The Laughter of Strangers (24 page)

ESCAPE ARTIST

If you ask me, I’d tell you a story about Willem. It would be from back when the limelight followed me wherever I went. Willem was my name and I was a fighter. Sugar as in sweet science. Sugar as in the alias to end all aliases.

Nothing sweeter than sugar.

I’d sting you with a single shot and you’d be marked.

Nothing personal.

I’m just the better fighter. Even if you weren’t sure who was who, I’d let you know how it is in twelve rounds or less. In twelve rounds, you’d meet Willem.

In twelve rounds, you’d meet me.

SO HOW IS WILLEM DOING?

I admit I hurt his image. Willem Floures is a bit of a joke. According to the media, the moment they found out—lies are lies and lies are fatal—there was a massive pilgrimage towards a competing identity.

Different leagues but do they really have it better?

Willem Floures is a name to remember.

NOT SO

They didn’t seem to think so after I had blurred the line between dignity and humility, honesty and slander. I made it so that no one knew what I’d do next…especially me.

How much of it is imagined?

How much of it is uninspired?

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

I lean forward, listening to the first interview. They speak to ‘Buster’ Willem Floures, and the question right about now is the simplest and most difficult to answer:

WHY SHOULD WE CARE?

Willem Floures captured the world’s interest. In order to exist, they will want it to continue. I want to continue. Can I please continue?

This isn’t about me; it is only about ‘me.’

WHO ARE YOU VS WHO I AM

Notice the past tense. It’s a sad song on repeat, echoing throughout every thought. It makes this all so difficult. I have to listen to them like I’m anyone else. I sit here, television viewer, and it’s like the past decades have been unraveled. How much of it is left?

WHY SHOULD WE CARE?

Friends, why should they care about us? Why should they care about you? Why should they care about Willem?

‘Buster’ is being interviewed at the gym. He’s serious, not a single grin or chuckle at the outlandish questions being asked of him before getting to the all-important one, the one question that’ll decide whether or not there is anything to this—anything to him.

“Yeah, so, you had to ask me that question didn’t you?”

The interviewer nods, “Our viewers want to know. The state of the league, as it stands, is in tatters after the recent events. We merely look for some sort of understanding. If you are not able to explain yourself, we worry that our time is being wasted.”

‘Buster’ leans on the ropes, casual cool, “I can explain myself. That’s on me. So you want the full spiel? Yeah? Well my name is Willem Floures. ‘Buster’s’ my alias. You can call me ‘Buster.’ I have six wins, zero losses. All six by knockout. I originally moved up here from the South after I heard about how Spencer Mullen’s training camp was taking in new recruits. I guess there are a whole lot of us. We all think alike. We’re all more or less the same.”

He pauses, “What else…?”

The interviewer offers, “Try talking about why you wanted to become a boxer.”

Nodding, “Sure. I can talk about that. I don’t think I had much of a choice, actually. Fighting followed me. I came from a poor family and I wasn’t very popular in school. Growing up I got beat up a lot. I felt like I was getting the sense beaten out of me. I felt like a zero, kind of useless, you know? And so I did my best to do good in school but it wasn’t for me. I had okay grades but it wasn’t what I had in store. My name was memorable enough so I figured there might be something to it. I ended up choosing boxing instead of basketball and wrestling during junior high. We all got to choose which sport/discipline to study. Boxing was an application. I had to do a lot of soul searching. I had a lot of fight in me. It all clicked together.”

Was I poor?

Had I been bullied as a child?

Willem was a natural fighter. I figure most fighters have to get tossed around, beaten up a bit before coming into their own.

A fighter needs to understand what it’s like to lose before they can ever achieve a win.

I cringe a little when the interviewer switches to another question, the one about me. ‘Me.’ ‘Sugar.’

Will he tell the world what I did?

