The Laughter of Strangers

by Michael J Seidlinger

  It’s a worrisome thought.

  I feel responsible for the sensationalism. I should.

  I’ll deal with it. However, I don’t want it to be the one blemish that results in premature extinction of the identity.

  WILLEM FLOURES MUST SURVIVE

  Is it time?

  When is it not time?

  At any given moment, someone is talking about me.

  Not me as in all of them. I’m talking about ‘me.’

  ‘Sugar.’

  By now things are getting bitter.

  Okay nightly news…

  HURT MY FEELINGS

  I catch the uninteresting story about whatever where one of the representatives wanders around some temple and I get drowsy just thinking about paying attention.

  What comes next though…

  THAT WASN’T A QUESTION

  Where’s “Lights Out” when I need him? That alias ought to mean something. Maybe he’s got a power punch to crack a cast-iron chin.

  Oh right…

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  I’m nervous. There. I explained myself.

  Spencer has a whole lot more to say though and right from the start the interview proceeds to get under my skin.

  The reporter hands Spencer a list of questions, which we see as on-screen graphic overlays, and Spencer proves to be the easiest interview ever for this reporter. Whoever she is.

  He starts with a good laugh.

  “That’s for you,” he says, pointing into the camera, and everyone knows he’s talking about me.

  I feel his laughter echo through me, understanding that it has left an imprint. I will be hearing it again, when silence tries to settle my wired senses.

  “And to the world, did you have as good a laugh as I did?”

  Spencer smiles, “I hope you did because class is now in session.”

  Spencer begins his lecture: “I hear all this talk about deceit and the death of Willem Floures from popular culture. I hear all this whining about lies, about sweet gone sour promises. I hear a lot but very little of it has any substance. What I’m not hearing are questions that need to be asked…”

  He pauses, waiting for the graphic to appear onscreen.

  “I’m not hearing about DYNAMITE VS SUGAR. I don’t hear any media buzz surrounding a pivotal fight for Willem Floures.”

  Spencer slams his fist against open palm.

  “This is what we should be talking about! Every identity aches to be heard. Understand? If you want to hear the truth, I’m telling you—save it for fight night. All will be exposed.”

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF

  There are other questions on that quiz sheet.

  I feel like I’m getting off easy. Spencer hasn’t answered any questions about me.

  No one is talking about ‘me.’

  Sugar.

  My manic episode of media hell.

  Why am I being let off so easily?

  EXPLAIN YOURSELVES

  I don’t care if it affects me because I did what I felt I needed to do at the time. If we rewound these missives, I’d likely end up whining and bragging and contradicting myself until the end of the night.

  Nothing would change.

  I fought to live.

  I live to fight.

  The biggest fear of mine is what hinges around judgment. Their laughter burns through my brain, a cast mold representing my time in the ring long since past.

  If I’m not fighting, am I dying?

  It’s irrational but that’s what I think about most.

  And one other thing:

  Willem Floures.

  Will they be okay?

  Will he be okay?

  THEY WILL ALL BE OKAY

  WILLEM WILL BE OKAY

  Spencer avoids the questions that needed to be answered. He coaches the viewers on basic fight psychology.

  He promotes ‘James’ as the next big thing.

  He’s the future.

  I’m the past.

  Together we are Willem Floures.

  Tomorrow, only he will be.

  Me…

  WHERE WILL I HAUNT?

  Don’t laugh.

  I just want to keep living after I lose control and the final fight is upon me.

  THE LAUGHTER OF FAMILY

  I unplug the TV. I’ve had enough but the feed doesn’t want to cease the broadcast. Seems this is important. It continues, the show that isn’t really a show, long after the nightly news is over, replacing the late night programming.

  There should be infomercials.

  Television for insomniacs.

  Television for lone viewers.

  Television for those of us that have taken one too many punches.

  Theoretically speaking, in regards to what I provided above. But everyone wants the truth. It keeps rising up like sickening waves of nausea. I had thought that everything was plain and visible but you see the TV hasn’t told the whole story.

  What does the TV broadcast when the power is cut?

  SET THE STAGE

  How are you feeling?

  Are you feeling okay?

  I could be better. A lot has happened in the last couple months.

  You could say that I’m tired.

  We’re all tired.

  Willem is tired.

  ‘ME’

  I am tired.

  I could get used to the idea of falling asleep, wrapping myself up in bed sheets, for the night rather than waiting until my body gives out. Bed rest like the majority who sleep well because tomorrow is foreseeable. Tomorrow has already been decided. Existence of a routine, a plan, what needs to be done, and none of it has anything to do with you.

  You don’t need to follow that story.

  There is no story to tell. It’s a dry spell. Mundane.

  THEN LET THEM SPEAK

  I’m listening.

  That’s what this is ultimately about, right?

