The Laughter of Strangers (23 page)

I would derail the entire talk show.

I would be banned from ever returning, my share of the spotlight dimming, limited to anything else but talk shows.

And they’d laugh.

They’d laugh on cue.

They would laugh at me, not at what I’m trying to say.

They would laugh at that too, if they had been listening (they wouldn’t). They would laugh at the train wreck I have become.

In that moment, I wouldn’t fear for myself; I would fear for the favor I’ve lost. I’d hope for the best…that maybe they took my diatribe for a sort of performance, a comedic performance.

I would hope that they found it funny.

DON’T LAUGH

Don’t laugh if it’s at my expense.

You see, I can’t be on these kinds of talk shows. They expect a sort of clever personality that I never had.

I wouldn’t even be invited.

The talk show might as well be the place where people judge the person for what they hope to become.

DON’T LAUGH

I can’t stop watching.

One celebrity trips as she walks to her chair. Even that is as intended. Her ditsy persona is flawless. Off camera she is as serious as me but under those bright lights, she can’t stop laughing and a minute into the interview, when she looks at the camera, I sense that she is looking at me.

DON’T LAUGH

She laughs at the fact that I can’t look away.

We all know what’s about to happen. Yet I can’t look away.

The host rolls his eyes. Not amused.

The audience erupts into applause. They are glad to see her leave.

On mute, I read their mouths. The host is saying:

OUR NEXT GUEST

Like it’s directed at me. For a moment I feel foolish.

This isn’t about me. Why do I keep turning everything into a problem?

Why do I think everything is some subtle attack on my failing celebrity?

DON’T LAUGH

I know it’s stupid. I know it’s really narcissistic but what can a narcissist do to combat the problem? I have no clue.
I didn’t used to be this way.

And then right after I think that I get back to the same confused spiraling logic—

HOW WOULD I KNOW?

I don’t remember.

The talk show host looks right at the camera.

Then looks right at me.

Mouths the words:

LET’S

GET

HIM

OUT

HERE

He walks back to his desk as I walk on stage.

OH GOD

Where am I?

Isn’t this the basement?

What?

It’s like I’m here and there. Two places at once.

THE APPLAUSE

I look so out of place. I am not the brand of celebrity that goes on these kinds of shows. I am not about making these kinds of appearances.

I smile and throw a pitiful little jab in the direction of the audience.

This is humiliating.

It isn’t real until the handshake.

Walk over, DON’T trip on the way there, and the host grins in that way that is obviously fake but goes over well with the audience because this is all an act—every moment of it is a gesture of opportunism, nothing else—and he offers the mandatory handshake.

In a mere split second we are shaking hands and it’s too late.

Everything goes downhill from there.

DON’T LAUGH

I’m there but everything is on mute.

I’m here and I’ve lost the remote again.

The putrid stench of X’s dead body blends with the muted terror of the late night talk show into my worst nightmare.

My worst nightmare and I can’t be sure it’s even mine.

The host asks me a question but I’m too nervous to read his mouth, too nervous to be anything but mute.

He looks into the camera like there’s no one there, no one watching, and the reaction he gets makes me sick to my stomach.

There is laughter when I don’t respond.

He blames me for the low ratings.

YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE INVITED ME

I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK I AM

I MIGHT BE THE REAL IMPOSTER

He says something like “Are you or are you not Willem Floures? The fighter?”

We are losing viewers at a rate of ten per minute.

I can do nothing but apologize.

I AM SORRY

Followed by:

DON’T LAUGH

This is humiliating.

The host asks me, “So you aren’t Willem Floures? The fighter?”

The way he talks down to me doesn’t help calm my nerves. I fight back the urge to punch him in the face. I hate how he can’t separate the person I am from the reason I am on this talk show.

I can’t just be Willem Floures.

I have to be ‘Sugar.’

I can’t own the name without the alias.

Strip away “the fighter” and I’m no closer to being Willem than you.

DON’T LAUGH

But they are. They are laughing.

They are all laughing.

The host furrows his brow, “If you aren’t Willem Floures, the fighter, then who the hell are you?”

It’s the one question I cannot answer and he just asked me. This is why I’m on the show. They want to know why.

Why am I not everything I should be?

Why do I linger around what will only end up making things worse?

Bubbling up from a deep recess of my brain:

YOU SHOULD RETIRE

LET HIM GO

HE DOESN’T WANT TO BE YOU ANYMORE

Talk about myself in the third person, like a mother confronting the source of her son’s bad behavior.

You are holding Willem back.

You are a bad influence.

You are out of control.

You tell Willem all of these lies and he thinks they are true.

Willem obeys every single command.

You exploit Willem because you know he’ll listen and do everything you say.

You treat Willem like he’s a fool.

You tell him all of these lies and you know what he does?

DON’T LAUGH

Willem tells the world. He shows the world what you’ve shown him and he does it with pride!

You tell him lies and in return you ruin his credibility.

The world will think he’s a joke!

You are the worst thing that’s happened to Willem and you need to go.

You
are the joke.

They will all laugh at you. Willem will be just fine once you let go.

DON’T LAUGH

But they do. They are laughing.

Everything is muted except for the laughter that sends sickness deeper into my body. It takes every bit of concentration I have to keep it together.

It’ll all fall apart.

It’s only a matter of time.

