Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

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?

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.

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?