Rope Burns - [SSC]

by F. X. Toole

  So after four hours when Pats get to Newark, we still sitting around the airport another hour before the promoter’s driver show up. And then it three more hours before we get to the hotel because by now it snowing. That a long day. It all happen on Tuesday, and we fight on Friday That give us little time to get some work in the gym and still rest a day before the fight.

  We get to the Claridge Hotel where the fight go off, and this fine brown-skinned gal at the desk say we ain’t on the list.

  I say, “We got to be. We the main event.”

  She go in the back, then come out with some envelopes our name on them. Letter inside say we staying up the block in some Roto-Rooter motel the Claridge use for overflow. Letter say we be eating in the Claridge employee caféteria, not in the regular hotel buffet. Give us a yellow ticket to eat with. Ticket say night after the fight the ticket be no good to eat on. Like we want to eat there, forget that.

  Reggie say, “Ain’t this a bitch?”

  We haul our stuff on over to the motel and Pats room got no heat. Ours the TV don’t work. We suppose to look at the wall while we laying around waiting to fight? Forget that, too.

  Close to midnight, Pats say, “Jackie, it’s time to check out the grits and greens.”

  When you fight in some hotel, the promoter suppose to give you tickets to eat in the regular buffet place where folks short on money go. It never bad, and sometimes it so good you got to watch you fighter he don’t gain no weight. But now we got to go up some funky freight elevator to the employee caféteria, and it old and it stink in there. Steam coming up and grease all over. Hot dogs and dried-out fish and chicken fried near to black. Cold pork chops all bone and fat. Food be dead.

  We get to the table, Pats say, “Jackie, this is jail food.”

  Reggie start laughing, shove his tray away. He love Pats. He say, “All we lack be a boom box and we be in the joint.”

  Place open twenty-four hours. All kind of peoples up there who work the hotel. White and black folks, Spanish of all kinds, Chinamen and Arabs. Mens and womens. They know we fighters and once they know we main event, and we treat them with respect, they start coming around. Nice people. Old Irish dudes with red noses spot Pats and right away come up for tickets. They talk that Irish way and Pats slip on into it.

  Pats say, “I’d give ‘em to ya in a minute, lads, they give us some, but with this heretic promotion we get nothin. I don’t mean to criticize your eats, Jackie, but I got a fighter here to feed, and this jail food’s a mortal sin.”

  You right, the peoples say, this be jail food up here, you suppose to be treated first-class, you main event. Peoples love fighters, all kinds of peoples love fighters, rich and poor. These ones so nice they clean up our table for us, dump the trash. It all be trash because we don’t eat none of it.

  Next morning we check out the regular buffet. $5.95 for breakfast, $7.95 for dinner and supper. Dashiki and his corner be eating down there. Pats spit on the rug. We find the promoter in the room he using for a office. No clothes in the closet, no suitcases in the room. Waiter bring in scrambled eggs on a cart cooked all pretty with onions, ham on the side. They sliced tomatoes and bagels with cream cheese. And they tea with nice lemon. He say how he be glad we fighting for Harvey Silvershade Promotions, say is there anything we need, say call him Harvey. Harvey got a long face with freckles and a big ass, tie open at the neck. Wearing cowboy boots, and he got bright blond hair in a ponytail. The man be fifty years old.

  Pats smile real innocent and he say, “Ah, Jackie, now ain’t it nice you asked? First we got no TV and we got no heat, and why are we stayin in the shit place in the first place? No offense intended, Jackie.”

  “Hey, hey,” say Harvey, “nothing I can do about it. I ordered thirty-three rooms, but the Claridge is booked solid, and all we could get is ten rooms out of thirty-three, and that’s the best we could do. The whole town’s booked solid for all the Valentine-sweetheart shit Saturday”

  “Where’s Dashiki stayin, Jackie, I wonder?”

  “Well, here. He’s been in town a week and a half, so I was able get him in. His manager’s staying across at the Hilton. I’d be in Bally’s and take you with me, but there’s no rooms, trust me. You can see this room isn’t much.”

