Paulie Spadorcci was not the only “friend of the marriage” to put the moves on me after Donald and I divorced. But he was the only one I said “yes” to. For one thing, he had always been more my friend than Don’s. For another, he, alone, thought to ask Don first, for permission, before asking me out. I respected the respect.
Donald, already securely nestled into a new love’s arms, was beneficent. “Marilyn was always fond of you,” he informed Paulie, sincerely. “You were always one of her favorites.” Although Donald told many lies around the time we split up, that statement was true.
I met Pauie Spadorcci working as a journalist, filling in for a sports features writer who was on medical leave after being blinded in his right eye by a fast streaking hardball, while covering a first game of the season.
“Give me a few thousand words on this pug who’s trying to put together a pension fund for boxers,” barked our sports editor “on my desk by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
So I rushed out to interview Paul Antonio (AKA “Paulie”) Spadorcci – an ex lightweight champion (and ex-con) who was attracting media attention trying to establish a pension fund for boxers.
Although boxers can earn a lot during their ring years, they are notoriously poor at holding on to money. Apparently many are roaming thru streets of major urban centers, homeless, gathering scrap metal for walking money and eating out of dumpsters. Unlike other professional athletes, prizefighters have no pension fund to rely upon once their fighting days are over and Paulie was determined to try and change all that.
Paulie turned out to be a fascinating character. Short and marvelously muscled, his nose ran back and forth across his, nevertheless, handsome face like a winding road depiction on a map. A former world champion in his weight class, Spadorcci now worked as a boxing coach/trainer and supplemented his meager earnings moonlighting as a magician and occasional stand up comic. (He was a living, breathing contradiction, Paulie Spadorcci.)
“Once ya ring days are over,” he explained cheerfully, in his Taylor Street/Damon Runyon vernacular, “it’s imperative ta find ways to keep da money rollin in.”
As it happened, my son Keith’s eighth birthday was coming up. Although competitive kid-centric entertainment was de rigueur at his private school, I’d yet to line up an over-the-top event and “zero hour” was fast approaching. Figuring boxer/magician/comedian was an interesting theme never previously preempted by some other parent, I hired Paulie on the spot. Later, I was delighted and amazed to watch him keep thirty formerly screaming kids round eyed and slack jawed for forty-five minutes in a show that ended, literally, with rabbits jumping out of a giant hat. Post show, over hot dogs, potato salad and chocolate cake, Paulie regaled Don and I with stories of personalities and events from his former Las Vegas boxing days.
“I used ta dazzel’em,” he laughed, referring to his opponents in the ring. “I’d wear them metallic gold trunks with glitter fringe, see. An they’d be dancing,” here he jumped around a little for effect. “Then I’d punch’em, bam, with a left hook (he demonstrated with a lightning fast air punch). An while they’re goin down them pants are shinin an sparkelin.” Here he offered a wide, lopsided grin. “Dey’re thinking to demselves ‘Where the heck am I? Heaven?'” As he delivered his punch line, Paulie absentmindedly squatted down to tie shoe laces on a young party attendee attempting to grab balloons out of his pocket.
From that day on, Paulie (accompanied by various belles du jour (always attractive, well-educated, professional women) became, first, a regular guest in our home and, later, over time, a true friend.
Our actual affair was brief. After Don left, Paulie suddenly began turning up more often, alone, at what was, by then, exclusively my home. Some nights he would bring along something: A bottle of 1971 Chateau La Fete Rothchild, a DVD of the opera Carmen, groceries expertly combined into restaurant quality pasta marinara. It took me some time (because, despite having been consulted, Don had not thought to give me a “heads up”) but eventually I realized Paulie was seeking to ratchet our friendship up a notch.
Still, there was no pressure. Paulie had always had more than his fair share of female companionship. Tons of women, really. During his fighting days there were always ring girls, fight fans, Vegas real-estate agents, flirty coffee-shop waitresses and statuesque show girls. Women loved being held in Paulie’s perfectly toned arms or receiving a shy kiss from lips which were always in full pout even when they weren’t swollen with ring bruises.
Paulie was ruggedly handsome. Classic Roman features sat atop a body molded by years of pre-event training. Even his crooked nose was appealing in the way missing limbs on marble sculptures lend additional character. Besides being a smooth talker, Paulie was genuinely fond of women. Of course, being Italian didn’t hurt. Many women succumbed to Paulie’s charms. But few of those who came to know Paulie (in the Biblical sense) stayed around long enough to claim a permanent spot in his life. Four of those who did had bourn him children.
