Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

It makes me look important having six guards wearing black pushing through the gathered masses.

I walk the stage; find my cue, a mark of tape, where I stand and wait.

X does the same.

And then it’s lights, camera, none of the above .

Really it’s not that exciting.

Spencer talks to himself. What might he be talking about? I haven’t a clue. This whole thing is kind of simple. It doesn’t need to be anything more than what it sounds — a weigh-in — but then again every opportunity to extract is an opportunity to create spectacle and it looks like the “agent” in Spencer is coming to life as he shouts in the face of the other, grimacing when it’s his turn to shout back at Spencer. The cameras catch the little argument. So odd, then, when it fizzles, not amounting to much.

X and I refuse even a cursory glance.

Pretend we don’t exist.

Stand and look serious.

Wait until we hear it.

AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

Suddenly it gets quiet.

This is the cue that the weigh-in is about to begin.

The challenger goes first. Me. So whatever but really I hate this part. I’m nervous. I pretend that I’m not. I frown, holding onto the scowl, the sincerest form of expressing hatred for myself, as I take off my mesh pants, my shirt, strip down to only the thinnest possible form of underwear we could manage.

I look horrible.

I know I do.

Do I still have any muscle tone?

Anyone actually impressed with the way I look?

AUDIENCE SILENCE

It’s the worst kind of silence.

I make a note of the fact that when I step up to the scale, when they weigh me, when I flex my arms, the flash from the crowd’s cameras aren’t nearly as blinding as they should be.

Instead of my gaze being washed white in the glow of so many camera shots, I can see into a large crowd as they stare back at me, equally unimpressed.

I have flab on my stomach.

Where muscle definition should be clean I have little jagged lines, perforations made to be the byproduct of fat existing right under the epidermis. That is flab. That is fat from a decade or more of not taking care of my body.

This is the body of a boxer that hasn’t trained.

The training I have is the training of a man that’s been through a lot but maybe not yet enough to have it all figured out.

Flex, close my eyes so that I don’t see the number.

Tune out my surroundings so that when they declare my weight, I am elsewhere.

WEIGHT AT…

Don’t hear it.

AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

I don’t hear it, and I am ready to put my clothes back on. This is a beauty contest for broken beings. My body used to be cut to fit the make of a fighter, now my body is evidence of the fact that we cannot ever be the same.

We age.

We all change.

The lights dim as the cameras are set to ready.

X’s turn.

AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

Typically I don’t watch because I don’t want to confuse myself. The basic facts are enough to blur the lines of reality. How can I weigh so much when he can weigh so little? He makes weight without any problem.

I block out the fact that I might not have made weight.

I whisper, “Is it alright?”

Spencer sighs, “It’ll do.”

Not the kind of answer I wanted but…

IT’LL DO

The place washes white as X flexes, makes the weight.

I notice that he has the same scar on his back, the same one that I had when I was younger but has since faded.

I notice that I’m watching and that this can’t end well.

It involves a lot of self-scrutiny.

Watching, comparing, loathing.

Falling into myself, my own tendency to over-analyze becomes my cause to self-destruct.

Distantly, I know why Spencer isn’t worried that I didn’t make weight.

There will be a fight.

There will continue to be a number of battles. No one will deny the world a fight after what happens at the weigh-in.

AUDIENCE APPLAUSE

RATHER THAN

AUDIENCE

SILENCE

The camera flash lights up the room.

It’s blinding from where I stand in the back, slowly removing myself from the scene with each step I take.

Spencer mouths the words:

WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?

I know but still.

And yet…

Umm…

Wait!

You see I want to—

Umm…

Someone take me out of this.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

X said something that must have been funny, amusing.

At my expense?

Spencer beckons me to join him.

“Get the hell back here!”

I don’t like this part of the weigh-in. This is where I pay my dues. This is where I do what needs to be done to generate buzz.

I walk up to X wearing that face.

Walk right up until we are close enough, our faces an inch apart.

Stare down.

AUDIENCE SUSPENSE

What did you say to me?

What did you say to me?

Those are the words that need to come out of my mouth with certainty, with the volition of a madman wanting his title back.

“What did you say to me?”

Spencer whispers into my ear, “Either you set the tone or you don’t make it to fight night. Your choice.”

He’s right.

This is not the time to be so hesitant and confused. I might not have control over myself but at the very least I can play the basic role of “fighter.” I can pretend to care. I can wear that face.

I can gamble away whatever cards I have yet to play.

Fine.

“Say it,” I shout.

“Fucking say it!”

AUDIENCE SUSPENSE

And I am the cause of the suspense.

X grins, doing his best not to be intimidated. Truth is he probably isn’t and finds this charade to be predictable, but he plays along too.

The weigh-in is a popularity contest.

Who lights up the room the brightest?

X with his reply:

YOU

CAN’T

BEAT

ME

OLD

MAN

Still wearing that scowl, I whisper so that only X can hear:

“You’ll have to do better than that. Set the stage you shit.”

I lob another line, this time louder:

YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN AS MANY WARS AS I’VE BEEN, KID

YOU HAVEN’T A CLUE HOW HARD THIS SKULL OF MINE IS

YOU WILL HAVE TO CRACK IT TO SEND ME TO THE CANVAS

I want him to push me.

I want him to take a step back.

I want this confrontation to cause him discomfort. He is already annoyed, already bothered by the MURDER. Being this close, right in his face, naturally encroaches upon that feeling that you’re losing your cool.

I know him.

I know enough about him to know that this is one of the worst feelings in the world:

Being called out in front of such a large crowd.

Spencer brings me a cinderblock that has been treated to collapse to pieces with a swift strike.

Do you know what I’m about to do?

I have to break from the stare down in order to take the cinderblock but the inclusion of something like this at a weigh-in is unusual and as a result they light up the room brighter than I could have imagined.

I get high off the attention.

The fact that it is working gives me enough confidence to send my head careening against the cinderblock.

It breaks but not without breaking the skin.

Tearing it open right where I had been torn open in the last fight.

I scream, I shout, I choose to gamble…

YOU

CAN’T

HURT

ME

And it looks like I win.

It is caught on camera and it will be played back on all major venues.

A little alarming though to find it so easy, so one-sided. X didn’t choose to fight back. When I’m afraid, I tend to make excuses. He didn’t make any. His silence alarms me. Did I really intimidate him?

I cared more about the reaction from the audience.

This old fighter can still break some faces.