The Laughter of Strangers (3 page)

1)
The interviews, the meet-and-greets, the spotlights on sparring, method, strategy; the celebrity mingling, etc.

2)
The actual fight, the fight that I thought this was really all about but I guess not; more and more these days it seems like this is an afterthought. Who really trains anymore?

3)
That post-fight conference where the media grills you on your performance, like anyone really needs that after going twelve rounds.

On and on and on he’ll go and I need to follow him, agreeing at the end of every sentence.

THIS IS HOW IT GOES

KEY ELEMENTS TO A PROFESSIONAL FIGHT

But it goes, and eventually he will stop.

Things settle down and I get to enjoy a brief but lovely period of recuperation.

That is, unless Spencer
doesn’t stop
and proceeds to tell me:

“And you’re good for it.”

“Huh?” Good for what?

I already know, and I can feel that knot of dread already forming, twisting, coiling up, somewhere deep in my stomach.

“Executioner v. Sugar II. I signed the contract. Word should be reaching the media…” he looks at his wrist, not that he ever wore a watch, “right about
now
.” Stops, looks around the hospital for the first time, and then asks me, “Excited?”

Excited is not the word.

I let the effects of the painkillers pull me back under in the nonsense of a drug-laced consciousness. Temporary escape.

Last thing I hear before completely letting go, falling into a coma-like sleep, is Spencer saying, “Let’s get you well. Got to get you back on the routine in a week’s time.”

But I am not there.

Partial consciousness. I play with the prospect of never resurfacing.

I will comb the
nonspace
and turn it into my home.

HOME SWEET HOME

I’ll be right here. Fine.

But loose escapes are little more than lingering.

Ask Spencer and he’d say it’s not far off from loathing.

I just want to sleep.

These days I fail to fend off the hours that used to be mine; I wake when I wake, frantically rising to my feet when I discover that I slept through to beyond the point where the day can be anything more than half of an afternoon. And the routine, it places me to the side of myself, incapable of keeping track of anything else but the pressures of every incoming promotional event. They all ask me:

“What does it mean to be Willem Floures?”

I had a statement prepared, but I must have left it behind, somewhere, maybe resting on a table somewhere.

Yawn and let it take me, for now, the drugged sleep.

I’d like to ask them the same question.

I’d like to reply by saying:

“You tell me.”

All I know is that I’m not the same person I used to be.

EXECUTIONER V. SUGAR II…

I signed the contract…

Word should be reaching the media right about
now
…

Excited?

Hear gasps, deep breaths.

Familiar, they are my breaths.

Tired, strained.

Let’s get you well…

Got to get you back on the routine in a week’s time…

THE ROUTINE

I can’t get back to myself, much less the day-to-day.

“Sugar, what happened back there? It appeared as though he gassed you by focusing on body shots. Would you say that’s accurate?”

Don’t ask me.

Ask one of
them
.

They know me better than I know myself.

THE LAUGHTER I FEAR

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

Still have the scars on my face, the loose tooth in my mouth, the jitters so I have to hide my hands from the cameras. Anyway, it’s back to the routine.

The talk of every day until it happens is:

EXECUTIONER VS. SUGAR II

It used to be the other way around:

SUGAR VS. EXECUTIONER

What does it feel like to be the challenger?

That’s a question I’ve already been asked.

It’s a knockout of a question, first of many. Good thing Spencer sits at my side, different because most agents stay behind the scenes. Not Spencer.

He’s always been right there.

Field these questions, man. Please. Go right ahead.

I tongue the open laceration on the inside of my cheek. It’s the wound that wouldn’t heal quick enough. The mouth guard fell out of my mouth, Executioner failing to land a shot but no matter because I managed to clench my jaw, grind my teeth into the soft gummy tissue before the referee stopped the fight so that I might replace the mouth guard.

Memory.

Memory I’d rather forget.

Memory, a memory that is not a part of the media junket.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

What are they laughing at?

Oh it’s something Spencer said. Good of him to speak for me—

“Well then, last week’s fight is history and if I do say so myself it was a piece of history. The world saw the end of Sugar’s long-running win streak against what the media had called, in the weeks prior to fight night, a prodigy, a new era for Floures.”

Spencer the expert agent and publicist replies, “What’s the question?”

Thing about daytime talk shows is they tend to sensationalize and place opinion on the public. It is whatever their audience wants. Get them laughing, get them interested. As long as you
get them
, the truth and/or value of the coverage is less important.

The host winks, gloats, gets to the point:

“Will Sugar be ready for X this time?”

See what I mean?

They could care less about the harmful emotional effect of their questions; this is about entertainment. 

Spencer ducks the question, retaliating with a bluff, “Every fight counts for something, I assure you. It is not that we aren’t ready for the fight; every professional is ready to exercise his or her craft. Every boxer fights with the sweet science in mind. Sugar is no different.”

“I am not denying that to be the case, Mr. Mullen, but the world wants to know if Sugar will be ready to face himself or will it be another blunder of a match?”

Relentless.

WOULD EXPECT NOTHING LESS

It doesn’t seem to faze Spencer though.

“What do you want to hear? You ask and I speak the truth. In specifics, I am confident enough to tell you that we have examined Executioner’s preferred strategies, where he’s coming from as a strategist, and everyone,” turns to the audience, the cameras, points at random faces, “every one of you should know that Sugar sees the math, the strategy, the one-two-duck-hook-low; Sugar used to fight like this. Let’s not kid ourselves. He’s got more experience than the entire league of them. He’s used to battling himself, be it ‘Ice,’ ‘Breakneck,’ ‘Kid KO,’ or, the ‘Executioner.’ They are just names, aliases; faces in the dirt of each step. Sugar has the record to prove that he knows every strength, knows every weakness. He understands their round-by-round strategy. A decade ago Sugar and I created it from the ground up, working in subtle psychology into the sweet science.”