There was Chiquita, a doe eyed Central American beauty whose daughter, Carmen, was a carbon copy of her mother and Alexis, a tall, pencil thin African American woman whose daughter by Paulie, Denise, worked as a runway model. Sandy gave Paulie his only son, Paulie Jr., who, like his dad, tended to get into and out of occasional legal scrapes – always with a wink and a smile. His partner in crime was Frankie, Sandy’s son from another relationship — who Paulie continued to treat as his own even after Sandy and he split. Lastly there was Angelina – Paulie’s first love and only legal wife – although they were divorced almost as quickly as they married. Their daughter Maria, eldest of Paulie’s children, was more sober and spiritual then her siblings.
Although a free spirit, Paulie could always be depended upon when something was needed for one of his kids. When a daughter turned fifteen, there would be a lavish quienciera. When a son’s pranks created problems with local authorities, a brief stay would be arranged at an exclusive, out of state, private boarding school. If someone demonstrated special talent for, say, art or music, a tutor was located.
If he wasn’t your typical stay-at-home Dad, Paulie was a dad nevertheless. He loved his kids — occasionally with such ferocity that restraining orders were necessary. For example, when a youthful suitor pursued a Spadorcci daughter too amorously and was informed he might pay for it “with his life,” it was time for cops and courtrooms. Paulie would always comply with restraining orders until tempers cooled. Then family ties were reestablished and life could proceed normally again – for a while anyway.
Of course by the time of my brief affair with Paulie, I knew all Paulie’s ex-wives, girlfriends, friends, mother, brothers, sisters and cousins. They were family to me. Nevertheless, I knew Paulie’s and my actual affair would not – could not – last. Long term, one-on-one relationships were outside the scope of Paulie’s biological hard wiring. Moreover, no one, not even Paulie’s own mother, could stand to be around him uninterrupted for very long. He was simply too large a personality. He used up too much space.
But immediately after my divorce, I needed to reintroduce myself into the world of non-married people. Fortunately, Paulie was willing, and I was able to allow him, to be my stepping stone back from the safety net of committed relationships to chaos of living single. We both understood from the start our affair was about this journey. We also knew, intuitively, that, once it was over, our affair would end but our friendship would be able to continue, unharmed, as before. We just knew.
Still, while it lasted, our affair was fun. Paulie was a dynamic escort – witty, life of the party, possessing a surprising breadth of knowledge for someone who had lived life in a boxing ring. Paulie could converse intelligently on virtually any topic (albeit in his odd pugilistic dialect)and he held strong, well-reasoned opinions. Attentive, sensitive and always a physical presence, Paulie turned heads upon entering a room and usually made many new friends before leaving. When he looked at you, with his wide, open-eyed smile, you always knew you were in a genuine interaction.
I enjoyed it while it lasted. Then, as quickly as it began, our affair was over. We knew. We both just knew. We started staying in touch more by telephone then in person, periodically losing touch completely — during which time Paulie would be out of the country working on some mysterious project or other. Then, in typical Paulie fashion, as suddenly as he had disappeared he would reappear — telling me how he missed our “intellctal” talks, wineing and dining me at some five star restaurant. And so it went with us.
While I worked to rebuild my new life, Paulie was there, then not, then there again. When he was around, we hung out together and enjoyed one-another’s company till, once again, he would disappear. Given this pattern, I thought nothing of it when, at one point, Paulie dropped off the radar and I did not hear from him for about six months.
Like I say, Paulie had been dropping in and out of my life ever since we had known one another. Plus, I was going thru a bad time. My elderly father was being “evicted” from his nursing home for touching one of the female residents “inappropriately.” No one seemed to care that she had been touching him right back and that they genuinely liked one another. There was talk of a negligence suit by the woman’s family against the home and next thing I knew, Dad wound up in my spare bedroom screaming, angrily, for someone to change his television channel or his diapers or to bring him some “G** D*** edible food for a change.”
When Paulie called me, I was happy to hear from him but realized right away something didn’t sound right. “I been sick,” he admitted. “But it’s nuttin serious. Da docs, dey got it all under control.”
I took him at his word. After all, this was a man who once, after having his jaw broken in the ring, forced paramedics to stop at an ice-cream shop on the way to the hospital so he could enjoy a banana split. “I knew I wazzant gonna be eatin for a while. So I figured I’d enjoy myself one last time before they wired me,” he offered by way of explanation.