  Him.

  Willem Floures.

  I’d like to believe that I know the guy, but it seems they got a better idea than anything I might have had, once upon a time.

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  Okay, scratch that.

  Drop the “once upon a time.” It ages me significantly.

  I WATCH

  I LINGER

  On the TV disconnected, the TV unplugged, I see a blank stage.

  It’s a blank stage and it knows that it’s a blank stage. Graphic overlay states the obvious:

  BLANK STAGE

  Duh.

  The graphic changes to—

  BLANK SLATE

  And part of me has already moved on. The part that remains is ‘Sugar’ and all that I hold back, every little bit of the lies that I have yet to fully expose. If I wanted to I would. If I needed to I would blurt it out.

  DON’T DO IT

  I don’t intend on saying a thing.

  I wouldn’t want people to hear me talking to myself, right?

  The blank stage is a blank slate that I can barely see given the lack of a light source. You can just barely see it and if I squint my eyes, a light flickers on, illuminating the stage.

  The light gets brighter as I lean back, unsure of what to expect.

  The bright empty stage washes white and pulls back to reveal four red recliners, complete with the impression that with a single shiver, a single sigh, the scene will evolve to include an opening statement.

  What happens when I hold my breath?

  DON’T DO IT

  Why? Will I suffocate?

  Can that even happen—can a person really die by holding their breath?

  I exhale when I see what holding my breath does to the scene onscreen. Seems like that’s a no. You can’t die by holding your breath but you can inspire a title sequence complete with music that causes the basement where you linger to rumble from the foundation to the rhythm of the theme song.

  It’s a familiar song.

  It’s my entrance music.

  Death growls mixed with down-tuned dr
op-C guitar.

  Scrolling across the screen are the names of would-be aliases, fighters looking for a fight, boxing professionals looking to be featured:

  ‘Cobra’

  ‘Storm’

  ‘Jersey Devil’

  ‘Kid Perfect’

  Four for the price of one moment of saddening humiliation.

  Rubbing your eyes reveals shapes sitting in those red recliners and proceeding to avoid rubbing your eyes in hopes that the shapes will not turn into four people, mirror images of the one likeness that should be extremely familiar only results in the instantaneous crescendo of the broadcast bringing up the title of the show:

  WE NEED TO TALK TO YOU

  And the subtitle:

  IS THERE A FUTURE FOR WILLEM?

  Hold back as much as you want but I can’t help but bring them to fruition, four young fighters, four young aliases, four of me that have yet to be, but will begin fighting their way up the league ladder in the months and years that outlast ‘me.’

  If there was ever any other version of me it was ‘me,’ or who I am after losing the alias that I popularized and then pulverized with lies.

  ‘_____’

  OR WITHOUT SUGAR

  They wear expensive suits from my closet and they sip from the last four coffee mugs I used. They are replicas of the four best moments of my prime years; they represent four different styles of boxing:

  BRAWLER

  BOXER-PUNCHER

  COUNTERPUNCHER

  SWARMER

  If you try to figure out who’s who, it only makes them look right at you. Right at me. Right at the camera and right into my eyes, like the screen doesn’t separate us. Anything I do to look away only helps further define their broadcast. They aren’t talking but I have to start worrying.

  I just have to think about myself in a manner that is extremely selfish.

  I just have to bring up the thought, “I am not that old…”

  It gives them voice.

  It gives them my voice.

  DON’T DO IT

  “Tonight we have a lot to cover,” one of them says (I haven’t a clue who because thankfully they haven’t yet introduced themselves).

  I listen and that gives them the right to do exactly what I dread.

  The one talking points to the one on the far right, “Why don’t we get the introductions out of the way?”

  And just like that, an “alias,” they exist:

  WILLEM ‘JERSEY DEVIL’ FLOURES

  BOXER-PUNCHER

  ‘STORM’ WILLEM FLOURES

  SWARMER

  WILLEM ‘KID PERFECT’ FLOURES

  COUNTERPUNCHER

  ‘COBRA’ WILLEM FLOURES

  BRAWLER

  ‘Kid Perfect’ plays host because he’s the one that’ll fight first out of the four of them. Why the number four? But I stop that thread before it can be more than a partial thought, fearing that it might give rise to a fifth.

  DON’T DO IT

  I’m not. I took care of it.

  ‘Kid Perfect’ nods, “It’s great to be here. The nature of our debate and subsequent discussion pertains to whether or not we will fight at all:”

  Superimposed onto the screen right as he says it:

  IS THERE A FUTURE FOR WILLEM?

  “We need to think about him, not for what he has become but rather for what he might be. As an athlete and surely a fan of the entire league, I cannot stand to see my name dragged through the filth. I have seen ‘Sugar’ do some really great things but I…I just can’t let him insult me the way he has.”