“Bad times come and go, you know? I went through a bad time. I felt like I was all tied up inside. I had to reassess my decision to fight. You can’t fight if there isn’t a deep meaning of why you fight. See—

“Every fight is soul-searching. It is...”

‘Buster’ searches for the right words before settling with, “The actual dance is the surface. There’s a whole ’nother side to a fight.”

The interviewer thanks ‘Buster’ for the tell-all.

I switch channels.

MY FRIENDS

Do I consider myself a friend?

Do I like myself? Based on what I see next, I get the feeling that I’d be hard to stomach for long periods of time.

Willem Floures is a little self-absorbed.

‘Stinger.’ That’s his alias.

He is invited onto a sports-cast where they discuss and analyze the sports industry at-large.

“Hello Willem, it’s nice to have you here,” says one of the sportscasters.

“Great to be here,” replies ‘Stinger.’

“Now, just to make it clear, you are in no way affiliated or a friend to ‘Sugar’ am I right?”

“That’s correct. ‘Sugar’s’ been around a lot longer than I have.”

The sportscaster nods, “Right. But I’m sure you are aware of what happened the other night on Late Night, yes?”

“Yes, there’s no way I’d forget.”

“So it hurt you personally?”

“Why wouldn’t it? I took it personal. It’s about me.”

“I understand,” the sportscaster backs off a bit, “it’s a lot to handle. Yes…but there have been rumors surrounding ‘Sugar’s’ behavior. I believe it’s escalated to widespread online trashing.”

‘Stinger’ looks disappointed, “Yeah, it’s taken its toll.”

“The widespread belief has to do with a sinister strategy wherein ‘Sugar’ is said to have concocted the web of deceit to get the upper hand on the entire league. Do you care to comment?”

‘Stinger’ sighs and I would like to know beforehand what he’s about to say but when I try and listen, I only end up hearing stale laughter.

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

He exhales, “I think it’s bullshit. We all do crazy things when we’re desperate but I don’t think any of his publicity stunts were designed to generate anything other than more publicity skewed in his favor.”

“So you are saying that ‘Sugar’ was only after favor?”

Nodding, ‘Stinger’ replies, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Interesting…”

Don’t say anything about the scars on your wrists. Don’t say anything about the scars on your wrists…

“What’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Shit.

“Oh it’s from…night terrors.”

I switch channels before I hear anything else.

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

Oh, wonderful.

In all my channel surfing, I still manage to make it in time for the nightly news. It’s about to start.

I kind of hope there’s nothing about me but we’re not stupid enough to fall back on wishful thinking. All news items deemed “red” will be reported.

It’s the nightly news.

They’ll probably interview ‘James.’

Dynamite.

He’ll detonate whatever’s left of my dignity to save himself and Willem Floures, boxer celebrity, from facing the scrutiny.

A whole different kind of fight bubbles to the surface.

IT BEGINS

The intro sequence provides a sample of tonight’s top news stories. Among the political are a few celebrity scandals. 

Tally of the hopeful (hopeful in that they won’t talk about Willem):

Nothing interesting.

Nothing interesting.

Nothing interesting.

Hey look, they discovered a parasite that lives in the human eye.

Nothing interesting.

Looks like Vera Cruz is getting divorced eighteen hours after marrying another guy. That makes for, how many?

Nightly news, don’t let me down.

Seven. Seven times married, seven times divorced.

We are all trying our best to remain relevant in a world where media has mistakenly swapped the irrelevant with the relevant.

Nothing interesting.

Nothing interesting.

Sure enough they are interviewing…stomach sinks.

Spencer.

They are interviewing Spencer.

And then two other stories—

NOTHING INTERESTING

I switch channels out of spite, out of anxiety.

I don’t stay on a single channel for any longer than ten seconds. In no time, the channel surfing becomes hypnotic. I fall back into a series of disjointed, self-analytical thoughts as I drift.

As I surf.