You don’t associate a guy like that with illness or death. He’s from that breed of men who roar at the universe until it bends to their will. He once knocked out a ring opponent with such force the guy was in a coma for six months. (Typical Paulie, he called the hospital every day to inquire after his opponent’s well being and ask if his family needed anything.) Paulie was…larger than life. So I was not really prepared for a second telephone call I received a few days later from Paulie’s daughter Maria.
“He’s been sick for a while,” she whispered. But everyone was sworn to secrecy.” I waited. “It’s his liver,” she continued quietly. “He’s dying.”
If this had been one of Paulie’s other kids – Denise, always immersed in fashion, Carmen, living overseas teaching outreach art, Paulie Junior or Frankie, who shared their dad’s love of pranks, I might have discounted this statement. So unbelievable it was to me. But Maria, was rock solid. Plus I had been hearing occasional rumors from other friends of Paulie sightings wherein he wasn’t looking too well.
Even knowing all this, I was unprepared for what I found when I went to visit Paulie in the hospital. High profile medical conditions, like aids and breast cancer, get so much media play, we forget how devastating garden variety illnesses like end-stage liver disease can be.
I found Paulie wide awake, surrounded by pillows, half sitting half lying across his bed. He was a caricature of his former physical self — his famous body withered and gaunt except for an enormously distended belly herniated in the umbilical area from, I was told, repeated surgeries. His head seemed unusually large in relation to his body and, yet, he still held it regally. His classically Roman features had assumed that prematurely aged look I associate with people close to death. Yet his eyes, yellow with jaundice, gripped mine with familiar aggressive intensity. It was as though my Paulie, ravaged by physical illness was determined to remain mentally strong. I felt this and so held his gaze unflinchingly, though it pained me to do so, and we talked – or, rather, Paulie talked and I listened. Just like old times.
“Deez idiots at the utilities company, lost records of my deposit,” he complained, in his familiar, slightly nasal voice with its old-Italian-neighborhood cadence. “Maybe you could check it out for me?” He gestured towards a helter-skelter pile of papers perched precariously on one corner of his standard issue, metal hospital tray.
“Sure,” I agreed, blinking back tears, although I knew Paulie was homeless right now and really didn’t need to worry about old utility bills.
Paulie, was a pugilist. Always battling someone, something. Only now he had the look of a fighter, just before a fight, who realizes there’s been a bad mistake (unintentional or otherwise) in the matchmaking. He understands he’s hopelessly outclassed but he’s a professional. He’s got guts. He’s going to at least step into that ring and land as many punches, last as many rounds, as he is able.
Paulie yelled for a while, about this and that, and I, like always, listened. When it came time to go, I hugged him close and kissed his forehead, telling him I’d be back to see him real soon. I turned back at the doorway and Paulie was watching me, head cocked at a jaunty slant. “Don’t go messin around with no other guys, now, while I’m too weak ta defend my territory,” he quipped – flashing his familiar slanted grin. I knew, then, that despite illness, horrible physical deformity and impending death, my old friend Paulie Spadorcci remained, still.
Somehow, this made everything harder. I simply could not wrap my head around this dichotomy between Paulie’s physical and mental selves.
Finally I decided that it must have been his profession that had conditioned Paulie so well for this battle. His physical body had always been an instrument, a tool. It was put through paces, taking orders from managers, referees, trainers. It reacted to opponents in the ring often absorbing so much punishment that medical intervention was necessary. But once it was patched up, it went back out into life to partake of whatever other physical experiences awaited it. Paulie’s body belonged to everyone. To…the world. Paulie’s mind he kept for himself and those he really loved. For Paulie, this latest assault upon his body was just one more corporal challenge. His body accepted it like it had all those others that had gone before. Paulie’s mind, meanwhile, was still pure Paulie. Illness had not altered him one bit.
We all, those who loved him, watched, like spellbound fight fans, as Paulie grappled with death’s tedious approach. Jab, jab, jab, like a relentless, methodical opponent, death kept landing solid hits. And Paulie, Paulie kept rocking but remained standing.
Occasionally, infused with superhuman vigor that had made him a champion, Paulie would yank out his i.v. leads and break for the streets. With no warning, he would turn up at a familiar gym or nightspot, weak, leaking serous fluid from his bandage encased legs, yet seemingly oblivious to his physical condition. He would smile and joke with old friends, or whoever was around, until he collapsed and had to be picked up, and carried back to some hospital. If no friend or family member was nearby, an ambulance would be called and some unlucky paramedic team would arrive to be ordered about by Paulie as though they were glorified cab drivers. (“No, I said don’t take me to the Cook County Hospital. Take me to da Walter Payton Liver Clinic. Are youz guys deaf or what?” “When I’m feelin better, I’m calling my lawyer and reporting youze guys. I might even bring a law suit.”)