  Pats say, “And where’s Dashiki eatin?”

  “I’m not sure. My assistant arranged it.”

  “Dashiki and his corner are eatin in the buffet downstairs right now,” say Pats. “So why are we livin out back with the pigs, Jackie?” “Fellas, there’s nothin I can do about it. I would if I could. I will have something done about the TV and the heat. Otherwise, it’s outta my control, guys.”

  “Surely you can do somethin about the food?, since you’re the promoter and all.”

  “What’s wrong with the food?”

  “Food’s crap. No offense, Jackie.”

  “It’s what all the hotel employees eat! It’s good!”

  “No, Jackie, it’s not good.”

  “The Claridge guaranteed it!”

  “We want to eat downstairs with Dashiki.”

  “What’s wrong with the caféteria food?”

  “The food’s jail food, Jackie.”

  “Jail food! It’s not! Everybody’s eatin there!”

  “Not everybody, Jackie, and we don’t want to neither.”

  “Can’t help you. I already made a deal with the hotel. Complain to them.”

  “It’s jail food.”

  “It’s not jail food!”

  “Come down there and eat with us, Jackie. No offense intended.”

  “I got things to do right now. Look, I got fifty mouths to feed, I can’t spoon-feed every one of them.”

  “We’re the other half of the main event, Jackie. Make it right.”

  “There’s main events and there’s main events,” he say. His shoulders be talking, too. They say he don’t have to take shit from no bust-out old cut man who fighter soon be on his back blinking through a concussion into the overhead lights.

  Looked to me like Pats be ready to slap the punk, so I touch him and nod to Reggie, whose eyes be colder than a dead Eskimo dick.

  Pats see Reggie eyes and like me he remember Reggie eyes from Berlin. Pats like Reggie eyes. Me, too. Pats nod real nice to Harvey and smile like they be friends, but he don’t shake hands. He say, “Thanks for handling our problems, Jackie. Us bein the main event, we knew you would.”

  “Anytime, fellas, anytime.”

  In the elevator Reggie say, “Jew think we the Indians. We the cowboys.”

  This happen to us once before when we fight in Germany. Pats come over three days after us. Germans have us freezing cold in some skunk hotel smell of piss and beer. Pats get there he raise hell, say we got to get some sleep, so the promoter move us into the first-class hotel where the number-one contender be staying, a blue-eyed boy with muscles like Tarzan. His brother got all kinds of long blond hair and he say they won’t fight us we stay same place they stay. Promoter move us to a third place, some kind of hotel for students and traveling salesmen. It be clean and the food be different from home, but we could eat. Reggie’s eyes go cold that time, too. Reggie beat on that boy so bad for ten rounds he hurt his hands. Could have knocked Tarzan out in three rounds, but Reggie want respect, so he punish that Fritzie boy. Smart-mouth brother start crying in the corner when he see what Reggie be doing to his baby brother face and ribs. Reggie retired that Tarzan boy, never fight again, fuck with Reggie.

  Harvey come by noontime same day, Wednesday, when we ready to go to the gym. He with a black driver. Harvey say no good to the gym, say Reggie got to go to Philadelphia for a EEK test.

  I say, “What that?”

  “To check out his brain.”

  “Brain be good.”

  Harvey say, “Commission gets a EEK or no fight. Their call.”

  I say, “But we need the work.”

  “Appointment’s for two-thirty. Now or never.”

  “Reggie manager know about this tes’?�
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  “I told him when we made the fight. He was supposed to send it with you, but I guess he didn’t remember.”

  Reggie say, “Who pay?”

  Harvey say, “No cash out of your pocket. I’ll take it out of your purse.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Two-fifty!” say Reggie. “I ain’t goin.”

  But Reggie go. We find out once we back home that Harvey don’t say nothing to Reggie manager about no EEK business. Reggie go with the driver and be gone six hours. Driver say he be lost and waste all kind of time. Driver don’t know where to eat in Philly, so Reggie eat soul fried chicken he have to pay for, and come back mad. We check him on the scale in the hotel health spa, and he now 3 pounds over the 168-pound limit. We was going to run Reggie that night, but it snow again.

