The Laughter of Strangers

by Michael J Seidlinger

  ‘James’ poses for the cameras. Fists up, the stare of a champion.

  FIGHT TV TOUTS:

  FIGHT PREDICTIONS

  Nope—no thanks. Time to tune out. Switch the channels.

  I look for the remote.

  Not under the cushion. Not kicked to the side.

  “Hey X, help me find the remote…”

  Suddenly I hear the bell.

  Years of fights have trained me to snap into action.

  I jump to my feet, startled.

  Fact:

  I AM STILL THE CHAMPION

  Right?

  The sparring session begins.

  ‘James’ has full command over the entire ring.

  He leads with the jab in such a plain and straightforward manner, I am momentarily relieved. He’s predictable, an amateur.

  He knows less about me than I do.

  Good.

  But then it all clicks into place.

  He isn’t a boxer-puncher.

  He is a counterpuncher.

  ‘James’ dispenses with the jabs; occasionally he connects with a sharper punch. Not quite an overhand straight but not quite a jab.

  But he is patient.

  Waits for the other fighter to fall into a trap.

  And then—

  STEP BACK

  LEAN

  COUNTER WITH A HOOK TO THE FACE

  The way ‘James’ effortlessly takes a half-step back, clearing the reach of the strike, slightly leaning back, references the kind of lateral-momentum I used to have during the first half of my career before I injured my back.

  Took one too many punches to the body.

  The hook is brilliantly placed.

  FightTV camera records the loud smack of glove hitting skull.

  It sounds like a firecracker.

  SOUNDS LIKE DYNAMITE

  I haven’t seen such a perfectly executed countering shot in quite some time. I don’t know how I feel about this. ‘James’ continues the calm, confident pace for the next two rounds.

  He wins on the would-be scorecards and he wows the media with such fine footwork and countering mixed offense-defense.

  Perhaps most alarming is how original he is compared to the rest of us.

  I can hear the media voices bragging:

  A NEW ERA

  I can hear all kinds of discussion about ‘James’ as this century’s first perfect specimen, an example of the evolution of a fighter.

  I watch, completely captivated.

  Edge of my seat, I say to X, “What do you think?”

  SILENCE

  Silence is not a good sign.

  “I think…I think…”

  I watch as ‘James’ rolls his shoulder as the other fighter connects with a painful-looking power shot. The rolling of the shoulder is a defensive tactic that’s quite difficult to master to the point where it is freely used.

  “Look at that man…”

  I am amazed.

  The worry…

  The jealousy…

  The fact that ‘James’s’ opponent, ‘me,’ has an impossible task ahead of him, all predates the inevitable conclusion I will soon make:

  I AM FIGHTING ‘JAMES’

  Don’t try to figure out how this works.

  I’m in the basement watching from a small TV, sulking about how my life has basically derailed itself and yet I am somehow out there, riding the scent of media glory, a facsimile of ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures.

  I don’t begin to question it.

  Too much of my story is a blur of private identity made public.

  I take it for what it is.

  ADMIT IT

  I do—

  “I enjoy watching ‘James’ fight. He’s truly a remarkably trained fighter. Spencer…did he actually listen to you?”

  I reach over, tapping X on the shoulder, “Hey, hey X, what’s your verdict?”

  He is cool to the touch.

  I look over and for the first time I notice the pale skin, the eyelids partially open revealing the whites of his eyes.

  I let out a long sigh.

  The remote is in his lap.

  I lean over and grab it.

  Press mute.

  I reposition X to get a better look at him.

  There is no pulse.

  SILENCE

  I am draped in the silence of having discovered I’m all that’s left.

  I am all that’s left of an era I had created.

  The identity I defined…

  The identity I defied to defend against all of them wanting their own say, their own alteration of who I am…

  WHO I AM

  WHO AM I

  WHO

  ARE

  YOU

  ?

  Executioner is dead. Feeling the nausea creep back up my throat, I fall back into my seat, palm clasped over my face.

  Debilitated, I am left to the silence.

  I have no way of fighting back.

  SILENCE

  The silence I…

  The silence…

  The silence I…

  Silence I…

  I…

  I…

  I.

  SILENCE

  The silence where I…fall face-first into the fields of memories buried, memories I had hidden six feet under, erased.

  The silence I drove brings back a trunkful.

  I shiver. I’ve said all that I haven’t meant to say, done what I didn’t mean to do. I can no longer talk about myself.

  Only they can.

  Only someone that can see.

  Senses buckle and fade in the face of—

  SILENCE

  VERSUS

  That’s what they’re all doing, every guest on any late night talk show.

