The Laughter of Strangers

by Michael J Seidlinger

The host’s face turns red, “Then who the CENSORED are you?!”

  The entire scene washes out not a bright white but rather a sharper sort of contrast. The colors become too overbearing. Every shape and surface becomes too detailed. I feel the knot in my stomach loosen. It loosens and starts climbing up my throat.

  The truth is about to come out.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I don’t know who I am.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I cannot explain myself.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I am not Willem Floures.

  DON’T LAUGH

  Maybe I never was.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I am a liar.

  DON’T LAUGH

  Every win was really a loss.

  DON’T LAUGH

  Every chuckle hurts me to the core.

  DON’T LAUGH

  This is humiliating.

  THERE IT GOES

  It shoots out of my stomach, spatters all across the host’s desk.

  Some of it gets on his suit. He stands up slowly, looking at the truth in all its filth. The audience erupts into an uncontrollable laughter.

  I couldn’t fight back the truth any longer.

  I never killed a man.

  I never cared about the sick.

  I never cared about anyone.

  Executioner never disappeared. I kidnapped him.

  I betrayed everyone I ever called a friend.

  I didn’t really win the last fight.

  It was rigged.

  The truth, it stinks.

  THE LAUGHTER

  It singes my eyebrows, leaving only bare skin.

  My face warps into a constant gesture of surprise.

  The host drops his mug. It shatters as he shouts:

  “GET THIS PIECE OF SHIT OFF MY SHOW!”

  It looks bad for everyone involved.

  I have never been so humiliated in my life.

  Blink twice and I am back in the basement, wondering if any of it happened. I look down at myself. I can’t smell the vomit over the stench from X’s body. I try to scoop up the lies before they dry but this shirt is ruined.

  This also means I’ll have to get up from my seat.

  I will have to clean myself up.

  I will have to take care of X’s body.

  So be it.

  Stand up. Drag the body. Find a burial plot in the back yard.

  Disregard any onlookers.

  The truth is already out there.

  DON’T LAUGH

  This ends an era of my existence.

  I need to figure out how to save Willem from the onslaught of the media. With X buried, I am next.

  ‘Sugar’ has the one fight left.

  HOW AM I GOING TO WIN THIS FIGHT?

  I have already lost.

  I have already won.

  Choose one of the above.

  Notice how I begin with the negative. I always see the bad before I see the good. The good thing is that I am able to notice a pattern.

  Maybe I am not completely lost.

  What I worry about, well what I worry about is obviously a lot, but what I need to worry about right about now is how to pick up the pieces.

  I need to find out where they’ve gone.

  What do they have to say about me?

  Maybe I can learn more about myself in the process.

  I might not survive the revealing but, then again, I didn’t think about the long-term consequences of my actions, the “consequences” of having turned every fact into a sort of fiction just so that I could make myself more interesting for you.

  For all of you.

  WONDER

  But I do wonder…

  What does Willem mean to all of you?

  THE LAUGHTER OF FRIENDS

  I want to ask everyone:

  WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

  Is it something I did, or was it something I said?

  What do you think of me? They whisper into the clouds the nature of their replies. They are nicer than most. They are my friends.

  What did you think this was about?

  You tried to get an explanation out of me and the best you got was a long diatribe about how I’d be too afraid to be a guest on a talk show.

  And yet I still had to make an appearance.

  They are friends though.

  I have friends just like I had family.

  To live in a world is to build up a support network full of friends and family that have your back. Even if you forget to call.

  Especially if you lose touch.

  They escaped, you know?

  THEY ARE OUT THERE

  Fending for Willem.

  Willem deserves better.

  I bet it’s worth a laugh, seeing the damage I’ve done to the identity.

  I was only trying to do what’s best for Willem.

  Okay, that’s a lie. What is one more to add to the pile?

  R.I.P. X

  With Executioner buried six feet in the back yard, I sit at the kitchen table. I take ten minutes to face the silence I fear, the silence I drive away with every sort of distraction.

  Ten minutes is what I sacrifice in hopes of finding out that I’m not as bad off as I might have remembered.

  It takes my full concentration. Focal point is the chair across from me. Don’t focus on the clock. Don’t focus on the house. Don’t focus on yourself.

  Keep your focus on something justifiable.

  As in:

  The chair is a chair.

  It is as simple as that. I don’t need to wonder if it might be something else. At the very least, I know that the chair across from me is most definitely a chair.

  THE LAUGHTER

  In silence, I hear the laughter that scarred me.

  It makes these ten minutes a distinct challenge. However, these ten minutes are mine. I face the challenge; I fight back the urge to look away, the urge to listen to my thoughts, and I keep to the chair, my eyes barely blinking:

  Focus on the chair.

  WHAT DOES WILLEM MEAN TO YOU?

  By now they are on their way.

