DARKNESS OF MY DARKNESS

From the R.M. Dolin novel “The Dangling Conversation.”

Chapter 19: Darkness of My Darkness

KYLE:“That’s all I know at this point, just a hastily written email my lawyer sent from the courthouse saying, “prepare to be arrested.” He’s friends with a fed who tips him off, some guy at FBI who feeds him stuff from time to time in exchange for favors; not sure what kind of favors and am pretty sure I don’t want to know. It’ll likely be tomorrow, possibly the day after, certainly soon. There’s a lot of logistics to work out, I’m not someone they’ll want to perp-walk on national news; in fact, just the opposite, I’m someone who needs to be discretely picked up and put away as quietly as possible. What I do know is one day soon I’ll just be gone without a trace and there’s no telling what becomes of me after that; it won’t be good though, that much is clear.

“I’ve been needing to tell you something for some time now, waiting for the right moment only there’s never a right one I suppose, so now it must be now and I very much regret what I wish I could take back. You have to pay close attention and do exactly as I say. It’s important not to panic, it’ll seem overwhelming at first but if we stick to my plan, everything’s gonna work out. The thing is Isabelle, and I don’t mean to scare you, once the government wants you gone, they have ways, both above and below board. Just remember what our arrogant FBI famously brags; “we can indict a ham sandwich if we want,” which is their way of saying the fine folks at Justice just make shit up whenever it suits them. And they will, they’ll invent stuff about me and fabricate all kinds of fake evidence to protect their powerful enclaves.

I told you what’s at stake, billions if not trillions and that’s small potatoes compared to the mass hysteria that falls out once folks realize the food and drugs approved by FDA are suspect. We talked about what happened to Dillon, now it’s my turn in the barrel. If nothing else, you should at least understand how far they’ll go to get me gone, and because they act with complete impunity, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop them. This is why you must do as I tell you to stay out of harm’s way.

“They know about us, how we sit here night after night, of that you can be sure; hell, they’re probably watching us now. I can assure you though, they’re not listening, I’ve taken precautions to prevent that; a signal scrambling dome’s been encasing this bench since before we met; like any good engineer, I’ve got my tricks. They do know about us though, so rule one when questioned, be cooperative. Tell the truth about everything we ever discussed; except anything pertaining to the FDA, that has to be our secret. When they ask about it, say you didn’t even know I work there. Tell them as far as you know I’m retired from State but even that I seldom mention. Equally important, don’t ever talk about any of the FDA stuff to anyone, anywhere; assume they’re watching; they’re always watching, especially on your phone, computer, and social media. Only a handful of people know the truth of what went down and they’re all deep staters.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, I’ve been coming to this park for over a year and you’re the first person to ever sit down with me. After the first night I thought I’d never see you again, you know a chance one-and-done encounter. But then you came back the next night and the night after that. I tried in my own unsuccessful way to drive you off, but you never got my hints; too subtle I suppose.

You’re a rare and wonderful soul, Isabelle, who’s very important to me and in an unfortunately forgetful moment, I let my guard down. That’s the thing about this thing we have; through no fault of your own, I open up in ways never before imagined. Most of what we’ve shared are things I’ve never told anyone. I’ve always been guarded until you and look where that got us. I’m so sorry you’re now part of my shit show; I’m not sorry we met or had our many wonderful conversations, but for sharing the darkest parts of me; you don’t deserve what’s about to happen, which is why I worry way more about you than I do myself. My fate’s been sealed since the moment I found that software glitch. The outcome’s obvious, this is government where the innocent are persecuted as the guilty get rewarded. For your safety, hell your freedom, you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone; not on your phone, not during a casual party conversation, not in the privacy of your home, or the sanctuary of close contacts; the Watchers are watching, be certain of that. The last thing we need is the ghost of your great grandma convincing you this is the moment to take a stand.

“When asked, I’ll deny ever telling you anything. To the bitter end I won’t say I said anything about any of this, no matter the consequence, and in case you don’t already know, when an cowboy like me makes a pledge like that, there’s no fine print and nothing can ever strain that trust. When you get questioned the only answer you provide is, “I don’t remember any such thing.” In politics, it’s called “the Hillary Gambit.”

