Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

I am not the Greatest of All Time.

Current status:

LOST OPPORTUNITY

One too many bad decisions kind of dismisses you from the candidacy.

But I admit it.

I take that from them.

I took and took some more and left behind the groundwork that’ll make Willem a better fighter and, who knows, maybe even a better person.

But what does a stranger see?

WHERE DOES A STRANGER GO?

Where do I go from here? How will my final fight end?

I listen to the footsteps that are mine to follow. I follow those footsteps into the dining room, a room that is barely ever used. I draw lines across the dusty surface of the table. I follow the footsteps to the expensive silverware.

I pick up a silver plate and look at my reflection.

THIS IS WHAT A STRANGER SEES

I inspect the right side of my face, which hasn’t healed as well as before. I look like I have been in quite a few fights. To a stranger, I look like I’ve lived a rough life. Tough times for the one that hopes to find something memorable to keep them from anonymity.

I grip the plate and toss it against the wall.

It doesn’t break, the silver resonating a dull sound.

WHAT DOES A STRANGER THINK?

I follow the footsteps around to the room where I used to watch most fights with Spencer. The TV flickers on, just to point me in the direction of where I need to look, where I hope to find.

On the TV, I see the words:

I DON’T THINK WE’VE MET

And I take three steps forward, not four, standing where the footsteps have stopped.

I speak to the TV like it’s a person.

I say, “Hello, my name is—”

But what is my name?

I hesitate until the name is said for me, the screen flickering the response:

WILLEM FLOURES, RIGHT?

“Right,” I nod.

First impressions are everything. I think of what to say to make this introduction worthwhile and interesting.

The TV flickers:

NICE TO MEET YOU

And I reply, “You too. I’m so glad to meet you.”

I hear the tapping of a footstep, signal that this is running long. I need to say something. Anxiety. What do you tell a stranger that doesn’t seem obvious, that doesn’t sound like I’m trying too hard?

TV flicker.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

It’s always the next question after “name” huh?

I very well can’t say fighter because then it’ll be about what kind of fighter, weight class, and everything I’ve already left behind, down in the basement, with the laughter.

So I say, “I’m an athlete.”

REALLY, LIKE A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE?

WHAT SPORT?

I can’t get away from it.

The identity that is mine. But don’t get me wrong—

I believe what I said before, said to them:

I admit it. “I admit it.”

I smile, “I’m a bit of a fighter.”

FIGHTER, LIKE MIXED MARTIAL ARTS?

More traditional, more pure than that.

“Boxing.”

TV flicker.

WAIT A MINUTE…

And see how now we aren’t strangers anymore? This is not about what a stranger sees. The stranger ultimately figures out who I am, and that’s something to consider. I consider the fact that I can’t get past who I was; it is a part of me now. Willem will go on without me but part of Willem remains with me. I am Willem, after all.

TV flicker.

I’VE SEEN SOME OF YOUR FIGHTS

YOU ARE A GREAT FIGHTER

“Thank you.”

The footsteps move on. The TV flickers one last time.

WELL IT WAS REALLY NICE TO MEET YOU!

I follow the footsteps out of the room and into the foyer.

I realize that I am too. I’m glad to have met…

Past tense: To have been able to meet someone.

Present and Future: To be able to meet anybody.

The footsteps lead me upstairs and to the one room that matters. The one room that usually has its door closed.

The footsteps continue into the room but I need to get past the door. I knock, “Sarah?”

No answer.

I try again, to no avail.

I try the door, mildly surprised to see that it’s unlocked, and I hesitantly wander into the room.

I remember:

THE LAST TIME I WAS IN HERE I FOUND OUT MY TIME IN THE SPOTLIGHT WAS OVER

I see that Sarah is missing. Well, maybe not missing but she’s definitely not in her room. I momentarily wonder about whether or not this is the right room and whether or not the other rooms are replicas of Sarah’s room.

I have never been in any of the other upstairs bedrooms.

I have only ever populated the basement and first floor of the house.

The footsteps direct me to a dollhouse in the corner of the room. I wander over and look inside. A few dolls sit around a table while one doll is lying down on a bed in one of the dollhouse’s upstairs rooms.

I take the doll that I assume is the father and the doll that I assume is the older son, both the same brand of doll, identical save for the different shirts, and I hold them up to my face.

I look into the face of the inanimate object.

The doll appears to be happy.

What about the other?

Same.

WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?

I see that they are content being dolls.

They suit their purpose.

NOW THE OTHER WAY AROUND

What do they see in me?

Am I the fighter I should have been? I did my best. I had some great fights. I repeat this, speaking to the dolls, “I did my best. I had some great fights…” I stop and look around the room, checking the closet just to make sure Sarah isn’t there. I don’t want her to see me playing with the dolls.

WHY DOES THAT MATTER?

It matters.

It doesn’t matter.

I don’t know. Anyway—

“I’d like to think that I come off as a nice guy. I might look a little scary due to the tattoos, the scars, and the fact that I have trouble smiling due to nerve damage to my face.” It’s a lie but a good one to use when people start wondering why you’re so serious all the time; besides, if I repeat that enough I might believe it and then it exists. It becomes something somewhat interesting, something memorable at least for the strangers to hear about upon first introduction.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

I know what they do. They “exist” as toys for tots, for young kids; they are dolls. That’s about as simple a description as it can get.

“I am an athlete.”

REALLY, LIKE A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE?

WHAT SPORT?

“Boxing.”

WOW. WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE IN THE RING?

IN A FIGHT?

I follow the footsteps to the bed.

I create an imaginary ring out of a pillow and I sit among the two dolls, each representing one corner.

WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?

In a perfect fight, there has to be a reason, deeply rooted beyond victory and loss. You have to fight for personal reasons.

You have to fight knowing that this is an expression of who you are, the strength that lies within ready to be tested, ready to surface in the form of a flurry of fists. Fisticuffs.

The stranger watching a fight sees it as more or less an act of gladiatorial combat. Our modern society is witness to fight nights brimming with the underlying representation of just how amazing the human body truly is—

It is versatile and can go the distance.

It can give, and take, more punishment than we could ever imagine.

The human mind is the real problem. It is the one influence that can turn the perfect fight into a planning exercise.

I wonder:

WHAT MIGHT A PERFECT FIGHT BE?

It goes the distance. That’s for sure.

I want it to be a barnburner. Both fighters compliment each other in terms of fighting style. They fight with the intention of a knockout but they simply fail to do so.

I put myself into the equation.

What would it take to deliver the perfect fight?

THE PERFECT FIGHT