was there, to watch over their gladiators. But I was also there to fight for what was left of me. At that moment, I felt no different than the boxers. I had been knocked down so many times, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand back up. But I was standing now. And I wasn’t alone. The Dom was with me, anchoring me into my patent leather stilettos. Whatever twisted journey had brought us here, this ring was her place at the moment. And she had center stage.

  I snapped on my black latex gloves and snapped myself back into character.

  The more sauced-up members of the crowd hooted and cheered as the Dom moved in to examine the boxer. I dropped to my knees, thanking the Lycra gods when the pants didn’t split. The boxer’s nose was bleeding, the blood collecting in a small puddle near his nostrils. Although his eyelids were closed, orbits filled with spongy swelling, the movement in his chest confirmed that he was still breathing. There was no reason to panic. I took my time.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, touching his cheek with my gloved hand. I wanted to see how much perception was left in his body.