  Reggie say, “Ain’t this a bitch?”

  So we go to the caféteria and Reggie eat some raggedy fruit salad but that all. Pats got a loose bridge on the top left his mouth he take out and wrap in a paper napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. He eat pie and cake and drink skim milk. I eat soup that sure enough come from a can. We all be mad. Reggie eyes getting colder all the time. We know Harvey be running a game on us, be trying for that edge that come if we forget why we there. He treat us like dirt so we think we dirt. We don’t talk about it, but we see what going down, and all us know we got to keep our mind focus right. Reggie train hard for this fight. Come down from 189 pounds in two months. He don’t have a relationship with his wife in six weeks, and Reggie be mean.

  He got three kids in Catholic school, and a wife who work checkout in a market. They got a little house over in La Puente they paying for. By now all us ready to pull out the fight, except we want that money. Reggie never make any big money in his fights, but he don’t do bad, and what money he do make he smart with it. Peoples say Reggie still got his first nickel.

  Reggie say, “After the weigh-in tomorrow, I’m goin down to the buffet and greeze. Cos’ me money, but I can’t fight on no jail food, half of it swine, hell.” Reggie ain’t no Muslim, but he don’t eat no pork. “You don’t have to come wit me, you want to eat this mess up here.”

  Me and Pats look around the caféteria. It loud. Two TVs playing different channels and video games making all kind of noise along the far wall. Steam and grease up our nose. We say tomorrow we go, too, we sick of the caféteria. Breakfast here tomorrow be all right, apples and bananas and cereal and skim milk for me and Pats. Reggie won’t eat. Coffee be good. Everything else be a crying shame.

  Reggie say, “By rights they suppose to pay.”

  Pats say, “How many times we eatin down there?”

  Reggie say, “Two times for me. After the weigh-in first, and I keep goin on back till I get my money worth. And then tomorrow afternoon before the fight, when I go on after it again. Fifteen dollars ninety cent. And tax, too, damn. Ain’t wastin my money. Fuck a promoter.”

  I say, “Some of the gamblin boys wastin they money down the casino now.”

  Reggie say, “Never learn, these fools, between the bitches and the gamblin and that drug shit they mess wit. Today they in the casino, next day they on the street. Biggest fools be the ones come around me for money, say I the man, say I got a wife be workin, say I got a house, say I got money, say they pay me back tomorrow. I don’t give none of my money up. They come around again, I say I be a black Jew and don’t come back. Shee.”

  Next morning Thursday, day before the fight. Weigh-in seven o’clock that night. Reggie drying out all day, don’t eat or drink, put pennies in his mouth to make him spit. Me and Pats having cereal and milk and fruit in the caféteria. Pats take out his loose bridge to eat, wrap it in a napkin. No pocket in his shirt this time, so he put the rolled-up teeth on his tray. We eat fast and quick, get back to Reggie so he don’t go off and be eating pizza and Pepsi. Before we finish our coffee and leave, a nice Porto Rican lady pick up and dump our trays for us, say she betting on us and good luck in Spanish, say her daddy a fighter in Porto Rico in the old days. She say his name, and Pats know who he was, but what Pats don’t know is his teeth be gone.

  We quick get back to the room, Reggie laying up in the bed watching TV, boy’s mouth dry, teeth feel like gravel down a gopher hole. You don’t talk about eating or water around a man what drying out. We don’t eat no lunch so Reggie not be alone. Pats sudden remember his teeth been dumped in the caféteria.

  Pats say, “It’s that fookin Silvershade’s fault!” and he go running back. Old man can move.

  Pats come back a hour later. Still no teeth on the top left. Bridge be gone. Pats be down in the garbage wearing yellow gloves he got from the chef, up to his nose in garbage. Had to go through all kinda bags down there because the upstairs trash was throw out. He say he had to lie to the chef so’s he could go downstairs, say that he lost a eight-carat gold diamond ring to get the hotel peoples to let him into the garbage place. Once the cleanup crew down there know they a diamond ring lost, they down into the mess like Arabs praying to garbage bags. Somebody from the street come by and ask what going on. One of the brothers say they looking for a twenty-carat diamond ring with rubies and emeralds. While they looking for diamonds and rubies and emeralds, Pats be looking for his teeth. Six of the brothers get in a fistfight. Street peoples be grabbing garbage bags and running off with them.

