Continue training, despite myself.
I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE
Okay, duly noted. But there’s a fight tomorrow.
I must do something, must focus on something productive, something that helps buffer the incoming events, the events that haven’t already transpired and been lost to a poor memory.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
I’d ask them but they know as much as I do. Their mouths are taped shut. Their minds are broken apart. Their routines shattered; all they can do is watch. All they have left is their sight and what they see is their future.
Maybe they think they can do better, become a much better fighter, and that might be true but I will tell them that no matter what happens, we are viewed to be the same person more often than we are viewed as ourselves.
THE FIGHT
I know, I know.
The fight is tomorrow.
THE FIGHT IS TONIGHT
It is not tonight.
Wait a minute…
Black Mamba leaves another voicemail. I don’t have to listen to it to know that he sent me a sample of the press conference where he said something that I capitalized upon much to the appreciation (and delight) of everyone but myself.
I turn to them and say, “I came out of the press conference on the up. Black Mamba really walked into that one huh?”
No replies.
But they know.
I’m the last to realize what happened.
WHAT HAPPENED, ‘SUGAR?’
I want to text back, “Don’t patronize me,” but that’ll just open up another avenue of communication. I refuse to let Black Mamba continue sabotaging my state of mind. If the fight is really tonight, I need to focus.
Shit, I need to train…
I ask the latest kidnapping, ‘Hatchet,’ if there’s anything I can possibly do in the next four hours before I need to be on the way to the arena.
WHY ARE YOU ASKING HIM?
Black Mamba, get out of my mind! Focus on the fight. Let me go about this the only way I know: an introspective and interpretive, but ultimately long-winded, exploration of who, what, when, where, and how.
The five questions.
The five senses.
Number of rounds covered to a twelve round fight where I come up two rounds short. The last two are the toughest and I often leave nothing left for those twilight hours, those miserable last gasps.
I never think about the future.
I’m consistently stuck in the present.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
Easy enough to ignore the threats, the mind play, when I have such a great and receptive audience!
“How many of you are there, hmm?”
I count sixteen but what happens if I look away?
Will I see Spencer dragging another one in?
How many people really desire to be someone preexisting?
“I am Willem Floures!” I shout at the lineup.
Turning around, I meet the seventeenth, “And let me guess, you are…”
Willem Floures.
‘Lights Out’ Willem Floures.
“Hey Lights Out, what’s your fight record,” I untie all tethers but the ones binding his wrists together. He doesn’t need to say anything; he’s going to be my sparring opponent. We are going to have one last bit of training before I face Black Mamba. And about his fight record, I can only assume that he’s undefeated; I am undefeated at such a young age. It’s basically a prerequisite.
Everything is easy, anxious, and hopeful when you are young.
It’s only when you’ve climbed every rung of the ladder that you see that they’ve all been following you too, every damn version.
So what do you do?
You confuse them; you confuse yourself.
Confusion, contradiction, complete chaos seems to be the only means of keeping me in the spotlight.
I set up a twelve round sparring session.
We’ll take it slow. I only need someone to evade.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
I hear the TV and I hear my phone but I don’t hear you.
YOUR FLIGHT LEAVES IN TWO HOURS
Round one, I work on my footwork. Lights Out makes it easy, sprinting towards the ropes, making no attempt at facing me.
It’s my duty to keep him from climbing out of the ring.
He keeps me on the balls of my feet, strafing with my fists up, covering my face just in case he tries lunging at me.
I know enough about how I fight in the ring.
If it were I, I’d kick and squirm. I would try to land a head-butt right where it hurts most. However, for the majority of the round, Lights Out has no trouble reaching the ropes but by the time I get to him, he is an easy and effortless push back into the middle of the ring.
I see tears streaming down his face.
I tell him, “Hey now, calm yourself. This is only round one.”
DO YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
Round two I decide to work on my left-right-right jab combination. It isn’t a specialty but I have always had trouble switching up jabs. It’s too predictable jabbing with the same hand. Spencer always said that it pays to switch stances if you are the type of fighter that can switch from right to left and back.
I hide my southpaw stance for as long as I can—not because they don’t know that I’m a leftie but because it is frustrating to note that your opponent is still holding something back. But even trying to be unpredictable becomes predictable and with Black Mamba swimming around in my head, I’m going to try all sorts of strategies. I’m going to explore what it means to not make any sense. Black Mamba, You know what I hear?
I hear everyone laughing at you.
I hear that not all is what it seems.
THEY LOVED YOU AT THE HEIGHTS
Round three is all about continuing to practice the jab.
