The Laughter of Strangers (17 page)

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.

Nonsense 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

I’LL HOLD THE FIRST TWO ROUNDS AGAINST YOU

BETTER HOPE YOU GOT SOMETHING MORE THAN IDENTITY ANOMIE

Disclaimer
: I am not going to apologize.

The nonsense forms its own sort of identity.

In a world where everything is worth only a moment’s notice, I care most about the favor and the future of Willem Floures.

It might sound indulgent but it’s true:

We all fight to be recognized.

My ability to understand who I am has been slaughtered, the gore and blood smeared across national media. Every single article, be it a picture or a long blog post, an article for the Times or a video interview uploaded, I say what I say and I deny it in the next. I say one thing only to sever any understanding with a follow-up series of episodes.

The media thinks it’s all an act.

The media thinks of me as a nutcase. But they like enigmatic undertones; they love an eccentric personality.

They’d take tumor minds over yet another brandless tool.

And you know what?

I’ll take it.

I’ll take whatever I can get.

DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?

I sigh, “Just tell me.”

YOU ALREADY KNOW

A moment later I did. I should be happy, thrilled.

It was going to happen.

Everything I had aligned made true.

Maybe I didn’t have it all figured out.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

But it was going to happen. Despite what it took to get there, for a brief moment, I would take the spotlight.

One last time.

VERSUS

Maybe you don’t trust me. I don’t trust me. Okay, fine. You don’t trust me. Well at least trust in the fact that I have this fight won. I am as prepared as I could ever be. Black Mamba hasn’t a clue what I’ll use, how I’ll fight, or how this will go down. It’s why he keeps asking me if I hear something.

I hear all.

So let’s stick to the basics, okay?

I want to explain something to you; I want to talk about the basics of the perfect boxing match. What can and will go wrong versus what can and will go right: the anatomy of a twelve round fight for the title.

So let’s have at it, but keep in mind that I didn’t get to the arena in time. Rounds one and two were withheld, via judge bribery, the match wasn’t thrown out but the first two rounds were certainly given to Mamba.

Foolish of me to think that it was Spencer that paid off the judges. Never would have thought it was Black Mamba’s camp that made it so.

But I guess they need this fight to happen.

They want the fight because they want the spotlight.

Spencer, he sits in the corner barking orders that don’t make any sense. And I mean that literally—

He shouts incoherent commands, a great frown on his face, followed by the only thing I can make out:

ARE YOU LISTENING?

I guess not. But I got this covered. Again, this is about trust.

Trust me more than I can trust myself.

Who else am I going to trust? I can’t trust Spencer, who systematically unwrites the entire league by capturing every single potential fighter before they’ve reached their fifteenth fight. I can’t trust someone I trusted for almost two decades. I can’t... even begin to finish that sentence.

TWO DECADES

More or less—all that time, my career being equally his career. I’m speechless just thinking about how much went into our professional relationship only to have this happen. He says I’m the one that’s changed. Everyone changes as they age. I think he’s changed for the worse.

I can’t listen to his lectures anymore.

They go right over my head.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

No I’m not but I hope you are.

Pay attention.

This one’s going to be a barnburner.

ROUND THREE

After a bit of crowd-pleasing via the ring announcer and one of the producers covering for my tardiness, I am in my corner and Black Mamba in his. Though he looks at me, I feel like he is looking through me. Looking past me. We walk to the center of the ring, touch gloves, and the bell sounds.

Immediately I notice something’s wrong.

I can’t place the problem, but it’s there. The entire fight is off; the momentum isn’t there.

At first I figure it’s because Black Mamba is a counterpuncher.

This is unexpected.

He waits for me to make a mistake and he counters with a combination, often trailing the light jabs and hooks with a shot that might just knock my head off. But they are few and far between.

For the duration of the round, I watch as Black Mamba maintains a defensive shell.

I am trying to figure him out and, for these first few rounds, I give him the benefit of the doubt: He’s probably doing the same.

Though I know what he’s thinking, just as he knows what’s swirling around in my head, between the physical and the mental there is a difference, an omission. I can surprise him with an instinctual strike or he might forego strategy and fight on pure adrenaline, feeling out the fight and nothing more.

That’s the thing about boxing—

Though it is a science…

Though it requires skill and intellect to master…

The body often falls into its own pace, its own groove.

Everything you build snaps into effect and during the best moments of the round, you are seeing a flurry of images; you are acting and reacting without any trigger of the mind.

It’s a lot like how time can pass so quickly when you are having a wonderful time; the round can pass by in a split second, leaving you reeling, catching images of various encounters. You can only hope you landed the most punches and the CompuBox has you on the up rather than down.

Plus, hopefully you aren’t bleeding.

No cuts, that kind of thing. 

End of the round, I feel like nothing’s happened. Take it as another example of what I’m trying to explain.

During the best fights, I often feel like I am the one, the only Willem Floures. No shred of a doubt—I am who I’ve been and the reason I fight is because the fight keeps things simple and obvious.

Reason: You want to win.

Reason: You want to impress the world.

Reason: It makes you feel alive.

Reason: It’s the only thing you’re certain of—the fight involves not losing, winning to make everyone happy, and, last but not least, fighting is the truest testament to being alive.

If you aren’t fighting, you are dying.

ROUND FOUR

It passes in the blink of an eye.

I pretend to be frustrated, throwing lots of punches that don’t connect, so that I can set myself up for a surprise in the following round.

Mamba remains on the defensive, wasting away the round with very little activity. Between rounds, Spencer is still going on and on about something, shouting as loud as he can possibly stomach. I clear my throat, take in some water, breathe in and out three times; one of the crewmembers checks my face, looking for any cutting.

The last thing I want is to feel the vapors of the Vaseline on my face, the Vaseline they rub into every cut to keep from further tearing and damage.That’s reason enough to fight effectively:

Take no risks.

Know when to let go and know when to lead your opponent on.

And I’m not talking about first-date etiquette here.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Spencer shouts. I heard that last part.

Fine, yeah. I nod. Whatever you say.

ROUND FIVE

I’ve encountered some of the younger ones trying to be a swarmer, thinking that the onslaught of punches and aggression will take me out, but remember what I said about my chin? I can take a punch. I can take a hundred punches and I’ll remain standing. Maybe not now, but back in the day I could.

Now I maintain the illusion that I can.

Hell, maybe I can; I don’t know.

Everything I’ve thought to be true has turned out to be false; everything I’ve thought to be false turns out to be true. There is no pattern and everything is a ploy trying to render me confused.

I’ve encountered one that wasted all his energy trying to knock me out with haymakers. He tried to bolo punch me into a situation where I’d fall into one of his power punches. Yeah right.

He lasted four fights before dropping the name.

Whoever he is now, he isn’t Willem Floures.

I can’t even recall his fight alias. What was it?

Black Mamba hides behind his fists. The thing about counterpunchers is they play conservatively but if you go southpaw and fight more like a swarmer, at least in small spurts, you will land a few punches. Even if he has a strong defense, he won’t be able to avoid every punch. First thirty seconds into the round, I begin to notice that every time I land a punch Mamba buckles.

There’s no way a single jab can hurt him.

I land a straight to the body and he buckles.

It’s these kinds of things that worry me. The majority of this round consists of idle jabbing followed by analysis of Mamba’s intentions.