  I return to the basement, return to the seat, return my attention to the TV but not because I need but rather because I “want.”

  As in: I want to listen.

  As in: I want to know what it’s like to be Willem Floures in this day and age. I heard it’s mostly the same but with a different spin on things.

  Counterpuncher is the new knockout artist.

  A KO is a cheap fight when a counterpuncher breaks the opponent down until the body winces and the pain is unbearable.

  ESCAPE ARTIST

  If you ask me, I’d tell you a story about Willem. It would be from back when the limelight followed me wherever I went. Willem was my name and I was a fighter. Sugar as in sweet science. Sugar as in the alias to end all aliases.

  Nothing sweeter than sugar.

  I’d sting you with a single shot and you’d be marked.

  Nothing personal.

  I’m just the better fighter. Even if you weren’t sure who was who, I’d let you know how it is in twelve rounds or less. In twelve rounds, you’d meet Willem.

  In twelve rounds, you’d meet me.

  SO HOW IS WILLEM DOING?

  I admit I hurt his image. Willem Floures is a bit of a joke. According to the media, the moment they found out—lies are lies and lies are fatal—there was a massive pilgrimage towards a competing identity.

  Different leagues but do they really have it better?

  Willem Floures is a name to remember.

  NOT SO

  They didn’t seem to think so after I had blurred the line between dignity and humility, honesty and slander. I made it so that no one knew what I’d do next…especially me.

  How much of it is imagined?

  How much of it is uninspired?

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  I lean forward, listening to the first interview. They speak to ‘Buster’ Willem Floures, and the question right about now i
s the simplest and most difficult to answer:

  WHY SHOULD WE CARE?

  Willem Floures captured the world’s interest. In order to exist, they will want it to continue. I want to continue. Can I please continue?

  This isn’t about me; it is only about ‘me.’

  WHO ARE YOU VS WHO I AM

  Notice the past tense. It’s a sad song on repeat, echoing throughout every thought. It makes this all so difficult. I have to listen to them like I’m anyone else. I sit here, television viewer, and it’s like the past decades have been unraveled. How much of it is left?

  WHY SHOULD WE CARE?

  Friends, why should they care about us? Why should they care about you? Why should they care about Willem?

  ‘Buster’ is being interviewed at the gym. He’s serious, not a single grin or chuckle at the outlandish questions being asked of him before getting to the all-important one, the one question that’ll decide whether or not there is anything to this—anything to him.

  “Yeah, so, you had to ask me that question didn’t you?”

  The interviewer nods, “Our viewers want to know. The state of the league, as it stands, is in tatters after the recent events. We merely look for some sort of understanding. If you are not able to explain yourself, we worry that our time is being wasted.”

  ‘Buster’ leans on the ropes, casual cool, “I can explain myself. That’s on me. So you want the full spiel? Yeah? Well my name is Willem Floures. ‘Buster’s’ my alias. You can call me ‘Buster.’ I have six wins, zero losses. All six by knockout. I originally moved up here from the South after I heard about how Spencer Mullen’s training camp was taking in new recruits. I guess there are a whole lot of us. We all think alike. We’re all more or less the same.”

  He pauses, “What else…?”

  The interviewer offers, “Try talking about why you wanted to become a boxer.”

  Nodding, “Sure. I can talk about that. I don’t think I had much of a choice, actually. Fighting followed me. I came from a poor family and I wasn’t very popular in school. Growing up I got beat up a lot. I felt like I was getting the sense beaten out of me. I felt like a zero, kind of useless, you know? And so I did my best to do good in school but it wasn’t for me. I had okay grades but it wasn’t what I had in store. My name was memorable enough so I figured there might be something to it. I ended up choosing boxing instead of basketball and wrestling during junior high. We all got to choose which sport/discipline to study. Boxing was an application. I had to do a lot of soul searching. I had a lot of fight in me. It all clicked together.”

  Was I poor?

  Had I been bullied as a child?

  Willem was a natural fighter. I figure most fighters have to get tossed around, beaten up a bit before coming into their own.

  A fighter needs to understand what it’s like to lose before they can ever achieve a win.

  I cringe a little when the interviewer switches to another question, the one about me. ‘Me.’ ‘Sugar.’

  Will he tell the world what I did?

  “Bad times come and go, you know? I went through a bad time. I felt like I was all tied up inside. I had to reassess my decision to fight. You can’t fight if there isn’t a deep meaning of why you fight. See—

  “Every fight is soul-searching. It is...”

  ‘Buster’ searches for the right words before settling with, “The actual dance is the surface. There’s a whole ’nother side to a fight.”

  The interviewer thanks ‘Buster’ for the tell-all.

  I switch channels.

  MY FRIENDS

  Do I consider myself a friend?

  Do I like myself? Based on what I see next, I get the feeling that I’d be hard to stomach for long periods of time.

