The Laughter of Strangers (22 page)

It might as well be a shout-out because I know he’s talking about me.

WHY WOULDN’T HE BE?

He’s talking about
me
.

Whatever that means.

“X, help me out here!”

X blinks. Three…four times?

“What are you trying to say? I’m an idiot?”

Spencer chuckles, “Now that’s a knockout of a question. I don’t want to go into too much detail but the short answer is yes. What you have to understand about Willem is his propensity for expansion—be that new strategies, new campaigns, new ideas, or in this case, a new era. I really believe the same could be said about any other identity. The fight takes place not only in the ring but also in the limelight. Willem is a timeless fighter and in order to maintain that sort of commodity, he transforms himself as often as possible.”

I press my nose up to the TV screen, “Those are my ideas! You fucking stole my ideas!”

Flicker of a thought—

HOW DO YOU KNOW?

I exhale, suddenly overwhelmed by nausea, leaning back in my seat.

Spencer continues unabated, “The fight is full circle. Mind, body, and self.”

Interviewer with the next question, “Is it true what they say about how a second person comes out in the ring? I don’t want to resort to terms like ‘inner demon’ and ‘animal’ because…well maybe you can help clarify.”

Nodding, Spencer replies, “Sure, sure and, yeah, that’s a tricky one. It is difficult to describe. A fighter certainly taps into some sort of reservoir of emotion and both instinct and skill use the emotive material as fuel for the will and audacity of going twelve rounds against well…every fight is ultimately a personal one. You could be fighting an entire country but the one opponent that you have to defeat in order to win is you. Time and time again, it’s always the same.”

EVERY FIGHT IS A PERSONAL ONE

I look over at X.

“Hey…”

X’s eyes are closed.

“Hey…you watching this?”

Silence.

Don’t leave me with silence.

I talk over the TV, talking about anything to keep from listening to the rest of the interview.

I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes.

“Hey X, remember the week before the fight. Not the second fight but the first fight. The one where you really gave me a wake-up call…

“The one where you KOed me and ended my win streak…

“The one where I didn’t make it past round eight…

“The one where the media overused your alias in the merchandise, all that stuff involving a hooded executioner punching me so hard my face caves in…the fight where I felt like you were telling me what I was going to do next…the fight where I couldn’t think for myself…I heard the world, and by that I mean I could hear the audience…separate voices pieced apart so that I could hear their criticism…I could hear them laughing as you sent me to the canvas for the ten count…

“Hey X…

“Do you think I wanted to lose?

“That kind of goes against everything I’ve done to stay relevant…

“But do you think, maybe, I am just in denial…

“Maybe I should have quit before I fought you…

“Maybe what I thought you were telling me was really what I wanted to hear…. Maybe…but, well, it’s just…

“You know?”

OPEN ENDED QUESTION

Before I can fight to stay awake, I have fallen asleep.

Dreamless and vacant, it feels like it lasts a single, solitary moment. It feels a lot like I am trying to escape myself.

But I’m not lucky enough.

I wake up to the sound of applause.

On TV, ‘James’ works on his footwork, shuffling left, shuffling right, to the satisfaction of a dozen media cameras poised to capture the footage for the evening news and RSS feeds populating a billion people’s lives.

Cling to those feeds.

It might be the only reason you are alive.

The cameras catch sight of ‘James’ as he readies himself for the media sparring event, an event Spencer never allowed before.

But with ‘James…’

‘James’ can do everything and more!

The camera close to his face as he seemingly laces up his boots, the news correspondent flatters him with voice-over introductions:

“We are here with ‘Dynamite’ Willem Floures, the undefeated, charismatic boxer-puncher extraordinaire, about to go five rounds with one of the best and we’re capturing it all live on FightTV!”

‘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 would 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.