  Cringe but I lean forward, tuned in.

  Captivated. Being captivated means I care. Caring means I have that voice lingering louder, the voice that carries the laughter.

  DON’T DO IT

  I guess it’s too late, now that you’re here.

  I see you there. He stands in the back.

  ‘Black Mamba’ complete with every bruise, cut, and blemish that had been my beat-the-shit-up body a fight ago.

  He stands in the back, watching me, not the other four. They might as well not even be there. ‘Black Mamba’ mouths the words:

  DON’T DO IT

  And the three words form and fit every possible worry I might have.

  Worries include:

  Will any of them beat my record?

  Will any of them conclude what will be made true by the end of this chapter? For that matter, will any of them be the one that provokes me into…

  DON’T DO IT

  …into ‘doing,’ as in saying, as in assuming that it has to be said?

  Surely it’s possible. My record isn’t what it used to be. Every loss counts for five wins. If you lose, you better win your next five.

  Every win is, at best, fifteen seconds in the limelight.

  I had my fifteen before it faded and, not only that: the media logged Willem for unwarranted attention.

  It hurts me but it hurts them too.

  ‘Cobra’ speaks up, “I agree. Willem is no longer a name that brings the kind of attention and respect we want as we begin our careers. Willem is a sideshow freak compared to the other names, those leagues that are doing quite well.”

  ‘Storm’ adds, “Last Devon Morris event sold out.”

  ‘Kid Perfect’ sighs, “That has never ever happened before. Morris is nowhere near as good as me.”

  “Right,” ‘Jersey Devil’ says, “and it’s all because of the favor being lost. It’s dripping away like an open wound.”

  ‘Kid Perfect’ fields the next opportunity to blame me, “Willem holds records for longest boxing win streak, quickest jab, and best boxing performance eight years in a row but—”

  BUT…

  Here they go—

  “But with a single promotional campaign, ‘Sugar’ flatlined all interest.”

  “But within two fights he changed the world’s opinion.”

  “But with one campaign he went against all principles of persona.”

  “But with one campaign he confused all understanding.”

  Doesn’t really matter who said what, does it?

  I don’t exactly hold myself up to being a good person. If you had to ask me at this very moment what I think of myself, in terms of an entity, as something alive, as something that exists, I will say that I am a person.

  I think.

  Something tugs at the thread of thought that becomes a single sentence that repeats over and over but I can’t hear it because the laughter ‘Black Mamba’ lets boil to the surface drowns it out so that it’s white noise.

  You and I—

  We’ve figured out what needs to be done.

  However, I still hold back to dead scraps.

  Hey X, what do you think?

  But no, he’s dead.

  That part of me is dead.

  ‘Black Mamba’ wants me to keep my mouth shut.

  DON’T DO IT

  No matter what they say and do to provoke me.

  No matter what is said to diminish my contribution, my boxing legacy.

  But then I get to thinking about how they’ll simply blame it on ‘me.’

  ‘Sugar’ was a blemish was a bad particular era for boxing.

  I WATCH

  I LINGER

  I see it in their faces. It’s what I would do to survive.

  Unanimous agreement—

  “Anything that intends on surviving must fight to win!”

  The future intends on rendering my era as a blemish and nothing more. But I’m afraid I can’t do that.

  ‘Black Mamba’ shakes his head, eyes bulging, dark tar-like blood dripping from his nose:

  NO

  But I’m smarter than that. I have, at the very least, learned one thing about myself. Willem is a coward, a self-conscious individual incapable of simply taking a risk; I can’t just “do something” without coming up with alternatives, a weigh-in of what can and will occur.

  What might go wrong?

  As in, hey �
�Black Mamba’ what can go wrong?

  DON’T DO IT

  That’s all he can say because it’s the fear talking.

  It’s the fear that I’ve held onto; it’s the fear that continually pervades my decisions. I keep thinking about what I’ll lose and have prevented a number of pivotal career decisions from coming to fruition because I simply couldn’t have let things evolve on their own.

  Like that one time I…

  SNAP PUNCH

  OR THE PUNCH THAT COULD HAVE BEEN

  It’s a punch that Spencer is likely teaching ‘James’ to later implement in future fights (look out for that guys—it’s a killer).

  He tried to teach me as he’s tried so many times but I really fought against his tutelage. He explained how it should be done but I doubted him.

  Besides, it was all on paper. Nothing about the punch worked without developing it from the foundations of the uppercut.

  So the snap punch, according to Spencer, is a powerful split-second switch-up that can be moved into from both straight and hook punches.

  The beauty of the punch is how you don’t have to be in any particular situation; your footwork could be shaky. You could be winded and playing defensive in order to go the distance.

  Maybe you’re playing the fight to its final moments and doing that usually means playing it real safe.

  DON’T DO IT