  Willem Floures is a little self-absorbed.

  ‘Stinger.’ That’s his alias.

  He is invited onto a sports-cast where they discuss and analyze the sports industry at-large.

  “Hello Willem, it’s nice to have you here,” says one of the sportscasters.

  “Great to be here,” replies ‘Stinger.’

  “Now, just to make it clear, you are in no way affiliated or a friend to ‘Sugar’ am I right?”

  “That’s correct. ‘Sugar’s’ been around a lot longer than I have.”

  The sportscaster nods, “Right. But I’m sure you are aware of what happened the other night on Late Night, yes?”

  “Yes, there’s no way I’d forget.”

  “So it hurt you personally?”

  “Why wouldn’t it? I took it personal. It’s about me.”

  “I understand,” the sportscaster backs off a bit, “it’s a lot to handle. Yes…but there have been rumors surrounding ‘Sugar’s’ behavior. I believe it’s escalated to widespread online trashing.”

  ‘Stinger’ looks disappointed, “Yeah, it’s taken its toll.”

  “The widespread belief has to do with a sinister strategy wherein ‘Sugar’ is said to have concocted the web of deceit to get the upper hand on the entire league. Do you care to comment?”

  ‘Stinger’ sighs and I would like to know beforehand what he’s about to say but when I try and listen, I only end up hearing stale laughter.

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  He exhales, “I think it’s bullshit. We all do crazy things when we’re desperate but I don’t think any of his publicity stunts were designed to generate anything other than more publicity skewed in his favor.”

  “So you are saying that ‘Sugar’ was only after favor?”

  Nodding, ‘Stinger’ replies, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Interesting…”

  Don’t say anything about the scars on your wrists. Don’t say anything about the scars on your wrists…

  “What’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Shit.

  “Oh it’s from…night terrors.”

  I switch channels before I hear anything else.

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  Oh, wonderful.

  In all my channel surfing, I still manage to make it in time for the nightly news. It’s about to start.

  I kind of hope there’s nothing about me but we’re not stupid enough to fall back on wishful thinking. All news items deemed “red” will be reported.

  It’s the nightly news.

  They’ll probably interview ‘James.’

  Dynamite.

  He’ll detonate whatever’s left of my dignity to save himself and Willem Floures, boxer celebrity, from facing the scrutiny.

  A whole different kind of fight bubbles to the surface.

  IT BEGINS

  The intro sequence provides a sample of tonight’s top news stories. Among the political are a few celebrity scandals.

  Tally of the hopeful (hopeful in that they won’t talk about Willem):

  Nothing interesting.

  Nothing interesting.

  Nothing interesting.

  Hey look, they discovered a parasite that lives in the human eye.

  Nothing interesting.

  Looks like Vera Cruz is getting divorced eighteen hours after marrying another guy. That makes for, how many?

  Nightly news, don’t let me down.

  Seven. Seven times married, seven times divorced.

  We are all trying our best to remain relevant in a world where media has mistakenly swapped the irrelevant with the relevant.

  Nothing interesting.

  Nothing interesting.

  Sure enough they are interviewing…stomach sinks.

  Spencer.

  They are interviewing Spencer.

  And then two other stories—

  NOTHING INTERESTING

  I switch channels out of spite, out of anxiety.

  I don’t stay on a single channel for any longer than ten seconds. In no time, the channel surfing becomes hypnotic. I fall back into a series of disjointed, self-analytical thoughts as I drift.

  As I surf.

  AS IT GOES

 
; The currency of relevancy in the form of broadcast news and entertainment. And there’s still the world of social media, where I’m a meme that reads:

  I’LL BE YOU TOMORROW

  A picture of me morphed with a sack of sugar. AKA:

  A sack of shit.

  That’s what the bitter world of message boards and the anonymous with too much time on their hands, that’s what they think of me.

  I’m a sack of sugary shit.

  SUGARMORPH

  Another term coined after my late night talk show “cave-in.”

  It should be harmful but I’m numb.

  I don’t let it get to me until the repressed emotions become demonic possession: This tired body operating on its own, medicating with painkillers and alcohol, massacring my liver, my mind, my anything, my all.

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  That’s part of the problem.

  I did—and look what happened?

  I climb from channel two to channel two-hundred all the way back again.

  My jaw clenches as I pass by channel four. Nightly News talks about Vera Cruz. There’s still time left. The channel surf gets me thinking:

  HOW MANY TIMES WILL I FIGHT BEFORE

  THE LEAGUE FOLDS?

  Willem will be okay right? Beyond ‘Dynamite’ and the dozen new trainees, there ought to be some assurance that who I have been all my life will more or less live on with the times.

  How many times will a fight sell out before the fight identity goes full circle? Do they really want to follow Willem Floures into the next century?