Seven Steps
At home I am a gentleman. My home is my ancestral home. My blood is noble blood, passed down via transfusion to my veins. My veins are a golden chalice. The old servant, hired by my father, may his soul rest in peace, still brings me breakfast every morning. It may be less grand than the breakfast of my father and grandfather, but it is eaten with dignity.
It is a house of gentlemen. Allegedly my mother lived here. And my grandmother. But the story goes that they both died in childbirth. Or maybe I sprang instead from my father’s thigh. And he from his father’s and so on. There has always been a family secret, locked away somewhere in a cupboard growing stale and dusty.
When I go out my front door I am a man. Just a man. Member of the hungry horde selling their bodies and minds for bread and drippings. I go to work.
It doesn’t matter what I do there. For twelve hours I become less than a man. I almost cease to exist. Clocking out is waking up or being born. I am born again each night under the gas lamp light.
Down those three worn steps and into the dark street. It connects to the dark street that connects to the dark street where I'm going. Darkness doesn’t bother me. I will take each step of the walk back home with pleasure and meticulous attention.
I have seven important tasks to accomplish.
First, I stop at the alleyway on my left. I look at the window far down along it and note whether a light is on behind it. I ask, “Is anyone there?” If no one answers (and no one ever does) I touch the reddest brick. My first task is accomplished, and I walk on.
Second, I turn right and walk to the center of the broad stone bridge over the river. I stand and look down in the water. I spit. I continue over the bridge to the other side of the river and turn back on the other side of the bridge. I walk to the center of the bridge. I stand and look down in the water. I spit. I continue back to my side of the river. I turn right onto the dark street that connects to the dark street where I’m going. And walk on.
Third, I come to the crossroads of five roads where I will turn onto the dark street that connects to my own dark street. It is the second street on the left. There is a lamp at each corner, sending flickering shadows to do battle in the center of the crossroads. Under the gas lamp light I walk clockwise around the crossroads and touch the city seal on each of their posts. I go all the way around and then turn on to the second street on the left. And walk on.
Fourth, (this is a simple task) I hold my breath from the top of the hill to the bottom.
Fifth, I stop at my father’s grave and recite the only poem he liked: “The Eagle” by Tennyson.
Sixth, starting after the bend, I walk the fibonacci sequence. One step. Pause. One step. Pause. Two steps. Pause. Three steps. Pause. Five steps. Pause. Eight steps. Pause. Thirteen steps. Pause. Twenty-one steps. Pause. Thirty-four steps. Pause. I’m at the other bend. Resuming my regular rhythm, I walk on.
Seventh, I pick up a stone and add it to the cairn I’ve been building behind the big oak tree. My Seventh task is done. I am lighthearted. Filled with a sense of accomplishment. I’m almost home. I walk on.
One more turn and there it is. My own dark street. My own front doorstep. My own front door. Who I am behind it.
—
Twelve hours of nothingness. Down three worn steps. Born again under the gas lamp light.
I have seven important tasks to accomplish.
First, I stop at the alleyway on my left. A light is on in the window far down along it. I ask, “Is anyone there?”
“Yeah, and what of it? You gonna call the cops? You gonna kick me when I’m down? Ain’t it bad enough already I’ve got to sleep in this filthy place. So you’re gonna run away? Hey!”
I didn’t even touch the brick. My stomach is filled with a gnawing sickness. I have no choice but to walk on. I still have six tasks to accomplish. I have to or I won’t make it home.
Second, the bridge is closed for construction. It feels like insects are crawling around inside my skin. I walk on.
Third, I touch the seal on each lamp post. I turn on the second street on the left. I feel a little relieved. If I can do the rest, it might still work. I walk on.
Fourth, halfway down the hill I start to cough, sucking in and expelling big gasps. My heart is beating against its prison walls. I walk on.
Fifth, I stop at my father’s grave. “He clasps the crag with crooked hands…” I can’t remember what’s next and the cold wave of sickness runs wild beneath my skin.
Sixth, I take one step. Pause. One step. Pause. Two steps. Pause. Three steps. Pause. Five steps. Pause. Eight steps. Pause. Thirteen steps. Pause. Watching my feet, I count each step. An owl swoops down in front of my face. I jump back. It flies off. I’ve lost count. Pause. The hot breath of a monster is on the back of my neck.
Seventh, I pick up a stone and add it to the cairn. It won’t be enough. I already smell the smoke. I already hear the roaring of the beast. The cold electric streetlights buzz. Siren’s wail down the highway.
One more turn and there it is. The light is blinding. The heat is blistering. My home is ablaze. My front door is the door of a furnace. I walk on.
Who I am behind it is dead.