“They’ll come at you with in-person contact so subtle you won’t even know you’re being played. They’ll attempt to ensnare you using deceptively devious schemes; perhaps a stranger draws you into a seemingly benign conversation about food safety in the produce department of the grocery story, or some senior citizen engages you in a discussion regarding Big Pharma while you wait to check out. They’ll pretend to share your beliefs as they subtly manipulate you into revealing things without ever actually asking about my troubles. Never forget, not only are they deviously ruthless, they’re immorally skilled at the deceptive art of soliciting information from people in a way they don’t even realize they’ve been targeted.”

ISABELLE: “You’re scaring me, in ways I haven’t felt since the last time my Ex found me; already my skin’s itching. It’s a helluva lot to dump on a girl just trying to get her life together. I’m not sure if I should be angry for you dragging me into your shit show or feel sorry for you. If I’m being honest, it’s a little of both. Everything about this has me torn, you tell me not to trust anyone, yet you trust me. I’m pissed as hell you shared but at the same time touched you trust me so deeply. I mean, how do you know I’m not a fed working you; not only to find out what you know, but what you’re willing to share with others so my overlords can decide if they need a more permanent solution to their Kyle problem? How do you know I haven’t been sent to decide if you live or die?”

KYLE: “I don’t, that’s the tragically scary truth of my predicament. I initially thought you were a nefarious agent sent to adjudicate my fate; beautiful young women are not in the habit of spending time with someone like me, and certainly not on a park bench like this. If you were, then I reversed the field by probing, you probably never noticed but there was a series of tests I performed to determine any deep-state affiliation. Go back and replay our conversations to see what I mean. Eventually I saw you weren’t trying to drive me to my troubles but instead were genuinely interested in the long-drawn-out story behind how my shit show got going. On top of that, there isn’t a fed alive smart enough to create a cover story as unbelievable as yours. I’m not a shaman or some sort of mystic, I have no insight into human psychology, I just felt a connection between your soul and mine and once my soul saw yours, there was only goodness. Mark that down as my optical eye chart of wisdom but you should never believe you can make the same mistake going forward.

“The other thing you need to brace for is what comes next, the discrediting phase. It’ll start after I’m quietly arrested and it will be hard for you to stomach given you know the truth. You have to bite your tongue though and stay silent. I’m prepared for the nasty shit they’ll say about me; they’ll leak a slew of poorly prepared performance reviews dating back years to demonstrate I’m a problem employee, there’ll be veiled accusations that I was suspected of malicious intent long before the incident occurred. They’ll even most likely say it was me, acting as a lone saboteur, who altered their damn software. From there they’ll paint me as some sort of sycophantic terrorist and no doubt pin a host of Big Pharma deaths on me, not only to consolidate my guilt but to absolve Big Pharma of financial responsibility for the thousands they’ve knowingly killed. You see how big and twisted this tsunami is, right?

“When you step back and see things from their point of view, from their need to protect not only their careers but also the interests of their corporate overlords, you understand everything about to happen must happen quickly and forcefully. At the end of the day dear one, as this train pulls into its final station, people like you and me don’t matter much, the lives of the people affected by their malfeasance matter even less, everyone and everything is expendable, including truth and trust when money and power are at stake. If nothing else is retained from our time together, mark that down as my tombstone of truth.”

ISABELLE: “I wish for words to ease your troubles but have none. I can tell you things are going to work out, but we’re way past that. I can tell you I’m willing to do anything to help, but we both know there’s nothing I can do. I know it’s not much, but I am somewhat of an expert at disappearing, probably not all that gifted though, my Ex always finds me. My dad holds me whenever I’m overwhelmed, but I get the sense offering you a hug’s not your deal.

“I remember once when my Ex found me, it was early in our little game of escape and evasion, and I was terrified to the point of being frozen. You see that a lot on nature shows, an animal pursued by a predator who at first tries to hide, then to flee, but in the end its always the same, they just surrender to their fate. I mean you’re watching all this like a spectator at the Roman Colosseum only you’re shouting, “run little rabbit, run!” In the end though, he doesn’t. The rabbit stops, like he’s just decided fate’s going do what fate does and you can’t stop what’s going to happen from happening. That’s the sense I get from you. Why don’t you run? You got your cabin in the wilderness with that bizarre neighbor who would hide you in ways you couldn’t be found. Escape to France, certainly Nadia has places where you’d be invisible? I don’t get why you just sit here waiting to be arrested, it’s like you’ve given up, surrendered to an unjust fate and it seems so contradictory to everything I know about you.”

