I accidentally swallowed Mike Tyson's false teeth. I can't believe it! They were gold, but money isn't the issue. Between the two of us, we could buy gold teeth for every man, woman, and child with the gums to accommodate them. It's not the money that bothers me.
It was late, and Mike had taken his teeth out for the evening. He'd put them in a tumbler of water we kept next to our bed. Mike could sleep with his teeth in, but believe me, it was better with them out. We had just finished making very strenuous, very complete love when I reached for that glass of water and drank it down, teeth and all. It was unsettling. The problem was that Mike was planning to have those teeth set into a medallion of commitment for me. He was gracious and forgiving and said that it was no problem, he'd just have some others made. But those teeth were special, his first real gold teeth. Those were the teeth that had torn into all of the exotic meals I had introduced him to. Those were the teeth I polished with my tongue on our first few dates, the teeth that hypnotized me across a candlelit table, the teeth that reflected the lovelight shining in my eyes. I swallowed Mike Tyson's teeth and let him down.
I've been waiting for days, but they still haven't passed. They have to come out sooner or later, don't they? Even if I do find them, I can't expect Mike to put them back in his mouth. That was a big part of our commitment ceremony. I was supposed to reach into my mouth and pull out a rather expensive diamond-studded ID bracelet I'd had made, and Mike was going to reach into his and withdraw the medallion. Mike said, What the hell, it wasn't like his teeth hadn't been up my ass before. But it was the principle of the thing that got me down.
Mike Tyson and I were arguing over what to name the kitten we'd bought. I would have just as soon taken one of the many free kittens that had been offered to us. Everyone wanted to give Mike and me kittens. I thought we might just take one of those, but Mike said no. He wanted the kitten that had captured his heart from a pet shop window the previous week, a white Persian/Himalayan female. I don't care for puffy cats in the first place, and this one, with her flat face, reminded me of whats-her-name, Bruce's new girlfriend, Patty. But I said, 'All right, Mike.' I said, 'If you want this Persian/Himalayan mix, then that's what we'll get.' I can love just about anything on all fours, so I said, 'Fine, whatever.' Let me say that a longhaired cat is one thing, but a white Persian/Himalayan blend named Pitty Ting is something else altogether.
I'd wanted to name the kitten Sabrina 2. I'd had another cat, my Sabrina, for years before she died. I was used to the name and the connotations it carried in my mind. Mike, though, was adamant about the name Pitty Ting, which was unfair seeing as I hadn't wanted a puffy cat in the first place, especially a white one that would be hard to keep clean. Besides, this was a relationship in which compromise was supposed to be the name of the game. I gave a little, so why couldn't he?
Driving home from the pet store we started to argue. Mike said some pretty rough things and I responded tit for tat. He was driving like a trained seal, all over the road, and the constant swerving was making me sick to my stomach. The kitten was in the backseat, yowling and carrying on like you wouldn't believe. I turned around and told it to shut up, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mike raise his fist. I thought he was threatening another driver or rolling up the window. It all happened so fast. I saw his raised fist, and then again, I guess I didn't see it.
After he hit me, I got out of the car and walked. I've had some physical fights with boyfriends before, Norman Mailer and Peter Jennings to name just a couple, so I'm no stranger to a flaring temper. This time, though, I just walked away. Mike followed me. He drove his car up onto the sidewalk, but I kept walking, pretending not to notice. Then Mike got out of the car and started begging, begging on his knees, and whimpering. I put my hand up to my eye, pretending to wipe away some of the blood, and then, boy, did I clip him!
While he was unconscious, I let the kitten out of the car and sort of kicked her on her way, no problem. A puffy cat like that will have no problem finding someone to love her. When he came to, Mike had forgotten the entire incident. That happens all the time he forgets. He didn't even ask why we were spattered with blood. He asked, 'What happened?' and I answered, 'Don't you remember? You said you wanted to buy me a pony.' So then we purchased a beautiful Shetland pony named Sabrina 2. We forgot about naming things, about anything but our relationship. We rode round and round the block on our pony, who groaned beneath the collective weight of our rich and overwhelming capacity for love and understanding.
