All The Rage

The parade of international media enjoys these departures into feigned normalcy and plays happily along. When Tyson touts de Grazia as "the most sophisticated writer since that impostor, what's his name?"—the clot correctly shouts out, " Shakespeare!"

"I like all those guys, like the Gatsby guy [ F. Scott Fitzgerald!] and the guy who shot himself [Hemingway!]," Tyson goes on. "They were cool. Derelicts and drunks. They were hip. They were cool."

You see, he is not canned hatred after all, stir and heat. What he is, he would very much like you to know, is damaged goods, struggling for redemption, for knowledge, just like the rest of us. His excuse, in summary: "I don't know what to do. I'm from the ghetto. I don't know how to act. One day I'm in a dope house robbing somebody; next day I'm heavyweight champion of the world."

This would be more affecting, of course, if it were true. Not to disregard his early upbringing in Brownsville, but he did spend some formative years—age 13 on—in the Catskills refuge of his trainer and surrogate father, Cus D'Amato. Not many of his opponents enjoyed so generous a sponsorship.

His forays into citizenship, anything short of a book group, have sometimes been less than halfhearted, but he has made attempts. He recognizes that, within his life, he had the chance to become a beloved figure. "I would have liked to be Tiger Woods or Michael Jordan or Will Smith," he says. His nature thwarted him, though, because "I like the forbidden fruits, I like to have my d—- sucked." The outrage is not that he's deprived of the reverence bestowed upon that trio but that those three seem to operate above the law, his law, of hypocrisy. It is galling to him that Jordan, who was briefly separated from his wife (to Tyson's mind, because he probably enjoyed forbidden fruits), continues to enjoy respect. "Everybody in this country is a big f——— liar."

Still, he tries. Not too long ago, but well before this fight was announced, Tyson ran into Lewis at Crustacean, a Beverly Hills restaurant. Tyson's wife, Monica (they are in the process of divorce, precipitated by this very event, he says, half joking), suggested he say hello to his compadre. Tyson understood that this is how normal people behave and, forbidden fruits aside this one time, was eager to become part of the social contract—a father, a neighbor, a Muslim, a good citizen, a fighter well-met. Someone beloved. Yet when he tried to perform even this minimal act of civility, he was rebuked. "He looked at me and stared me down like a damn dog," he says. "Made me a punk. You see, I want to be a nice guy, but my wife, she hands him my nuts. Takes my balls away from me." It is exactly that difficult for Tyson, manhood.

He has always been desperate for approval and easily seduced by any interest shown him. From Cus D'Amato, from Don King. It is no great trick, for that matter, for writers, whose asses he would kick, to establish a rapport, however brief and self-serving. Just appear to take him seriously. "Mike," a man asks, "would you say that pigeons are the niggers of the bird world?" The question, while flabbergasting and pointless, is also flattering to Tyson in that it seems to respect his interest, his knowledge of the animal world vis-�-vis race, and, ultimately, his authority. He answers the writer at length, and they are friends for life.

He does want to be a nice guy, does want to be loved. Who doesn't, of course. Yet Tyson, millionaire champion at 20, has come to believe that love must cost. His two marriages—the first, to actress Robin Givens in 1988, the result of Hollywood opportunity; the second, the result of jail-house visits—will certainly have been pricey. Far more reliable to engage what he calls "strippers and bitches" for purposes of comparatively cut-rate companionship. "No strip clubs here," he says, laughing at himself. "I didn't know that when I came."

Is it a matter of unchecked appetite? "I'm not criminally lascivious, you know what I mean," he says. "I may like to fornicate more than other people, it's just who I am. I sacrifice so much of my life, can I at least get laid? I mean, I been robbed of most of my money, can I at least get my d—- sucked?"

Or is it something sadder than that? "I'll tell a ho, here's some extra money, make me think you love me." He laughs.