KYLE: “I’m not one to run, it’s not in my nature; once you know how the story ends you just want it to be over. I’m not gonna lie, the thought is tempting; I could take all my cash, get on a bike, and just start peddling. I could dip my tire in either coast or head north and not stop until Canada or maybe take my chances down south; only I’d be too obvious as the only person on the continent heading the wrong direction. I can’t escape to France, they’re watching the airports for just such a move, but more important, Nadia’s not cut out for this sort of thing. She already has too much on her plate and doesn’t need my shit served up on another glorious platter. Of all the things about to happen, that’s the collateral consequence I fear most. I don’t see a way out, a scenario where Nadia and I survive. It’s not that we don’t love each other, but even unconditional love has its limits and like I said, Nadia’s not cut out for the difficult road ahead.

“You’re right about rabbits; it’s as curious as trying to understand why condemned men walk to the gallows, I’m pretty certain they’d drag me kicking and screaming. In a surreal sense that’s what I’m doing; passively sitting here waiting for the gallows to come to me because I’m too damn stubborn and stupid to walk there on my own. I’m not really sure what Darwin has to say about that. I’ve replayed everything that’s happened so many times there’s permanent pathways inlaid in my anxiety; there’s things I could, and should, have done differently, but at the end of the day, the train’s pulling into the same station either way. I could’ve turned a blind eye to the glaring software glitch once discovered, as I’m sure countless other analysts before me did. I could’ve kept quiet about my discovery, but that only puts people’s lives in jeopardy, and my conscience can’t allow that to happen; it’s not the cloth I’m cut from. Trust is my fatal flaw; I should’ve never trusted myself to the honesty and integrity of senior managers; how could I not know they’d act exactly as they did; my one miscalculation; one about to rain down on me with the intensity of a high mountain storm.

“If I were given a do over, a chance to go back to the moment I’m given the option to accept or decline the analysis knowing what I now know, I’d still take the task. In the end, Isabelle, I’m saving lives and that matters more than whatever happens next; my slow walk to the gallows is a fixture of fate, a predetermined destiny that began as I backed down my driveway leaving Maggie in one world while I journey to this destination in the next. Darwin would say evil always prevails. The analysts who found this issue before me but kept quiet are evil. The bureaucrats destroying me to protect their careers are evil. The compliant feds doing the bidding of their demonic overlords acting without regard for the morality of their actions are evil. Anything good that stands in the way of evil is destroyed, including me, which is why Darwin’s right, in the epic struggle for survival, evil always prevails.

“I’ve been lying to myself so long I don’t see things clearly anymore but know I’m not who I set out to be. It’s hard to anchor yourself to truth when you constantly lie. For some odd reason, I never lie to others but find it so damn easy when it comes to me; really strange when you think about it. I actually believed there was a moment when this all began, a moment when I could have ended my part by walking away when I actually believed if I did the right thing, so would others. Funny isn’t it, how easy it is to believe a lie when the alternative is unacceptable.”

ISABELLE: “What you do is good and right, although, I don’t know anyone except maybe dad, who’d choose your path. I’m damn sure I couldn’t. I did reach a point where I stop running from my Ex and take a stand, that worked out for me, I don’t see a similar kind of outcome on your horizon. I get your decision and although it’s clearly foolish, there’s an honor in it. That’s how you’ll be remembered, maybe not by everyone but by those of us who matter.

“After his troubles, dad never again works as a machinist, but he does rebuild and finds ways to be happy; at least that’s the lie I tell myself. There’s this deal during my divorce when I move back home, one day dad takes me to an art gallery to cheer me up. The place is huge and crowded because of a show that’s opening. At one point we separate, probably cause I’m looking for wine, eventually I find him standing in front of this really weird painting. It has a rich swath of deep black paint around the canvas border that gives way to a slightly bolder blueish black that when taken together looks oddly like a dystopian window frame. Inside this framed-in area are random brush strokes of black, gray, and midnight blue that fall toward a sphere collapsing into what looks like a black hole. A small plaque below the painting reads, “Darkness of My Darkness, oil on canvas by Olinski.”

