Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

The news anchor with a well-rehearsed grin begins, “We interrupt our regularly scheduled program with an update from an already-in-progress press conference between league officials on what will be the follow-up to last month’s fight. We bring you there, live—”

RECOGNIZABLE FACES

SPENCER

‘JAMES’

ME

‘SPENCER’

I turn and look at where they had all been tied down. No one left.

I count up from two, reassessing how many there had been versus how many were never caught. I give up somewhere around twenty.

I ask X, “What do you make of this? If I am here, who is that?”

X blinks.

The press conference is most definitely breaking news.

Then ‘Spencer’ speaks for ‘me’ making boastful claims about how the new contender, ‘Dynamite,’ but who I’ll always call ‘James,’ is yet another wannabe, just someone who hopes to ride the coat tails of a ‘G.O.A.T.’

G.O.A.T.

THE ACRONYM STANDS FOR:

GREATEST

OF

ALL

TIME

Whatever it is that’s supposed to be me doesn’t speak.

Just like I had been prior to my fight for the spotlight. I’m not sure which version was better. At the very least, I was entertaining and memorable. The loss of reality and self had to be for something, right?

‘James’ shadowboxes while Spencer expertly dodges and weaves ‘Spencer’s’ claims.

The ‘Spencer’ of the past cannot contend with the Spencer of today.

‘James’ what do you have to say?

I say: You can’t replace me.

I say: You can try but you’ll fail.

What I really say is nothing.

I am a voyeur, watching from behind a dusty plasma TV screen.

“Hey X, if that’s supposed to be me, then who the hell am I? Who the hell are you?”

X blinks.

“I’m starting to sense that you’re trying to use some kind of Morse code using blinks. I don’t know if I’ll follow.”

BLINK ONCE FOR “YES”

BLINK TWICE FOR “NO”

BLINK THREE TIMES FOR “IDIOT”

“That’s our code, okay?”

The conference continues with banter from Spencer and ‘Spencer.’ Spencer toys with ‘Spencer,’ successfully summarizing the fight plan because it’s a strategy we used back during my twenty-first fight. Or was it my twenty-second?

“X?”

He blinks.

I don’t catch how many times.

‘Spencer’ answers questions addressed for Spencer.

Both ‘me’ and ‘James’ stand off to the side, arms crossed, the effect a fighter is looking to achieve at one of these press conferences is intimidation.

Intimidate your opponent.

Intimidate yourself.

The conference ends with an official press release:

SUGAR VS. DYNAMITE

UNDERCARD:

SCORPION VS. DEADSIE

SWAGGER VS. THRILL KILL

BAD INTENTIONS VS. STINGER

Like any other fight card, it is a great night of boxing where, essentially, people get to watch me beat the shit out of myself for four hours.

“That’s entertainment!”

I look over at X, waiting for a reaction.

Number of blinks: One.

I clap my hands, “Righto!”

You see, if I don’t act enthusiastic I’ll end up as desperately confused as I was when I first started. It will feel like the last couple fights were for nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I can’t accept such a conclusion. I have to believe that I fought for valid reasons. Even if I don’t know where I stand, and I’m not quite sure if anyone can really see me, I can see myself.

I pinch the skin of my forearm.

I dig my nail into the skin, drawing blood.

I feel it. I can feel something.

No more mirrors. No more hauntings.

Just this.

I need to maintain a balance if I’m going to begin evaluating what is and what isn’t — and with all of them gone and/or against me, the fight is mine to win. Even though I’m the champion, I feel like the underdog.

DYNAMITE POISED FOR TITLE WIN

The media sweeps other coverage underneath the steady onslaught of ‘James’s’ younger look. He’s not the tattooed, scarred up, busted up and slack body that I command.

Between commercials, I look at the tattoos for some sense of direction.

NOISE

I bask in the noise of a number of different sources.

X hasn’t moved but he’s still here. Despite our past, I feel like he’s the only friend I have left.

I used to have a close friend, a confidant, someone that kept certain aspects of me in check but he’s betrayed me, left me for someone that didn’t exist until a day or two ago.

“Just because you say that he’s Willem Floures doesn’t make it true!”

I clear my throat, “You idiot, do you think this is how it should end?”

Spencer on TV, “Interview at Ringside,” one of those inside looks at upcoming fight events from the minds of experts.

It might as well be a shout-out because I know he’s talking about me.

WHY WOULDN’T HE BE?

He’s talking about me .

Whatever that means.

“X, help me out here!”

X blinks. Three…four times?

“What are you trying to say? I’m an idiot?”

Spencer chuckles, “Now that’s a knockout of a question. I don’t want to go into too much detail but the short answer is yes. What you have to understand about Willem is his propensity for expansion — be that new strategies, new campaigns, new ideas, or in this case, a new era. I really believe the same could be said about any other identity. The fight takes place not only in the ring but also in the limelight. Willem is a timeless fighter and in order to maintain that sort of commodity, he transforms himself as often as possible.”

I press my nose up to the TV screen, “Those are my ideas! You fucking stole my ideas!”

Flicker of a thought—

HOW DO YOU KNOW?

I exhale, suddenly overwhelmed by nausea, leaning back in my seat.

Spencer continues unabated, “The fight is full circle. Mind, body, and self.”

Interviewer with the next question, “Is it true what they say about how a second person comes out in the ring? I don’t want to resort to terms like ‘inner demon’ and ‘animal’ because…well maybe you can help clarify.”

Nodding, Spencer replies, “Sure, sure and, yeah, that’s a tricky one. It is difficult to describe. A fighter certainly taps into some sort of reservoir of emotion and both instinct and skill use the emotive material as fuel for the will and audacity of going twelve rounds against well…every fight is ultimately a personal one. You could be fighting an entire country but the one opponent that you have to defeat in order to win is you. Time and time again, it’s always the same.”

EVERY FIGHT IS A PERSONAL ONE

I look over at X.

“Hey…”

X’s eyes are closed.

“Hey…you watching this?”

Silence.

Don’t leave me with silence.

I talk over the TV, talking about anything to keep from listening to the rest of the interview.

I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes.

“Hey X, remember the week before the fight. Not the second fight but the first fight. The one where you really gave me a wake-up call…

“The one where you KOed me and ended my win streak…

“The one where I didn’t make it past round eight…

“The one where the media overused your alias in the merchandise, all that stuff involving a hooded executioner punching me so hard my face caves in…the fight where I felt like you were telling me what I was going to do next…the fight where I couldn’t think for myself…I heard the world, and by that I mean I could hear the audience…separate voices pieced apart so that I could hear their criticism…I could hear them laughing as you sent me to the canvas for the ten count…

“Hey X…