Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

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 drop-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.