  Pats say, “It was a wild affair, Jackie, better than watchin The Price Is Right Never did find my bridge, fookin Harvey, but the show was high drama. Next hotel we check into I’m gonna pull the same stunt, only I’ll be sayin I lost a diamond-studded gold Rolex. Imagine the bloodshed.”

  Reggie be laughing. That be good.

  Four o’clock we go to the spa. Reggie still don’t eat or drink and be dry to hurting. He get on the scale and he be two pounds over. He don’t make weight, fight be off. That, or he have to give up some of his purse to Dashiki to get Dashiki to fight him overweight. Maybe Dashiki say no.

  Reggie lucky. He have to go to the toilet and he get rid of one pound right there. That mean he only have to lose one in the steam room. But that steam room a bitch when you already dried out. Thank God we got another day before the fight. Thank God for Pedialyte, that baby stuff, for fluids. Pats rub Reggie with baby oil. Reggie go into the steam and it run him out of there. He bent over after five minutes and he hardly wet. He rest a minute and go in for five minutes more. This time he wet and ain’t hurting so bad, getting used to it. Next time he go in for ten minutes, move around, and come out sweat pouring off him, but he still ain’t standing up straight. He get on the scale and need to lose another quarter pound. He go back in and shadowbox. He do it in three minutes, but we had to help him back to the room, where he too thirsty to sleep. So weak he don’t even turn TV on.

  Pats say, “At least we didn’t have to take shit and piss medicine.”

  Seven o’clock we at the weigh-in they have near the hotel pool. Hundred peoples there, most of them fighters and corner men and hang-ons hoping to make a few dollars handing up the stool and water bucket. Me and Pats handle all that. Reggie weigh exactly 168, Dashiki 166. They got fresh fruit up there, and after making weight, Reggie eat it up while Pats pouring Pedialyte over ice like it be orange pop. Pats use a orange-juice carton he bring along so nobody know what Reggie be drinking. Reggie drink almost a quart while we doing the paperwork for the license, and he keep on eating grapes and cantaloupe and slices of orange. Pedialyte be nasty. Pats say to eat olives for the salt. New Jersey Commission man want the name of all the peoples working our corner. I give him my name and Pats’s.

  He say, “This is only two. Rules say you can have three. You can have four at a title fight, but this ain’t a title fight, so you can have three.”

  I say, “Two be fine.”

  Commission man look at me like I don’t know the business, shake his head. I been in this game all my life, and Pats in it longer than me. We know what we need. What we don’t need is loud. Ain’t no fighter
what can win a fight by himself. He like a racehorse. Even John Henry can’t win without the jockey. But you get too many mouths going in the corner and the fighter tune them out, he close down his mind and don’t hear nothing. That’s why me and Pats work alone.

  I the chief second, the only one in the ring with Reggie for the introduction, the only one in the corner inside the ring between rounds, unless Reggie be cut. In the one minute we get, I got to grease him and tell him what he got to do. If he cut, Pats go in with his medicines to stop the blood. I work the water bucket outside the ring and talk. Otherwise Pats be outside washing the mouthpiece, catching the spit, watering the boy and cooling him down he need it. He use ice bags and stop-swell to bring down mouses and lumps. I get the stool into the ring, Pats get it out. He get the bucket up and down, unless he working a cut, then I do. All this be fast, no time to mess up. That why me and Pats work alone. Title fights same thing, we smooth like a BMW. Some corners be like a Chinese fire drill, everybody talking like they think they Eddie Futch. Between and during the rounds, I do the talking. I leave something out, then Pats say something, but most the time he quiet. Now, while the fight going on, outside the ring Pats be talking to me. I depend on it.