Mike Tyson started acting out and it got on my nerves. I can overlook an incident here and there, but Mike started pushing it. For example, one night we were having dinner with Bill and Pat Buckley. Now, I've known Bill and Pat for years. We used to vacation together (we all adore sailing), and I think we understand one another fairly well. Bill and Pat have one of those convenient marriages, an arrangement that allows them to pursue sexual relationships on the side with no hard feelings. I met Bill Buckley back when he was going with Redd Foxx, which was years ago.
Pat had recently broken up with Elizabeth Dole and, unfortunately, decided to employ the sordid details of the breakup as our dinner's conversational centerpiece. This is an old habit of hers. Pour a few drinks into Pat Buckley and she'll tell you everything, whether you want to hear it or not. If forced to take sides in the issue, I'm afraid I'd sympathize with Liz Dole, but Mike felt differently. We were having dinner when Pat started telling us about a few of Liz's rather arcane sexual practices. When Bill suggested she change the subject, Mike hauled off and punched him, breaking his jaw as a matter of fact. Afterwards, Pat Buckley thanked Mike Tyson for breaking her husband's jaw. She said she'd spent the last forty years being patronized by men like Bill Buckley. So what does Mike do? He invites Pat to move in with us! Now, I know what Pat Buckley is really like, and I don't want her living in our house, dragging strange girls in and out at all hours of the night. I've seen Pat Buckley in action. I know about the drinking, the drugs, all of it, so I said, 'Miiiikkkkeeee,' through my clenched teeth. I kicked him under the table and he kicked back.
Mike Tyson is making an ugly face in the 'Newsmakers' section of this week'sNewsweek magazine, an ugly face directed toward me. I'm not frightened so much as shamed and concerned. In the picture Mike's skin seems sallow and blotchy. He looks like he's been rolling around in an ashtray. Our breakup was hard on him, but whining to the press won't help.
I left as soon as Pat Buckley moved in. I guess Mike thought I would change my mind and welcome her into our lives. I guess Mike was wrong.
Pat Buckley didn't stay long. She was dating Mackenzie Phillips at the time and stayed only three weeks before taking off to Cannes or Rio or someplace. Looking back on it, I can't put all the blame on Pat Buckley. Mike and I had problems before she came along, big problems we would have been forced to deal with sooner or later. I don't want to go into any of the details of our relationship, but I would like to set the record straight and say that there is no truth to the rumors about me and Morley Safer. I resent Mike's accusation that Morley and I are anything more than friends.
I resent Mike Tyson's self-pitying ploys for attention. I resent his suggestion that I was in any way false or insincere. Unlike him, I don't care to dwell on the unpleasant aspects of our relationship. I prefer to remember a time when Mike and I, having finished a simple game of cards, were sitting side by side in comfortable reclining chairs. Mike took my hand in his and began, very gently, to pet my fingers, kissing each one, and addressing them as individuals.
Music for Lovers
ANITA O'DAY was recently interviewed on the radio, on one of the stations I am fond of. She was hooked on drugs for years but claims to have kicked the habit. She told the interviewer that she had taken drugs because she had felt like taking drugs. Then, when she no longer felt like it, she went off to Hawaii, where she was a stranger to drug salesmen. She sounded drunk to me. She said, 'My name's O'Day and that's pig latin for money, honey, and plenty of it.' She must have been drunk to ramble on like that. She claimed that her record company is managed and financed by her dog. Drunk.
It turns out that Anita O'Day is missing her uvula, that sack of flesh that hangs from the rear of most everyone's palate. Hers was accidentally removed during a childhood tonsillectomy. She was young then and has adjusted, made quite a name for herself.
I've heard Anita O'Day sing plenty of times before but was very excited when, at the end of the interview, the station played a few of her songs. It sounded completely new to me, knowing that she was missing her uvula. Apparently, along with the appendix and tonsils, the uvula is one of those things that we can do without. Since the