My mind circles around a thought bubble that has yet to burst. I want to know what it is but there is little more than the mental residue of sensation and the name ‘Nicole.’ The Heights.
I land a succession of jabs, watching Lights Out shut his eyes, bracing for impact. I work the stomach rather than merely going for the chin.
This is a sparring session. I don’t intend on going full-force, using whatever’s left in the tank.
The Heights. Half of the round passes before the bubble bursts and the details come crashing out. The Heights—a celebrity dinner party for cancer prevention. Black Mamba made an appearance. I made the party. It seems I delivered a speech that brought tears to their eyes and a smile to their faces.
What the hell was I thinking?
Well whatever it was, I did well.
I got their attention.
Proof that I can be peaceful as long as it’s about publicity.
THEY LOVED YOU AT ONLOCATION
During round four, Lights Out’s legs begin to buckle. I have to lift him up; he won’t (or maybe he can’t) stand up on his own feet. I threaten him to cooperate, “This is about winning the title!”
His eyes roll back into his skull.
I slap him across the face, “Don’t you realize how important this is for us?” By round five I’m propping him up, shouting into his face, “At this rate, you’ll never be me!” The round is a throwaway unless clinching is a worthy enough strategy (it isn’t—not for this fight).
By round six, I have to put Lights Out back with the rest.
“At least there are more of you. More the merrier, it seems.
“Hey X, want to redeem yourself? How about a couple rounds of sparring?” His eyes are closed.
“No…?”
Hear the uncertainty in my voice? That’s because I haven’t a clue where this is going, the kidnappings.
I shadowbox for the duration of the round.
Occasionally I stop to ask them questions about myself:
“Do I like chocolate?”
“Am I considered to be more of a dirty blonde or brown-haired man?”
“
That last fight, it really didn’t look like it was me, huh?”
“That last fight felt like I was an imposter, right?”
I know…
It’s true.
“Imposter…”
“Which one of you is an imposter?”
“Am I the imposter?”
YOU ARE THE IMPOSTER
Shut the fuck up.
“Are you guys hearing this?”
“You know, Black Mamba? He’s in my damn head. I can hear him saying what he texts me.”
“You aren’t hearing this?”
THEY LOVED YOU AT GRETCHEN LIVE
“Everybody, what the hell is ‘Gretchen Live?’
“A daytime talk show?
“I don’t know what it is.”
Some of them stare. Some of them are barely there.
Some of them watch and nod.
One of them, Breakneck, looks like he’s given up the ghost, neck craned back at an impossible angle, skin like porcelain. Yeah, he’s probably towards the end of his run. I would say it’s a shame but I don’t really know what’s more shameful—the fact that he died while tied down or the fact that there are over eighteen of me more or less populating the basement.
The latter is likely to be the more shameful of the two.
“Gretchen Live, anyone?”
“X, you?”
I wish I could sleep away the next few days. Give it enough time and the memory unveils itself. How much would I relive in my dreams?
“Do I remember my dreams?
“Huh?
“What about this Gretchen Live thing? Anyone?”
I JUST TRIED TO CALL YOU
I check my phone, new voicemail. Fine, I’ll listen.
“Hey, it’s Willem…”
I brace for humiliation only to discover that I was the talk of the town. Gretchen loved what I had to say. I spoke intellectually about topics I don’t know anything about. I am able to hold a conversation with a prestigious daytime talk-show host and philanthropist.
I am a highlight for the day.
Other media venues recap what I said on Gretchen Live.
One quote is, “He’s poignant. Who would have thought—a pugilist that’s poignant?”
Return to my audience.
“How’s that for awesome and unexpected?”
What I’m looking for here is a laugh, a round of applause, but okay they aren’t in the mood and really I can’t expect them to share my enthusiasm.
This has everything to do with us but, somehow, at the same time, it is exclusively mine. Hey Black Mamba, worried that I’ve stolen of the spotlight?
Nothing.
No text, no reply.
Thought so.
What now?
Round seven.
THEY LOVED YOU AT SPARE CHANGE
Oh fucking hell.
“Do any of you know if I have a temper?”
I feel like I should have a temper; theoretically, a fighter can snap into sudden anger for almost no reason and people would forgive it. They’ll say something like:
He’s a fighter. Fighters are brimming with adrenaline and negative charge. It would stereotypically make sense that I lose my temper.
“Right?
“Anyone know if I know what I’m talking about?
“X? Of course not.”
Sometimes I do.
