We chatted about our days and nights as waiters, the women he had serviced at the hotel, and his small bedroom in his grandparents? apartment?
I met Doc when we first worked at a resort hotel one long-ago summer. We called him Doc because he was intent on going to medical school. But Doc was no rich kid. He was an orphan, raised by poor immigrant grandparents. Doc was earning enough money to pay his med school tuition by sleeping with hotel guests, widows and wealthy divorcees. Just before checking out of the hotel, his grateful partners would lavish large tips on Doc.
But then one morning, Doc?s business plan blew up. Someone complained to the hotel?s owner. Doc was fired right after breakfast, told to pack up his belongings, and leave before lunch. I walked Doc out to the main road, where he could catch a Greyhound bus; I brought him a sandwich and coke for his trip back to New York.
?What are you going to do now?? I asked.
?I?ll think about it for the next few hours.?
In late September, I got a call from Doc: ?Can you meet me for lunch today? There?s a Horn & Hardart Automat at Times Square.?
?I?ll meet you there at noon.?
?Okay.?
I hadn?t been in an Automat for years and looked forward to my childhood favorites: macaroni & cheese, lemon meringue pie, and coffee. I got a handful of nickels from the cashier and deposited a series of coins into the appropriate slots. I swung open the small glass door and breathed in the macaroni?s delicious aroma. It was a trip down memory lane, taking me back to the early 1950s. As I sat down to eat, Doc entered and briskly walked over to me.
?You didn?t waste any time getting something to eat,? he said.
?I couldn?t resist the temptation. This is childhood comfort food.?
?I?ll get a sandwich and join you. Be right back.?
Doc sat down, took a few bites of a chicken salad sandwich, sipped his coffee, and then stared at me for a minute. His expression implied that he was sizing me up, figuring what he could tell me. ?What?s up?? I asked.
?I don?t know if I ever told you, but my grandpa did a little boxing after he came to this country. He earned a few bucks before getting his city job. He always stayed in touch with the small time promoters and fighters he knew back then. Well, I told the old guy that I would have to drop out of med school, that I didn?t have enough money to continue. So he put me in touch with a couple of old promoters. They?re nice guys, a little crooked probably, but who cares. Anyway, based on one year of medical training, I was hired as a cutman. Know what that is??
?No. What is it??
?A cutman works a boxer?s corner. Between rounds, he makes sure that his fighter doesn?t bleed. To begin, I put Vaseline on a fighter?s face. It adds elasticity so the skin won?t easily tear when hit. On bruised swollen areas, I press an ice bag. If the fighter has a cut, I put a cotton swab soaked in epinephrine on it to stop the flow. I can use something called Aventine to coagulate the blood. If the guy gets a bloody nose, I have to apply a cotton swab soaked in adrenaline hydrochloride, while I?m pressing the bloody nostril against the cotton swab with my other hand. If a fighter bleeds too badly, his fight will be ended by the referee. A cut perpendicular to the eye can mean a lost fight. So that?s pretty much it. Now, you know about my new profession.?
?So how do you like it?? I asked.
?It?s OK. I?m not exactly a surgeon,? Doc smirked. ?But I get one to three percent of what my fighter gets. But I can make some real money if I learn that a fight is fixed. I could bet on the winner and collect.?
?So do you know of any fixed fights??
?Maybe.?
?Well??
There?s a fight next Friday, and I learned that it?s going to end in round three. The guy who?s going to lose that night is presently the five-to-one favorite. So when he kisses the canvas those who bet on his opponent will clean up.?
?And??
?I need to get down as much money as possible. I want to be back in med school next year.?
?How much do you need??
?As much as I can get. If you get together $500, I?ll bet it for you. When I collect, I?ll split your winnings with you.?
?I could bet it myself and keep 100%.?
?You could, but you don?t know the names of the fighters. It could be a main event, an undercard, an out-of-town fight. You wouldn?t know who to bet on. I know, and my commission is 50% of your winnings. Want it??
?I?ll have to see how much money I can raise.?
?Let me know by Wednesday. If I can get a bundle together, I don?t want to bet it all at once. I don?t want a bookie to think I have a sure thing. He could become suspicious, speak to others, and the odds could drop.?
?I?ll be in touch,? I said and sipped my coffee, which was as delicious as I recalled.
We chatted for a few minutes about our days and nights as waiters, the women he had serviced at the hotel, and his small bedroom in his grandparents? apartment. We stood up, shook hands, and parted, friends and conspirators.
Over the next few months, Doc made enough money to finish his medical school training. He went on to have a successful residency and got a fellowship during which he was able to study brain injuries caused by blows to the skull.
Doc now has a highly successful concierge practice, where he charges fees ranging from $1500 to $3000 annually. His sliding scale fees are meant to fit the financial wherewithal of his patients. There are, however, a group of patients he never charges. He doesn?t even bother with insurance even if they?re on Medicare or Medicaid. Those patients are the fighters who, unbeknownst to them, financed his medical education.
