The Laughter of Strangers (15 page)

Mamba.

For some reason I pick it up. When he speaks to me it’s like he’s a voice in my head, “Don’t be an idiot. You can feel pain. I’m going to make sure you never feel one hundred percent again. This fight will be your last!”

He hangs up but I keep talking into the phone, not letting the call end:

“What the hell are you talking about? When did this happen? When is the fight? Wait, what?”

Read into the fact that I am talking into the receiver long after the call has ended. I am not talking to anyone.

YOU ARE TALKING TO ME

“Wait, what?” I look over at them as if they’ll be able to explain what’s going on to me, all taped up, starving, parts of me dying slowly.

How much of me is dead?

How long does it take for someone to completely die inside?

EVERYTHING YOU SAY, I HEAR

 EVERYTHING I HEAR, YOU DREAD

What to not read into:
I am not afraid.

THAT CHARITY EVENT DIDN’T GO SO WELL

Suddenly feeling a surge of anxiety, I punch one of them in the face as hard as I can. My knuckles crack upon impact.

What to not read into:
I am not in pain.

I shout his name, “Spencer!”

I can sense that he heard me from upstairs.

Laughter. I do a double take, listening for the source. It isn’t me. It isn’t them. I silently wander the perimeter of the ring, until I see that someone has left their phone, it’s playing out a video sequence where I am front-and-center, talking to a large crowd like I’m confident.

Like I don’t have issues with public speaking.

Like I am on my own, no Spencer to be seen.

Like I’m not worrying about that, about the fact that Spencer can’t be seen in either media and my memory. What is he up to?

I can’t answer that question until I’ve figured out what I’ve been doing.

YOU KIND OF COME OFF AS A FOOL IN THIS INTERVIEW

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

I pause the video, I replay the part where I threaten a celebrity I’ve never met. What was I thinking?

“You talentless hack! If I could fight any celebrity in the ring, it would be you!” Again with the laughter.

That is at my expense. It is always at my expense.

Pause. Rewind. Replay.

It seems I’m late to every realization.

THE FIGHT IS IN TWO DAYS

I try to call the number.

The phone pauses the video and reads:

Incoming call, Loser.

Vacated title means a vacated venture where I’m the slowest reader of them all. Happenstance is intentional and Black Mamba’s threats hit real close.

“Spencer! Where did these guys come from?”

They watch me. They are all younger than me.

Have been training, it seems; they have the make and conditioning of a primetime fighter. Boxing the best, a bunch of Willems.

I tell them, “This is your future,” while holding a handful of flab from my stomach, pinching it to the point where it feels like one of those foam tubes used as floatation devices in swimming pools.

NICE ONE

Attached to the text message is a picture I’ve seen before but for some reason don’t remember. It is a screen-cap of an online article discussing a certain sort of madness, yet again at my expense. 

The author apparently spoke to me about my career and I proceed to act so humble and selfless, praising every single accomplishment that can’t be linked to ‘Sugar.’ I talk about how I intend on a few more fights but retirement is likely a possibility.

I talk about being an organ donor.

I talk about a few charities.

The article reads well except for when I make a racist comment towards the end, the screen-cap image being a zoom in of the exact line; it went viral, spread like wildfire across social media.

It seems I missed another call.

It’s…you know who it is.

“Willem, you really know how to get their attention. You take whatever you can get. Bad publicity still gets you places.”

End of message.

I delete it only to see that I have a number of saved messages.

Different numbers, that all too familiar voice.

What to not read into:
I am not confused.

LEAVE THE COMEDY FOR THE PROFESSIONALS

Black Mamba with a bunch of bad jokes, really bad ones, apparently from a comedy routine I tried at an open mic/improv event. I comb through my memory but cannot seem to find a thread that pulls in the right direction, the one where I realize that I’ve been doing all of this.

Combing through, I come up empty-handed.

Each voicemail is more alarming than the last.