  It’s not just talking. You have to look between the lines, the laughter, the cue cards and commercial breaks; they do more than talk.

  They are on another stage.

  They want a piece of your night.

  They want a piece of your life.

  DON’T THINK SO?

  If you think you’re only listening, check back in a half-hour later, while tossing and turning, waging war on the thoughts swirling around in your head, and expect to find at least one of those battle-born thoughts derived from one of the late night talk show discussions.

  It’s definitely not just talking and being charming or cute.

  I am not paranoid. I am not reading into something that shouldn’t be read with such scrutiny.

  They are doing more than talking.

  They fight for our attention. They fight for the spotlight.

  They fight over-time in hopes that they won’t fade with the night.

  ASK YOURSELF

  Right before stepping foot on that stage, right before shaking the talk show host’s hand, right before you represent your brand, what am I?

  WHAT AM I?

  A person.

  An old person.

  A person that is getting really old.

  A person past his prime.

  A person that could stand to lose a few pounds.

  A person that used to be something but maybe isn’t “with it” anymore.

  A person that…

  WHAT ARE YOU?

  I can’t walk that stage. I can’t sit down next to that desk, smile and grin and laugh with confidence at the talk show’s dry wit.

  I can’t…

  I haven’t a clue who I am anymore.

  THEY ARE LAUGHING

  They are always laughing. The talk show on mute, I can still hear their laughter. Something was said. The audience is directed to laugh. These aren’t laughs; these are confirmations of a celebrity’s appeal.

  The applause is nothing compared to the expression a laugh brings to the conversation. People put humor before intellect.

  Do they want someone to wax intellectual or to tell them a “side-splittingly funny” joke?

  I’d want to be honest. I want to be honest with myself.

  I woul
d walk that stage, sit in that chair, and tell the wired and tired world that I am lost. Completely lost. I would deviate from the script.

  Reason: I’m lost.

  Get it?

  I would ramble about how you lose yourself in fight to remain relevant to the fans out there. I would ramble about how it’s not the other celebrities that end up stealing the spotlight; it’s you that steals the spotlight from yourself. You think you have it made but then something about you thinks it can be better. You can make it so much better.

  Logic:

  THERE IS MORE

  IT CAN BE BETTER

  You fight the fame you’ve acquired. You think:

  The spotlight, it could be so much brighter.

  So you change “this,” change “that,” you become a dizzying league of your own, versions upon versions of yourself fighting to stay interesting.

  Ultimately you can’t keep up the pace without losing a part.

  Remember:

  I’M LOST

  There must be a degree of slack given to someone that’s so completely lost. I would keep talking about how much is lost in the fight to have it made.

  And I’m still not sure I ever got it right.

  ‘James’ is getting it right.

  He has already mastered the sweet science and he’s going to end up being the image attached to the insignia, GREATEST OF ALL TIME.

  He will be the G.O.A.T., not me.

  Willem Floures, yeah he’s that counterpuncher that created a new offshoot of fight psychology where he gets the opponent to fight for him.

  There might not even need to be a fight.

  He predates “the fight.”

  He wins before ever stepping in the ring.

  I AM CAUGHT IN THE ROPES

  I would ramble for a thousand pages. I would ramble for the entire duration of the interview.

  I would derail the entire talk show.

  I would be banned from ever returning, my share of the spotlight dimming, limited to anything else but talk shows.

  And they’d laugh.

  They’d laugh on cue.

  They would laugh at me, not at what I’m trying to say.

  They would laugh at that too, if they had been listening (they wouldn’t). They would laugh at the train wreck I have become.

  In that moment, I wouldn’t fear for myself; I would fear for the favor I’ve lost. I’d hope for the best…that maybe they took my diatribe for a sort of performance, a comedic performance.

  I would hope that they found it funny.

  DON’T LAUGH

  Don’t laugh if it’s at my expense.

  You see, I can’t be on these kinds of talk shows. They expect a sort of clever personality that I never had.

  I wouldn’t even be invited.

  The talk show might as well be the place where people judge the person for what they hope to become.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I can’t stop watching.

  One celebrity trips as she walks to her chair. Even that is as intended. Her ditsy persona is flawless. Off camera she is as serious as me but under those bright lights, she can’t stop laughing and a minute into the interview, when she looks at the camera, I sense that she is looking at me.

  DON’T LAUGH

  She laughs at the fact that I can’t look away.

  We all know what’s about to happen. Yet I can’t look away.

  The host rolls his eyes. Not amused.

  The audience erupts into applause. They are glad to see her leave.

