Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

Then again, can any identity be clearly defined?

Sarah says, “Dad thinks you are too self-absorbed.”

“Really?”

Nodding, “And Dad says that you could have been a better fighter if you did more for yourself instead of…” she stops, as if waiting for the rest of it to be whispered into her ear, “having him speak for you.”

“Tell him that’s absolute bullshit. He wanted as much of the spotlight as he could manage!”

Sarah replies, “Dad says he can hear you fine. Dad also says that you should have started writing your story if you wanted to be the biggest part of it.”

I shrug, “What does that even mean?”

James chimes in, “Own every decision you make. Nothing just ‘happens’ without there being a sequence of actions and reactions.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“If you aren’t talking to me then you’re clearly in denial. You need to start listening to what you’re saying.”

Sarah tells me, “Dad says that you need to stop hiding from what’s happened.”

“What? What does he mean by that? I think I’ve seen too much as it is. I feel like I might forget how to breathe, that’s how confused and blurred everything has become!”

Sarah lets go of my hand.

Everything goes silent.

SILENCE

And within the silence, something climbs out of a far-off cavern of my mind. My eyes cross, vision blurring, until I blink in rapid succession.

Eyes uncrossed, I see in the mirror an entire memory on replay where I am seemingly the only one that hasn’t seen it before.

SILENCE

The memory plays out like a silent film.

The faces I make are extremely exaggerated. I am not fighting myself. I am fighting everyone else. The ring is more of a stage dressed up to look like a ring. There must be a number of cameras because the angle switches often enough to account for at least five distinct, separate sources.

I see a number of shots, all of them haymakers from one young man.

Not me.

I am not young.

The camera cuts to where Spencer would be standing, but he is not there. The silent film cuts to the word MISSING and back to the memory.

Memory has a runtime of a couple of minutes.

Memory is a scene in a film everyone watched but me.

The young man hits me with a haymaker that must have hurt him more than it hurt me, but like a nice guy (really?) I seem to fake a KO.

I fall to the floor and a woman dressed as a referee, who appears to be the host of this memory, this talk show of some sort, begins the ten count, stops at five, lifts me up, sees that I’m totally “KOed” and waves her arms.

No contest.

The young man in pain is treated a prize.

Cut to the words:

WE HAVE A WINNER!

Next frame:

YOU KO’ED THE TOP CONTENDER!

Next frame:

WHAT IS HENRY’S LAST WISH?

Cut back to the memory.

Cut back to film: The cameras zoom in close on the young man. He appears malnourished, barely anything but skin and bones. He doesn’t have any hair. The host hugs him; Henry grips his hand, in pain, but is too excited by the win, the ultimate prize (anything he wants).

Cuts away before I can get a look at what he wanted.

SILENCE

In that moment of silence the mirror fades to black and the house mutes itself as I reflect on what I just saw.

It rushes at me, the details.

“Make a Wish Foundation: Day of Fisticuffs: Sponsored by ______: Live on The Day Show. All proceeds go to terminal cancer research.”

SILENCE

The mirror holds more.

I try to look away but can’t: I want to remember.

I want to see.

This one has sound.

No color. I seem to remember things in a debilitated, limited manner.

There is only sound and the still image of my face.

That’s me?

I look tired, dark bags under the eyes, my eyes barely open. I have my hand raised, as if swatting away some sort of unpleasantness.

There is static.

SILENCE

And then the audio begins and the moment it begins I want it to stop.

How do I forget?

Hear: “…yeah. Yeah. No, that’s not it at all. Like, I know that I’ve had a great career but fuck them if they think I’m nearing the end. I’m like fine wine, with age comes an onslaught, you know?”

Static over everyone else’s voice but mine.

“Yeah! Exactly.”

Static.

“This? It’s just a little confidence. Sipping confidence. Sipping confidence like it’s nothing really. No. I don’t remember anything about that.”

Static.

“So what? Maybe I dabbled in the charities. It looks good when you’re in with the charities. Huh? I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time. Sipping confidence and slinging punches. That’s what it’s all about.”

Static.

“You’re talking to me. Nothing but ‘Sugar.’ Willem’s the name and Floures is the game.”

I cringe; grind my teeth the more I listen.

SILENCE

Thankfully it ends but not before the fade to black, the surge of residual remembrance. It was some kind of provocative morning radio show.

The word “uncensored” comes to mind.

I sound like an asshole and maybe that’s what I was aiming for at the time. I remember bits and pieces about how the media was baffled by the performance, summing it up as “tell-all” and “inebriated and grilled by XXXX” the radio DJ who I can’t seem to remember by name.

I can see him though, what he looks like.

He passes through the mirror; I see him walking by

Yeah, that’s him.

I mean, my appearance is unbearable and really humiliating but maybe that was the point?

I don’t know…

I don’t feel good about it.

It makes me look like…

SILENCE

The memories are mine.

They begin to speak to me in a voice that’s familiar but I can’t yet place where I’ve heard it before.

The colors bleed into each other as I watch two faces form — mine and…another familiar face.

Cut to a frame, made entirely for reference:

HE IS A CELEBRITY, OKAY?

Okay.

Bleed more until I see the surrounding, the context, the nature of this promotional media event.

CELEBRITY FIGHT NIGHT

I am fighting someone that’s never fought before. Not in this context. The memory trickles out like yet another fragment of film.

Perspective is a set of eyes is a single camera is a handy-cam, somewhat grainy quality. At one point the camera is flipped around so that I can see into myself. At that moment I see a flicker of myself, ‘James,’ Sarah, and someone else. A reflection of selves haunting anomalous spaces.

That someone else is Spencer. But I don’t know that until after everything falls back to silence.

The celebrity and I trade punches but it’s clear that I’m not having it.

I focus on the jab, taking it easy for a few rounds, until the celebrity hits me with a hook that pushes through my somewhat shoddy defense and stuns me. Off center, the celebrity actually scores a knockdown.

The audience erupts.

The laughter sends familiar shivers down my spine.

AUDIENCE

LAUGHING

I feel as cold as I must have felt at the time. Shivering, I don’t realize how angry I am. I saunter over to the celebrity and hit him right in the head.

Decent punch to the face while the celebrity’s fists were down. The memory bleeds into each argument, the verbal quarrel that transpires afterwards. Bleed into one of the later rounds, after the argument ends but isn’t settled, and the fight isn’t just a promotional fight anymore; the celebrity is out for blood. Blood drips from a cut right below the celebrity’s right eyebrow and that is what the camera focuses on.

Something is wrong here:

If the camera isn’t how I saw it, who is holding the camera?