ONE STEP AT A TIME

          You don’t have to be a liar to lie. If you come from a lineage of liars, it’s only natural you’re going to pass one on every now and again. My advice, if such is your fate, is to develop an open heart, a curious mind, and some granite-thick skin. And be prepared to be corrected for most of your life.                    
          I myself was reared by the presence of such pathology, and had to learn on my own, for my own survival, what was true as opposed to a fallacy. This way of living, wherein a person is in a state of constant vigil and studied education, has taught me to not be as obstinate in my own preconceived notions that I’m unwilling to be surprised. Even though I will be the first to admit that I’ve seen about every facade and truth that a person can endure. Still, this doesn’t mean I’ve closed my eyes. Quite the contrary, as now I peer even deeper into a topic to deduce what is demonstrably real compared to what they want you to believe. Particularly when the lie appears as truth.       
          I see the same tendencies and history repeating itself as it pertains to my stepdaughter and her biological father. He is a liar. And because of this, she is too. I don’t think she intends to, nor wants to be one. Alas, nature versus nurture. When they’re both stacked against you and the odds are weighted on the house to prevail, to become a viable and conscientious person of the world, you have to grow up quickly. I can help her with that aspect. I recognized this quality in her early on, but was resistant to intercede because of my own inherent proclivity to veer away from conflicts out of my control. What’s changed, you ask—other than my view of the world and purpose. I think she’s old enough now to make her own deductions; and that I’ve been around for long enough that I’ve established with her a cache of trust. For she knows that I’m not a liar. And that all I seek is the truth.   
          I needed to work today. Which is exactly what I answered to the child when she bounded downstairs and into the living room after getting ready for her big day at her first dance competition of the year, and she asked what I had planned for mine. “I’m going to work,” I said. “On the pirate story,” she inquired next. I could sense she was nervous and needed my reassurance. She was prancing around and packing snacks and practicing her routine in the tv’s blank reflection. I was smack dab in the middle of work, on an important scene. “It’s what I’m doing now,” I responded flatly. 
          But that wasn’t all I said … 
          In and out of the ordinary. That in about an hour and a half from now, I will put on a pair of jeans and my boots and head over to the auditorium to watch her second show of the day. I had the option of which performance I wanted to attend. The first was with all the other relatives, family and friends; or the later, second showing where I could go by myself. I used to concern myself with what other people thought and said about me. I’m grateful to have overcome that weakness of constitution. I know what I am, and furthermore, and most importantly, what is important to me. Believe me, what her family says about me behind my back is about as far from my mind these days as we as a society are to peace. But I’m working on it, John. The dream. To give peace a chance. I’m taking the reins from you, brother. Everything in my power, I’m doing. You died before you got to witness the solution. At the rate we’re going now, nobody ever will. But it won’t stop me from trying. As the powers that be continue to murder, maim, and kill the innocent. Raining bombs from the sky from unmanned flying machines. And even though you left us too soon, I am a bit envious that you died in the best way imaginable. Imagine, walking outside to start your day and bam, you’re dead. That said, and that he is unambiguously my favorite of the Fab Four, his cohort, Paul McCartney, lit a fire under my ass this weekend. Creatively. As I watched a documentary about him, in which he recounted the highs and lows of coming to grips with the end of the greatest rock and roll band of all time. I guess the conceptualization doesn’t surprise me with this most recent quest I’ve embarked on. To see the good in everyone. And to lessen my judgment by a degree. But to be open to the innate goodness that resides in even the most wretched of fools. On a ship of fools, headed south to points beyond borders, I’ve never met a villain who at one time wasn’t the hero. I will hear better what people have to say to enable my full breath of sight. What’s so wrong with a silly little love song? Don’t we all agree it’s love that can change the world.     