  On mute, I read their mouths. The host is saying:

  OUR NEXT GUEST

  Like it’s directed at me. For a moment I feel foolish.

  This isn’t about me. Why do I keep turning everything into a problem?

  Why do I think everything is some subtle attack on my failing celebrity?

  DON’T LAUGH

  I know it’s stupid. I know it’s really narcissistic but what can a narcissist do to combat the problem? I have no clue. I didn’t used to be this way.

  And then right after I think that I get back to the same confused spiraling logic—

  HOW WOULD I KNOW?

  I don’t remember.

  The talk show host looks right at the camera.

  Then looks right at me.

  Mouths the words:

  LET’S

  GET

  HIM

  OUT

  HERE

  He walks back to his desk as I walk on stage.

  OH GOD

  Where am I?

  Isn’t this the basement?

  What?

  It’s like I’m here and there. Two places at once.

  THE APPLAUSE

  I look so out of place. I am not the brand of celebrity that goes on these kinds of shows. I am not about making these kinds of appearances.

  I smile and throw a pitiful little jab in the direction of the audience.

  This is humiliating.

  It isn’t real until the handshake.

  Walk over, DON’T trip on the way there, and the host grins in that way that is obviously fake but goes over well with the audience because this is all an act—every moment of it is a gesture of opportunism, nothing else—and he offers the mandatory handshake.

  In a mere split second we are shaking hands and it’s too late.

  Everything goes downhill from there.

  DON’T LAUGH

  I’m there but everything is on mute.

  I’m here and I’ve lost the remote again.

  The putrid stench of X’s dead body blends with the muted terror of the late night talk show into my worst nightmare.

  My worst nightmare and I can’t be sure it’s even mine.

  The host asks me a question but I’m too nervous to read his mouth, too nervous to be anything but mute.

  He looks into the camera like there’s no one there, no one watching, and the reaction he gets makes me sick to my stomach.

  There is laughter when I don’t respond.

  He blames me for the low ratings.

  YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE INVITED ME

  I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK I AM

  I MIGHT BE THE REAL IMPOSTER

  He says something like “Are you or are you not Willem Floures? The fighter?”

  We are losing viewers at a rate of ten per minute.

  I can do nothing but apologize.

  I AM SORRY

  Followed by:

  DON’T LAUGH

  This is humiliating.

  The host asks me, “So you aren’t Willem Floures? The fighter?”

  The way he talks down to me doesn’t help calm my nerves. I fight back the urge to punch him in the face. I hate how he can’t separate the person I am from the reason I am on this talk show.

  I can’t just be Willem Floures.

  I have to be ‘Sugar.’

  I can’t own the name without the alias.

  Strip away “the fighter” and I’m no closer to being Willem than you.

  DON’T LAUGH

  But they are. They are laughing.

  They are all laughing.

  The host furrows his brow, “If you aren’t Willem Floures, the fighter, then who the hell are you?”

  It’s the one question I cannot answer and he just asked me. This is why I’m on the show. They want to know why.

  Why am I not everything I should be?

  Why do I linger around what will only end up making things worse?

  Bubbling up from a deep recess of my brain:

  YOU SHOULD RETIRE

  LET HIM GO

  HE DOESN’T WANT TO BE YOU ANYMORE

  Talk about myself in the third person, like a mother confronting the source of her son’s bad behavior.

  You are holding Willem back.

  You are a bad influence.

  You are out of control.

  You tell Willem all of these lies and he thinks they are true.

  Willem obeys every single command.

  You exploit Wil
lem because you know he’ll listen and do everything you say.

  You treat Willem like he’s a fool.

  You tell him all of these lies and you know what he does?

  DON’T LAUGH

  Willem tells the world. He shows the world what you’ve shown him and he does it with pride!

  You tell him lies and in return you ruin his credibility.

  The world will think he’s a joke!

  You are the worst thing that’s happened to Willem and you need to go.

  You are the joke.

  They will all laugh at you. Willem will be just fine once you let go.

  DON’T LAUGH

  But they do. They are laughing.

  Everything is muted except for the laughter that sends sickness deeper into my body. It takes every bit of concentration I have to keep it together.

  It’ll all fall apart.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  THEY SEE YOU FOR WHO YOU REALLY ARE

  The host takes a sip from his mug (it’s water, not coffee) and shakes his head. He looks at the audience and asks, “What’s that smell?”

  It smells awful, I know.

  He turns to me, “You smell awful!”

  DON’T LAUGH

  But they do. They are laughing.

  I smell foul. I smell like a liar.

  “I am a liar.”

  That’s all I have to say.