I feel momentary lapses of confidence and assurance, like right at this very moment, only to fall back into a semi-confused state.
I’m way too lost in my head, I think.
“I just want to make sure, do I have blue or brown eyes?
“When I throw one of my signature left hooks,” I throw a few, letting the last one hit the ropes, “do they look like they’d hurt?
“Well, do they?”
YOUR EYES ARE JET BLACK
They are brown, I assure you.
JET BLACK, LIKE THE SADDEST NIGHT
I ignore Black Mamba. I assert myself as the Willem Floures by walking up to the turnbuckle, climbing it and, from where I am, I look down at all of them, the number now being…
Via another head count:
Twenty-five.
I ask them, “Why are you Willem Floures?
“Why must you be the best Willem can be?
“Why do we beat the sense out of ourselves fight after fight?”
Round seven is a battle of the mind.
Disclaimer: I need to define each round in order to be able to direct myself through every action without losing something in the process.
It’s not unlike the impulse every single self-respecting individual has to continually redefine who he or she is with every single pulse.
“Who am I right now?
“How about now?
“And now?”
I flex my biceps, mock victory pose.
I might not see the boundaries; I may not be able to answer the questions I’ve posed, but at this moment, I feel good, confident, about as courageous as I currently look, standing on the second turnbuckle, victory pose like the best of the best.
“Can I really go another twelve rounds?”
DON’T WORRY
IT WON’T TAKE THAT LONG
“Well who got the last laugh at Spare Change?!”
That is directed to Black Mamba, who I bet won’t reply. I listen in, expecting to hear crickets, nothing if not because he is a one-sided predator, capable only of loose threats and complete carnage. His only card is that of the enigma, the young, boastful boxer poised to induce an upset.
Victory will not be yours.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
I shout, as if he’s in the basement with me, “Don’t avoid the fucking question, Mamba!”
SEEMS I ALREADY ANSWERED YOUR QUESTION
“No you didn’t!”
THE PHONE
The voicemail. I drop down from the turnbuckle. I grab my phone resting on the tabletop, right next to the TV, and I listen.
“Hello, it’s Willem—”
Just like him to start the message with a patronizing “hello.” He goes on and on about altruism and how it’s great that I’m such a kindhearted celebrity. But when he mentions the true punk-anarchist nature of Spare Change, how it vouches and promotes public cacophony via vandalization, rebellious artistic expression, how it basically aims to support what I denied at the Heights, I begin to lose that edge. Confidence slips away from me as I begin to sweat.
End of message.
To repeat this message—
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
I look at them half expecting one of them to break free of the harnesses. I take a step towards the turnbuckle. I see them wince.
I shake my head, disappointed.
Suddenly dejected, the enthusiasm, the confident charge of my sparring session depleted by yet another notice of my mania.
My hypocritical fight for the full spotlight.
“But anyone would do the same, right?”
Yeah, no answer.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
“What?! What am I supposed to be hearing?”
I hop up onto the top turnbuckle, reaching towards the ceiling.
“I’m listening, Mamba.”
IMAGINE WHAT THIS MUST LOOK LIKE
“I’m fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
YOU ARE NOT FINE
YOU ARE TALKING TO YOURSELF
“What if I told you I was talking to Spencer?”
HOW COULD YOU BE?
HE’S ALREADY THERE
WAITING FOR YOU AT THE VENUE
WHAT IF I TOLD YOU ‘EXECUTIONER’ SHOULD HAVE NEVER EVEN FOUGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHERE WOULD YOU BE NOW? WOULD YOU STILL BE FIGHTING ME?
I am, as always, the last to know.
Disclaimer: My mind is ripe with mania.
Between what I do to remain relevant and what I do to remain myself, there is no middle, no sense to the nonsense.
Nonsense is pure publicity.
Nonsen
se is what ultimately keeps me as a cultural commodity.
A fighter must fight all aspects of himself if he wants to win the fight.
And the world’s favor.
“I spent a lifetime winning their favor; you aren’t taking it from me now!”
Disclaimer: I am sure that I’m not talking to myself.
DISCLAIMER:
YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE TO THE FIGHT
I look at my captive audience.
They look at me.
We know at the very same time what happens next.
I fall from the turnbuckle, nearly twisting my ankle.
I curse Black Mamba’s name, which means I curse my own name, our name, whatever…
I crawl over to the ropes, pulling myself back up to my feet.
I limp up the stairs shouting, “A win without a fight is not a win!”
THERE WILL BE A FIGHT
The Laughter of Strangers Page 13