          He ended up naming in his talks twin citations that moved him to an identical degree of inspiration. One was “Ruby Tuesday,” by the Rolling Stones. “If I had a girl, I’d name her Tuesday Marie,” I used to declare in another life, to another love. For no other reason than the first time I heard it played, I knew what they were saying. It was one of those songs that speaks beyond the words. The other example he listed was Brian Wilson’s “Good Vibrations.” And I will continue to emit them because you never know when the magic is going to hit. Like magic. Or alchemy or sorcery. But when it announces itself … It was as if god struck down upon a man with all his ardor and emphasis and pronounced that all you thought you knew of existence was a sham.    
          He was always a little dangerous. And in the end, he was just a little too dangerous for his own good. I remember he used to say he knew what it felt like to be dead. And by looking at him, you could tell he meant it. 
          Well, now he definitely knows. That’s for certain. 
          Like the widow he left behind. A grown-ass woman with two children under the age of two, one on each of her hips. She shouldn’t be standing on her balcony doing airplane. I wonder if she’s about two steps from sticking her head in the oven. Or worse. 
          There was an instance in their relationship when the roles were reversed. Like the time she proclaimed on the balcony in their room at The London hotel in West Hollywood, “If I jumped, would it get the job done.” 
          I guess he beat her to the punch. As it goes … 
          In and out of reality and fiction. From mutineers to adolescent recitals. From the truth to the insipid. From safe and sound to insecurity. When enough is enough. I knew I’d be drinking this day. At least I’m using it for one of the implementations of its designed intent. As an anesthesia to numb the pain of banality. And overstimulation, too. That I can be present for the people who depend upon my strength. This is the compromise. And I’m okay with the pact. As long as I can come and go as I see fit—when my presence is veritably required. This is me living up to my end of the bargain. I’m an honest man. When I give you my word, you can take it as a blood oath. Do you know what a blood oath is? It’s when you pledge your life to something. That the only way to break the vow is through death. That’s why it was so unfair when Jack died. Which is also a part of life. Doing the right thing does not invariably result in goodness. Sometimes bad shit just happens. Without rhyme or reason. Most of the time, if a person lives by the sword or flies too close to the sun, they reap what they sow. However, there are the flip sides of the equation when convention fails. I think that’s what the story of Jesus Christ was trying to convey. That even the good die young and of wrongful deaths. Irrespective of their virtuous pursuits.       
          I’ve been unleashed today; and my god does it feel good. I told her yesterday afternoon that I was going to bed and that I would likely not see her again until Sunday night at six o’clock. Boy, if that didn’t hold true. 
          Insofar as I can barely make out the screen in front of me and my neck and hips are killing me and tomorrow morning my finger will probably be turgid and throbbing. Nevertheless, this is the type of pain I inevitably welcome with a kiss on the cheek. And shall henceforth continue to trade off and endure for my artistic endeavors for the remainder of my days. 
          Through life and death. 
          I am nonetheless having a difficult time of it … jogging myself out of the writer and into the partner and parent. Ergo: alcohol. What’d she say when I stood in the doorway with the morning sun rising behind me and my Ray-Bans on, half in and half out, but admittedly all the way into a new character who’d yet to make their grand introduction on the page, “I don’t care how you do it … just get there.”     
          Sunday funday, better than a Monday, you can only do it the one way. The best way out is always through. 
          There were days when I couldn’t walk into the ocean. Even when I was walking on water. And turning water into wine. I’ve never met a song I couldn’t sing. Or a soul I couldn’t touch. I once met a man with charred skin. He taught me everything I ever needed to know about love and death. And life in between. Which was the greatest lesson I’ve ever learned.         
          If it’s good enough, it’ll stick. But it’s always a good idea to jot it down. Lest we forget. From where we’ve come. To where we’re going. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.      


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Dylan Night is a former medical professional and multi-time published author. He resides in San Diego, California, with his partner and stepchild. He is currently working on his most recent novel. His work has appeared in Able Muse, Wingless Dreamer, In Parentheses, Neon Origami, Lilomul, Querencia, South Platte River Review - Roe River Review, Ink in Thirds, Half and One, Gabby & Min, The Words Faire, Tap into Poetry, and The Writing Fae.