AS IT GOES

The currency of relevancy in the form of broadcast news and entertainment. And there’s still the world of social media, where I’m a meme that reads:

I’LL BE YOU TOMORROW

A picture of me morphed with a sack of sugar. AKA:

A sack of shit.

That’s what the bitter world of message boards and the anonymous with too much time on their hands, that’s what they think of me.

I’m a sack of sugary shit.

SUGARMORPH

Another term coined after my late night talk show “cave-in.”

It should be harmful but I’m numb.

I don’t let it get to me until the repressed emotions become demonic possession: This tired body operating on its own, medicating with painkillers and alcohol, massacring my liver, my mind, my anything, my all.

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

That’s part of the problem.

I did—and look what happened?

I climb from channel two to channel two-hundred all the way back again.

My jaw clenches as I pass by channel four. Nightly News talks about Vera Cruz. There’s still time left. The channel surf gets me thinking:

HOW MANY TIMES WILL I FIGHT BEFORE

THE LEAGUE FOLDS?

Willem will be okay right? Beyond ‘Dynamite’ and the dozen new trainees, there ought to be some assurance that who I have been all my life will more or less live on with the times.

How many times will a fight sell out before the fight identity goes full circle? Do they really want to follow Willem Floures into the next century?

It’s a worrisome thought.

I feel responsible for the sensationalism. I should.

I’ll deal with it. However, I don’t want it to be the one blemish that results in premature extinction of the identity.

WILLEM FLOURES MUST SURVIVE

Is it time?

When is it not time?

At any given moment, someone is talking about me.

Not me as in all of them. I’m talking about ‘me.’

‘Sugar.’

By now things are getting bitter.

Okay nightly news…

HURT MY FEELINGS

I catch the uninteresting story about whatever where one of the representatives wanders around some temple and I get drowsy just thinking about paying attention.

What comes next though…

THAT WASN’T A QUESTION

Where’s “Lights Out” when I need him? That alias ought to mean something. Maybe he’s got a power punch to crack a cast-iron chin.

Oh right…

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

I’m nervous. There. I explained myself.

Spencer has a whole lot more to say though and right from the start the interview proceeds to get under my skin.

The reporter hands Spencer a list of questions, which we see as on-screen graphic overlays, and Spencer proves to be the easiest interview ever for this reporter. Whoever she is.

He starts with a good laugh.

“That’s for you,” he says, pointing into the camera, and everyone knows he’s talking about me.

I feel his laughter echo through me, understanding that it has left an imprint. I will be hearing it again, when silence tries to settle my wired senses.

“And to the world, did you have as good a laugh as I did?”

Spencer smiles, “I hope you did because class is now in session.”

Spencer begins his lecture: “I hear all this talk about deceit and the death of Willem Floures from popular culture. I hear all this whining about lies, about sweet gone sour promises. I hear a lot but very little of it has any substance. What I’m not hearing are questions that need to be asked…”

He pauses, waiting for the graphic to appear onscreen.

“I’m not hearing about DYNAMITE VS SUGAR. I don’t hear any media buzz surrounding a pivotal fight for Willem Floures.”

Spencer slams his fist against open palm.

“This is what we should be talking about! Every identity aches to be heard. Understand? If you want to hear the truth, I’m telling you—save it for fight night. All will be exposed.”

EXPLAIN YOURSELF

There are other questions on that quiz sheet.

I feel like I’m getting off easy. Spencer hasn’t answered any questions about me.

No one is talking about ‘me.’

Sugar.

My manic episode of media hell.

Why am I being let off so easily?

EXPLAIN YOURSELVES

I don’t care if it affects me because I did what I felt I needed to do at the time. If we rewound these missives, I’d likely end up whining and bragging and contradicting myself until the end of the night.

Nothing would change.

I fought to live.

I live to fight.

The biggest fear of mine is what hinges around judgment. Their laughter burns through my brain, a cast mold representing my time in the ring long since past.

If I’m not fighting, am I dying?