I wonder if I knew what I was doing the moment I mentioned something about murder.

YOU KILLED A MAN?

Apparently. I remember that.

I also remember there being four of them, not six.

X, Rattlesnake, Breakneck, and Big Boy.

‘Earthquake’ and ‘Q-Bert’ are unfamiliar.

What not to read into:
I am worried.

Worried about what?

Exactly.

FOCUS ON THE UPCOMING FIGHT

I keep forgetting that the title is vacated. Anyone can be Willem Floures and everyone that wants to be me has been tied up and kidnapped by Spencer, brought down to this basement.

This used to be where I trained, now it’s more of a prison.

And yet I can’t really leave, can I?

I still feel safe here, safer than upstairs where the hauntings seem to be two steps ahead. The house still shifts and groans with every anxiety.

I keep getting the feeling that I’m being watched.

“Spencer?”

I’ll have to leave the basement at some point; might as well see what’s going on today. It is odd to find out that it’s dark outside. It feels like I’ve been awake for only a few moments. I listen to the house for the sound of footsteps, a very specific sort of creaking, like the sound of someone falling over, croaking, after landing a power shot right to the stomach.

Mouth guard falling out.

I follow the sound of would-be footsteps, only finding out later that they are mine. My footsteps take me on a tour of the house, as if I’m trying to show myself that I’m alone.

I get it. I’m alone.

WHO ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE IN YOUR CORNER ON FIGHT NIGHT?

I tune that out.

What not to read into:
The fact that I am all of these things and yet uncertain of much of anything.

The neurosis of the past couple months (days? How long has it been?) keeps things inconsistent but then again when is life really at balance?

Yes, there are worries.

Yes, there are fears.

Yes, there are omissions from memory.

And yes, there seems to be a lot lacking in that particular category. Memory. But it’s mostly understood. I know that they are in here, in this skull of mine…when I see the evidence, it is more like remembering than having never seen it before. I seem to be passed over, the world and it’s all-too-important media getting ahead of me.

I’m the one running, gassed, left gasping for breath.

DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU PULLED THAT TOOTH OUT ON LIVE TV AND WERE SUBSEQUENTLY BANNED FROM THE SHOW?

When I read this text message, I can sense that it’s happened. My tongue, now healed over (as if only noticing now), instinctively goes to the right tooth, the tooth now clearly a fake, an expensive replacement.

I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t known of it before.

Yeah, but then I still have the same inquiries of self-loathing.

The whole, “What were you thinking?” pangs of regret that quickly send me into shame spirals.

Like right now, I realize that I’m aimlessly walking the entirety of the house, not really paying attention to anything (not that there’s anything to notice; the house is empty); I might have noticed that Sarah’s room is unlocked. I might have noticed that Sarah isn’t home. No sign of Spencer. The hauntings that brew in these spaces are never near enough, close enough of a connection, for an encounter. Not like James or whatever is going to say hello.

I don’t sense a disturbance.

I only hear Black Mamba’s voice, commenting on everything I do.

YOU ARE THREATENING ME

And of course that’s not me saying those things. Black Mamba parlays threat with accusation of a threat.

Recognize that everything in my life is a fight that might not ever be fully won. Read into the fact that there are less factual elements and more of an identity exaggerated and sensationalized, controlled and destroyed, contradicted and rendered inconsistent, for the sake of the media’s interest.

I am unreliable.

I am unforgivable. I am in denial…

All for the sake of the identity I’ve conceived.

Sell a little to gain a lot. Or whatever.

I AM GOING TO KNOCK YOU OUT BY RD FIVE

This is all part of pre-fight psychology. There’s the tendency for your opponent to attempt to derail your focus, your ability to concentrate on fight strategy, but when you are fighting yourself, the psychology is yours to over-analyze and let consume via an obsession.

There are too many layers to the fight.

I can’t go at the fight alone.

“Spencer…?”

I hear his voice but it’s drowned out by Black Mamba’s.