“I stand beside dad several minutes, him captivated by the painting and me watching him wondering how this can even be interesting. To break our silence I joke, “bizarre, isn’t it? This guy’s got some serious issues going on in his life.” Dad just keeps staring, then quietly, to himself as much as me, says, “everyone’s life is encased by darkness.” Then, without saying anything else, he turns and sort of smiles, as if to shrug off his comment, but years later it haunts me. Not so much the painting, but the way the artist spoke to dad’s soul and the way his soul shot back.

“At first glance, this so-called piece of art seems like something from junior high but once you read the title and start seeing the way deep black borders do look like a window frame and how that gives way to lighter shades of edging, like fog encasing a view just beyond your reach, you get this eerie sense your looking out a prison window. The random black and gray brush strokes falling to the center suddenly seem like bits and pieces of torment floating around a fog with no hope of escaping the black hole drawing your world into darkness. This ever so simple painting that quite frankly I could do, stays with me more than any other art I’ve ever seen. Listening to you and imagining how you must feel makes me think of dad standing in that gallery, the only person to get the profoundness of what the artist is saying. We all have a window to our darkness but only the strong and unafraid dare gaze through it.”

KYLE: “I’ve never seen anything like what you describe, but know exactly what you’re talking about, it’s the kind of art Olivia was drifting toward in the end. My life can be defined through a dystopian window frame; my troubles being the encroaching fog that surrounds and suffocates me in a dense shroud shrinking toward infinity to the point all I hold dear in this world struggles to breathe. Guess that more than anything explains how I wound up in church today; especially given the odd absurdity of me talking to God. Of course it has a lot to do with my collapsing chaos, there’s no escaping that, and of course the deepening despair over what it means for me and Nadia. But like the quiet way wind pushes you toward your horizon, as I’m sitting in my pew of this empty church, I’m also missing Olivia and the way she can talk me through stuff. I’m hearing the lonely echoes of Maggie’s voice; feeling the same coldness encase my soul that caught me coming down the mountains of Milan; this collapsing moment has been chasing me my entire life and all I can do now that it’s arrived, is try to hold on.

“There’s also lingering after-effects of what we talked about last night, about how fragile life is; how most of us are lost with no way home, even if we’re scared to admit it. Like I said, I can’t explain why, but there I am, in church of all places; the only one in an enormously large and vacuously empty structure that’s cascading in a chorus of silent sounds that usher me to the witness stand. I’m sitting in a pew farthest from the alter, no thoughts, no solid sounds other than the beating of my heart and the slow silent awakening of my soul.

“I really can’t say how, but after a while, I feel God; I know that sounds caught between crazy and cliché, but I did; but not in a comforting way. It’s more like God’s come to render judgment and it’s up to me to defend myself; or at least offer plausible explanations. I stumble around at first, like anyone would, after all, how do you defend yourself to God? No one can, which means we’re screwed, which is a tough spot to be in, especially when it’s one-on-one. After stammering around and not making much sense, I start to inventory the life of Kyle; the good I’ve done and the much longer list of what needs atonement.

“God though, isn’t interested in discussing the pros and cons of Kyle. He says dig deeper; that he cares less about the “what’s,” defining my life because he wants to drill down to the “why’s.” I have to tell ya, it’s a hell of a lot easier to list the positive things you’ve done and weigh them against the many demerits one earns along the way. I take multiple runs at giving God his answer, but each attempt’s cut short and his impatience’s becoming abundantly clear.

“Out of desperation, I randomly challenge God, asking if he simply weighs my individual parts, both good and bad, or if there’s an overall gestalt having additional gravitas; you know, the notion of the whole being more than the sum of the parts. Here’s where things get dicey because God says to list my parts, and he’ll decide if the scale needs tipping. I sit there quite a while trying to figure out how to complete my assignment, then without premeditation, I grab a collection envelope from the pew’s hymn book holder along with a well-worn pencil and start breaking down my life into its dissident parts.