As the rounds wore on, everyone got tired. Tired just from watching. Despite loving Paulie, we began to wish he would just give up and spare himself, and all of us, further suffering through the specticle. What were we thinking? This was Paulie Spadorcci in the fight of his life. He wasn’t going to go quietly or gently into that good night.
So fluids were drained out of him and fluids were pumped back into him (“ta adjust dem electrolytes”). And all the while he kept joking and wisecracking and yelling at anyone who happened to be standing nearby.
And we continued to watch, mesmerized .
It was like one of those matches where one boxer is being beaten so badly he is stumbling around the ring, disoriented, trunks falling down around his knees, getting knocked down again and again. Each time, a part of you wants to yell at him: “Stay down. No way you can beat this opponent. Just stop…quit.” Even family and fans of that fighter hope, for his sake, to see a quick, clean knockout. “Just an end to it,” you think. Maybe you close your eyes momentarily. Can’t stand to watch. Maybe you yell at your reff: “Hey Moron. Can’t you see this guy’s had it. Stop the fight, you idiot.” But after some hasty verbal exchanges, perhaps a quick check by a ring doc, the fighter shakes his head, No, he does not want to stop. He wants to continue. So the fight goes on…and on…and on. Now you can’t stop watching – despite your horror, you’re utterly captivated by such sheer tenacity of human spirit slugging onward against insurmountable odds. Now you almost don’t want the fight to end because you feel such a swell of respect for that fighter and what he is willing to endure that you are being made a better person by watching. That is a fighter’s gift to us. That was what it was like for us friends and family of Paulie Spadorcci.
I was selfish in not wanting Paulie’s fight to end also because I felt when I lost him I would lose everything. My past, my youth. In an odd way, even my former marriage would be more completely over with Paulie’s death than it was through my divorce. What lay ahead? We all felt uncomfortable thinking about that and realizing where Paulie was going, we must all go too someday – probably, without his grit or dignity. Maybe we would end up lying somewhere in some nursing home drinking creamed food through a straw and shitting ourselves. It’s just a fact of life but it made us squeamish nonetheless. So we brooded and comforted one another and held a special tribute event in Paulie’s honor which he attended in a wheelchair. Then we waited some more. Waited, it seemed like, forever.
Suddenly, all at once, it was over. Fight ended. Mortal man gone. Paulie’s mother and brothers and sisters, friends from the boxing world and his exotic assembly of former wives, girlfriends and children came to pick up whatever physical pieces remained: Denise, a rock star in dark glasses, Carmen, glad to be back stateside in time to say good by, Maria, with her sobbing mother. Paulie Jr., Frankie and some of their friends, handsome, aggressive young men, defiantly hoisted up Paulie’s coffin and we all trudged off to Mary of Angels Cemetery in a rainstorm.
There, I could just see Paulie watching us as we scrambled around in mud trying to cope with death rituals and grief. Graveside, I clearly heard his voice scolding us: “I told all of youz I wanted to be cremated and scattered around on the floors of boxing gyms around town. But did youz’all respect my last wishes? No, youz’all wanted to do it the liget way. Youze took da easy way out.”
The ring is empty now, lights darkened, show over. For those remaining, nothing left to do but hold on to our memories and figure out how to fill empty spaces once claimed by a living, breathing unique, one of a kind man. We must find a way to process that fantastic phenomenon we have just witnessed – the life and the death of Paulie Spadorcci. And it won’t be easy.
For me the pain of Paulie’s death is tempered by my fond memories of our brief affair and how he led me through divorce’s sadness to the happiness I found afterward.
Just the other day, I got a call from Donald checking in to see how I am doing and to commensurate over Paulie’s death. Although we are both now in other relationships, Donald and I have re-claimed our friendship. There were just too many years of knowing and loving each other to throw that away. As we shared stories of Paulie and his crazy antics, it was as though we were back in those bygone days and he was with us again.
There was life after divorce and even friendship. And there will be life after the death of Paulie Spadorcci. Life, death, beginnings, endings. Those very things which bring us our greatest joys also cause us our deepest sorrows. Without pain there can be no pleasure. As Paulie would say. “Ya can’t escape pain so ya might as well embrace it till ya can get back to the good stuff.”
I can just see him smiling down (or is it up) at us like an impish child. “Right now, youz guys are just gonna hafta suffer for a while,” he is laughing, “’cause I made real sure ta make myself not too easy ta forget.”