Weigh in that answer.

See what the host has for us next.

COMMERICAL BREAK

Of course, to distill and strip away the bulk of Spencer’s reply, they cut to commercial. They want to focus on the negative rather than the positive. It’s what the audience wants. Drama, the dish, new shocking information to please.

DISAPPOINTED

They are disappointed in me.

I am disappointed in myself.

The host tells us, “Okay, I understand that it is in your best interest to maintain Sugar’s persona as it once was in a positive light; however, the light is no longer lime and it is no longer looking for you. It is in
our
best interest to paint the picture of a true loss. We get the audience to believe it and it makes for a better story.”

The host looks at me, “Win the rematch and you recoup not only what you lost but also double what you put into this. It’s your career, your identity, your life that’s on the line. It is in our
best interest
to pave the way for a comeback.”

BEST INTEREST

This is not good.

Spencer is offended by the host’s tone. He is silent, brooding, listening, acting the part, acting as if he agrees.

AND WE’RE BACK

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

FAKE

ON COMMAND

“We are back with none other than ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures, one of the greatest fighters of all time.”

Spencer mutters under his breath, “He
is
the greatest fighter of all time…”

More talk about the loss,
that
loss, and how ‘Executioner’ was faster, more agile, capable of outpunching and outmaneuvering me around the ring.

“Might this be why you chose to stay on the ropes?”

Spencer answers, “It’s called rope-a-dope, a valid technique. It is how we stole three rounds on the cards from ‘Executioner.’”

“That very well may be the case but between the use of lateral movement to duck the mids, Executioner landed,” the host reads from one of his notecards, ninety-one percent of punches to the face. This is not healthy for a fighter your age, Sugar. We worry about the lasting damage one fight can do to your reflexes, your ability to defend yourself.”

I open my mouth to speak but Spencer beats me to it:

“We have released the medical reports to the press. He received only minor injuries, nothing a single night’s stay in the hospital couldn’t treat.”

The host looks at me.

Says, “He looks pretty rough.”

I reply, “It was a rough fight.”

AND THAT’S SOMETHING

And that’s something the host wants to hear.

And that’s something Spencer will lecture me about afterwards.

Addressing me, the host asks, “Did you see the punch coming?”

Spencer with the save, “Most knockouts are flash, blind, quick and to the temple, under the chin, somewhere where the body is rendered useless. If I were to hit you in the temple lightly right now, you would get dizzy, feel slightly nauseous; hell, that might be enough to knock you out.”

“Mr. Mullen, are you threatening me?”

Every media venue and their propensity for controversy…

But Spencer said it for a reason. He must have.

He’s way too good to get caught up in the nonessentials of a slanderous interview.

“Threats are of everyday life. In the context of the rematch, the threat here is not what Sugar lost—not at all—the threat is in what ‘Executioner’ stands to lose.”

The host cocks his head to the side, “Interesting take.” Again he turns his attention to me. Predictable. Most venues seek to speak to me directly rather than through Spencer’s testimonies.

“What’s your take on this, Sugar?”

Like trying to gain approval from someone’s mother, the host holds up both hands, indication of fair play, “That is if I may speak to the man himself?”

Spencer and I realize that we are at that point of the interview.

I need to say something.

They need to hear my voice, need to make sure that I’m responsive. Most of all, they just want to know something about what I’m not.

Fielding for new gossip, new rumor.

“You are talking to him right now,” Spencer comments.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

Seems to get the audience’s attention.

I don’t find it very funny myself but that’s not up to me.

I take the punches.

I take the onslaught.

Everything else I try my best to let it wash over me, unaffected.

Host readies the pounce—

He gets at least one question, one question before the opportunity spoils. What’s it going to be?

What do you think?

WAIT FOR IT…

“Do you think it’s time to retire?”

I wait for it too.

It doesn’t register at first. Spencer gives me this look like I’m ruining it, really smearing the interview, fucking it up for myself by being slow with my reply…but he’s right and it doesn’t hit me at first.

Slow crawl.

One of those straights that pushes through your gloves, causing your gloves to shoot back towards you and away, parting the sea as the powerful strike lands right on the nose.

Those kinds of punches you can only see in slow motion.

When it lands, there’s little more than a tickle. It starts at the point of impact, the bridge of the nose. Feel it like an insect’s legs on bare skin as it crawls up your arm or back. Feel it as it expands, impact warm and the dots, they swarm your vision until you don’t see much of anything.

If you’re lucky you are still standing, still fighting back.

FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT

But lately I haven’t been up on luck.

Like right now, when I answer honestly, an answer right from the gut, I don’t mean it to come out the way it does.

I say:

“I think so.”

What I really mean is—

I THINK SO BUT I DON’T THINK I’M READY

I have a whole lot left to prove.

I still don’t fully understand myself.

I have to keep fighting to find myself.

Got to try to remember why I fought in the first place.

Why I was always so hard on myself.

Quick to scrutinize and analyze and obsess.

TOO LATE

The headline most recognized when associated with my name.

Poor choices are plain and simple in the past tense.

I can see them and understand why I made such a bad decision; however, it never shows. It never reads
you are going to regret it
, until it’s too late.

TOO LATE

Read
: I didn’t mean to do and/or say whatever I did, whatever I said.