“A part of me,” I boldly write at the top of the envelope, “is afraid to start, but knows I must.” and so begins the encapsulation of my life, the entire “whys” of my existence, contained on the surface of a small envelope addressed to God. See, it’s all neatly written on this envelope. I’ll read it for you.

“A part of me is afraid to start but knows I must.”

“A part of me loves my life unconditionally, even while wanting more.

“Part of me lives in hell yet finds bizarre comfort there.

“A part of me willingly trades “this” for “that,” without knowing the “that.”

“A part of me knows I lie to myself.

“Part of me is forever a boy. . . a part of me hopes.

“A part of me dreams of being wealthy, but really, just doesn’t want to be poor.

“A part of me is always singing, even in the solitude of sadness.

“A part of me incessantly wonders, what would the real Jesus do?

“Part of me’s a poet, a writer and hapless romantic, a thinker and cycler, mostly though, my soul’s chaotically unsettled.

“Part of me is only at peace in post-day darkness when cold wind lulls my bike into a sudden hairpin curve down a daring descent.

“A part of me long ago gave up yet can’t stop building.

“A part of me likes to close my eyes and stop breathing to better see the world and hear wind’s many secrets.

“A part of me craves stillness and calm even though I never am.

“Part of me wonders why I’m never satiated.

“A part of me misses the ones I hold dear.

“A part of me hesitantly smiles and pretends as the trepidus train pulls into the station.

“A part of me yearns to be that young man who hikes half a day high into the mountains just to lay under Aspen while wind rustles through and I forgetfully fall asleep as sun warms my face.

“Part of me believes in the profoundness of morning and the excitement of all things possible.

“A part of me is okay with what happens next, on some level needs it.

“Part of me accepts I’m not ready or worthy to receive Communion.

“Part of me is lost not wanting to be found.

“A part of me tenaciously listens as other parts whisper things I dare not hear.

“Part of me needs to suffer, though I don’t know why.

“A part of me has been here before, a recursive kind of hell from which there’s no escape.

“A part of me is anxious . . . and scared but finds the fortitude to stand strong.

“A part of me thanks you for your covenant and this day you allow me to share.

“Part of me needs to be alone, though I yearn for intimacy.

“A part of me longs to be loved while facing the unfortunate fact I may never be.

“Part of me does not yet know. The rest of me struggles coming to terms with what that means.

“A part of me leans stoically into bitter prairie wind rather than concede it’s too cold to be outside.

“Part of me wants a redo, even if outcomes remain the same.

“A part of me is fearless, part of me is fearful. Most of me spends most my time avoiding these two parts of me.

“Part of me believes in happy endings, which are increasingly hard in the face of escalating troubles.

“A part of me thinks the world needs cowboys even though our sun long ago set.

“Part of me goes on believing everything will be okay, the rest of me struggles to trust that truth.

“A part of me lives in tormented pain from which there’s no escape, but a still small part of me believes in love and that’s my lifeline.

“Part of me fears prison as its encroaching iron of inevitability shrouds me in coldness, the collateral cost of integrity.

A part of me seeks the strength to look beyond the window of my darkness knowing that I must.

“A part of me wonders what happened to the whole that once was greater than the sum of all these parts.

“Part of me knows you know these things; have always known.

“And there you have it; the life of Kyle encapsulated in a random collage of piece-parts. The thing is Isabelle, the thing I keep coming back to as my world closes in, is something an old Italian told me after I finally recovered enough to finish that ride in the mountains of Milan. I arrive at the airport both exhausted and beaten but before entering the terminal begin the process of stowing my gear and breaking down my bike. I’m not paying attention as this old man stops to look over my mud crusted frame and disheveled body without comment. I feel awkward as he continues standing there, so I say to him, “all I ask is that you not judge me, you’ve no idea the troubles I’ve been through.” He smiles back still not saying anything but as I unhook my panniers and dig out my tools, I feel his frail hand on my shoulder. When I look up, he smiles down and in very broken English says, “I long ago learned not to judge a man who knows down to the profound depths of his soul how to judge himself.”