THEY SEE YOU FOR WHO YOU REALLY ARE

The host takes a sip from his mug (it’s water, not coffee) and shakes his head. He looks at the audience and asks, “What’s that smell?”

It smells awful, I know.

He turns to me, “You smell awful!”

DON’T LAUGH

But they do. They are laughing.

I smell foul. I smell like a liar.

“I am a liar.”

That’s all I have to say.

The host’s face turns red, “Then who the CENSORED are you?!”

The entire scene washes out not a bright white but rather a sharper sort of contrast. The colors become too overbearing. Every shape and surface becomes too detailed. I feel the knot in my stomach loosen. It loosens and starts climbing up my throat.

The truth is about to come out.

DON’T LAUGH

I don’t know who I am.

DON’T LAUGH

I cannot explain myself.

DON’T LAUGH

I am not Willem Floures.

DON’T LAUGH

Maybe I never was.

DON’T LAUGH

I am a liar.

DON’T LAUGH

Every win was really a loss.

DON’T LAUGH

Every chuckle hurts me to the core.

DON’T LAUGH

This is humiliating.

THERE IT GOES

It shoots out of my stomach, spatters all across the host’s desk.

Some of it gets on his suit. He stands up slowly, looking at the truth in all its filth. The audience erupts into an uncontrollable laughter.

I couldn’t fight back the truth any longer.

I never killed a man.

I never cared about the sick.

I never cared about anyone.

Executioner never disappeared. I kidnapped him.

I betrayed everyone I ever called a friend.

I didn’t really win the last fight.

It was rigged.

The truth, it stinks.

THE LAUGHTER

It singes my eyebrows, leaving only bare skin.

My face warps into a constant gesture of surprise.

The host drops his mug. It shatters as he shouts:

“GET THIS PIECE OF SHIT OFF MY SHOW!”

It looks bad for everyone involved.

I have never been so humiliated in my life.

Blink twice and I am back in the basement, wondering if any of it happened. I look down at myself. I can’t smell the vomit over the stench from X’s body. I try to scoop up the lies before they dry but this shirt is ruined.

This also means I’ll have to get up from my seat.

I will have to clean myself up.

I will have to take care of X’s body.

So be it.

Stand up. Drag the body. Find a burial plot in the back yard.

Disregard any onlookers.

The truth is already out there.

DON’T LAUGH

This ends an era of my existence.

I need to figure out how to save Willem from the onslaught of the media. With X buried, I am next.

‘Sugar’ has the one fight left.

HOW AM I GOING TO WIN THIS FIGHT?

I have already lost.

I have already won.

Choose one of the above.

Notice how I begin with the negative. I always see the bad before I see the good. The good thing is that I am able to notice a pattern.

Maybe I am not completely lost.

What I worry about, well what I worry about is obviously a lot, but what I need to worry about right about now is how to pick up the pieces.

I need to find out where they’ve gone.

What do they have to say about me?

Maybe I can learn more about myself in the process.

I might not survive the revealing but, then again, I didn’t think about the long-term consequences of my actions, the “consequences” of having turned every fact into a sort of fiction just so that I could make myself more interesting for you.

For all of you.

WONDER

But I do wonder…

What does Willem mean to all of you?

THE LAUGHTER OF FRIENDS

I want to ask everyone:

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

Is it something I did, or was it something I said?

What do you think of me? They whisper into the clouds the nature of their replies. They are nicer than most. They are my friends.

What did you think this was about?

You tried to get an explanation out of me and the best you got was a long diatribe about how I’d be too afraid to be a guest on a talk show.

And yet I still had to make an appearance.

They are friends though.

I have friends just like I had family.

To live in a world is to build up a support network full of friends and family that have your back. Even if you forget to call.

Especially if you lose touch.

They escaped, you know?

THEY ARE OUT THERE

Fending for Willem.

Willem deserves better.

I bet it’s worth a laugh, seeing the damage I’ve done to the identity.

I was only trying to do what’s best for Willem.

Okay, that’s a lie. What is one more to add to the pile?

R.I.P. X

With Executioner buried six feet in the back yard, I sit at the kitchen table. I take ten minutes to face the silence I fear, the silence I drive away with every sort of distraction.

Ten minutes is what I sacrifice in hopes of finding out that I’m not as bad off as I might have remembered.

It takes my full concentration. Focal point is the chair across from me. Don’t focus on the clock. Don’t focus on the house. Don’t focus on yourself.

Keep your focus on something justifiable.

As in:

The chair is a chair.

It is as simple as that. I don’t need to wonder if it might be something else. At the very least, I know that the chair across from me is most definitely a chair.

THE LAUGHTER

In silence, I hear the laughter that scarred me.

It makes these ten minutes a distinct challenge. However, these ten minutes are mine. I face the challenge; I fight back the urge to look away, the urge to listen to my thoughts, and I keep to the chair, my eyes barely blinking:

Focus on the chair.

WHAT DOES WILLEM MEAN TO YOU?

By now they are on their way.

I return to the basement, return to the seat, return my attention to the TV but not because I need but rather because I “want.”

As in: I want to listen.

As in: I want to know what it’s like to be Willem Floures in this day and age. I heard it’s mostly the same but with a different spin on things.

Counterpuncher is the new knockout artist.

A KO is a cheap fight when a counterpuncher breaks the opponent down until the body winces and the pain is unbearable.