“Spencer…? I can’t hear you. Speak up!”

HE’S TRYING TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH

I know the truth.

Shut up! I can’t figure out where he is.

HE’S IN YOUR CORNER, TRYING TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO DO TO WIN

What I need to win? I need to win, that’s all I need to know. I need to keep my sights on the victory. The big “v.” I can’t let you get to me. I can’t lose. If you win, I will have lost myself. I might as well be a person dead on their feet, lost in his own grey matter, a thread of half-thoughts and haywire actions.

Willem Floures:

One of those celebrity athlete personalities that took a turn for the worse. People claiming “he’s manic depressive” and “he’s out of control.”

Read into what I don’t want to read into:

Fear.

Worry.

Fear and worry that it is all real.

Not imagined.

My fight record is ruined.

I used to be the best of the best.

And that’s not an egotistical statement, okay?

BUT YOU AREN’T LISTENING

I can’t help but listen.

Maybe it’s you that doesn’t want to listen.

You
can get out of my headspace. I can’t.

I can’t escape.

I have nowhere else to go but back in the basement. I need to train. Two days until fight night. I need to train.

USELESS, YOU NEVER TRAIN, YOU DON’T READ INTO THE RHYTHM SURROUNDING YOUR LIFE

Believe me, I tried.

Past tense, I know. I “try.” Better? But I don’t want to read into this, any of what’s already happened. Publicity is publicity. I am right there, in the spotlight. I am still the WILLEM FLOURES.

There is a whole lot of fight left in me.

Look—

I mean see all of them?

There were six, now there are eight.

That’s a number that delves right into my losses. Each and every one of them is a potential defeat that can’t happen if I don’t let them go. I tie them up; I pretend that they don’t exist. Somehow Spencer continues to find them and bind them. I won’t question it.

I still don’t like the idea of kidnapping the competition, but then again, I don’t know what I like and dislike.

Really it can only end up hurting me in the end.

THEN WHY LET IT HAPPEN?

It seems everything is already happening with or without me!

I’m the last person to know and I’m the one that’s at the very center of every scuffle, every media-drenched accusation, every dreaded flicker, flash of the camera.

I don’t have a whole lot of time to read into things.

I have lost any structure to the identity I continue to destroy (define?).

No time to fight the thoughts; I will have to fight myself in the ring, to a sold-out arena, in two days.

I need to train.

EVERYTHING YOU READ IS TRUE

That might be true but I can’t let this brand of laughter languish. It’s laughter that is at my expense. It is laughter that should motivate me. I should focus and keep to the search within.

I realize that it sounds stupid but there has to be a reason why I want to be the best, right?

I want your attention, their attention.

I want you to realize that I can beat you.

YOU WON’T BEAT ME

I will beat you.

IF YOU BEAT ME, YOU END UP LOSING

TO YOURSELF

Don’t start with that. It has no effect on me.

I have long since lost interest in the subject. How we even exist is a matter of subjectivity. Looks like anyone that isn’t in the spotlight is cast in a brand of doubt. In fact, if there’s no brand there’s no brain, nobody there.

It makes sense that Willem Floures is a popular brand.

Everyone wants to be me.

I have to keep fighting if I don’t want things to change.

THEY CHANGE

EVERY MOMENT THEY CHANGE

LOOK WHERE YOU ARE NOW

VERSUS WHERE YOU WERE

LOOK HOW IN TWO DAYS YOU WILL BE

BEDRIDDEN AND FORCIBLY RETIRED

I choose not to read the last text message. I suddenly feel overwhelmed. I get in the ring, I take off my shirt and shoes, I look down at the design so permanent; I trace the ridge of one scar, a circular border around a purple and green dragon tattoo. I consciously tune out what I hear as well as the impossibilities that are now, somehow, in progress.

I tell them all, noticing that they are all watching me, “Life doesn’t make sense. If it does, maybe you’re dead.”