Title: Common Knowledge
Author: labyrinthine
E-mail: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for language/Will POV, angst
Spoilers: through 2.2/Trust Me
Summary: Spoken lies are transient and temporary. Written lies last forever.
A/N: I wanted to write Jack fic and this came out instead. Go figure. Prequel of sorts to Four in Five. Entry for April 03 CM Challenge. And maybe I know how to do this after all.
and you
just look at me
and turn away
from my disease
and you
won't help a bit
and that's alright
you're sick of it
-The Pain of It/Flying Blind
*
It has always been easier to write. There is something definitive about the written word, something poignant and irrefutable, independent of the marks themselves. Communication in its most lasting form. Linguistics scholars are predictably quick to assert that it is actually the spoken word that is more precise, more accurate and fluid, that the written word is necessarily secondary.
Your linguistics professor in college wore gaping Hawaiian shirts with chest hair springing from the open neck of the collar. spring! you would think, the red crinkles breaking free from the confines of palm trees and macaws. You would draw caricatures of this in your notebook and pass them to Mary Kate, who sat in the desk to your left, and she would draw smiley faces in return. It was a better use of paper and granite than actually listening to the professor and taking notes, because that was not what college was for. College was obviously for scoring Mary Kate's phone number and being elected editor-in-chief of the campus paper, aims that were far more rewarding than a grade on a transcript.
Linguistic theory can go to hell - you still hold the written word in the highest regard. There is something absolute about it, the permanentness. Speech is transient and temporary. Spoken lies, then, are transient and temporary. Written lies last forever.
"Your signature, please."
You glance up to a sea of black robe, outlining the judge's form.
Right.
The pen in your hand is a standard Bic, black ink. The cap bears indentations of chewing and the grip is almost tacky, sticking to your forefinger as you resist the urge to twirl it within the confines of your fingers. You can't fathom how many times you've held a Bic; there are well over a dozen alone scattered over your desk in the pen.
Were well over a dozen.
Your eyes scan the paper again, squinting to discriminate the outline of words on the poorly copied document. The state seal on the top right corner is blurred, but the eighteen point CONDITIONS OF PAROLE is striking and clear.
They're giving you a break, your county appointed lawyer had said. You're a lucky man.
You had some choice words about luck in response but had decided keeping your mouth shut was a better move. Luck was Jack anticipating the sodium pentothal, luck was still being able to walk after injection with whatever the fuck you got shot up with in Teipei.
Being released with parole after a heroin conviction had nothing to do with luck.
You said none of this, and have few plans to. You have very few plans to say much of anything at this point. And it's not like you'll be writing anything reputable these days, either.
Starting with Exhibit A, the generic consent form expressing that the undersigned, Mr. William L. Tippin, does hearby understand the terms and conditions of the court's decision and swear to lawfully abide by the ruling. There wasn't an ounce of reputability in that.
"Mr. Tippin."
You wonder idly, again for the hundredth time, how Syd can do this day in and day out. Not the cliché of living a lie – you can understand, now, the severity behind a false identity, weaving a fabric of falsehoods to protect your true self. You wonder instead how she can live with the permanence of her actions, their lasting impression. There have to be thousands of records of her apparent deceits, her betrayals. Even if all of them had a reason, a mission to protect the safety of others – there's no formal account of that. Only her transgressions are documented, and the pure intentions behind them are as subjective and transient as an illicit shot of heroin in some abandoned warehouse behind a deserted alleyway. There's no preservation of the good.
You can lie to your friends, your family, the press. You've been lying for days, you'll be lying about this the rest of your life. No problem. American media is fickle and there will be a new 11pm news darling to take your place before the week is out.
A flick of the Bic and there will be a permanent record of Mr. William L. Tippin endorsing this lie, filed away in a manila folder in a steel cabinet. An endorsement that will last longer than any spoken affirmation. No wonder the pen feels so tacky, an immeasurable weight.
Your eyes scan the page again, seeking the bullseye X to sign and end this ordeal.
You hope that this will be it, the end, but after the week you've had you can't be certain of anything. A constant anticipation, waiting for the other shoe to drop; nearly drowning in the uncertainty.
Every time you close your eyes you return to that warehouse, tourniquet above your elbow, the needle of the syringe reflecting the entirety of light in the room. This lie is your salvation, said Jack with his eyes. And you acquiesced, because every action had led up to this, the moment when a whirlwind of implausibility was to be cemented into a new reality that would pull apart every one of your truths. It's not like you had any real choice in the matter anyway.
Salvation is a deliverance from sin or a saving from evil, the conferment of everlasting happiness. You doubt signing a parole form endorsing a lie you can't believe in will save you from anything. You can barely conceive of the implications of this, the reaction placing pen to paper will have on what's left of your life. Sign the paper, walk out of the courthouse and then, what? There is no equal or opposite reaction for a situation like this, no aftershock or tangible reminder. Just a piece of paper with an official stamp and a signature, proclaiming to all the world you accept this lie as truth. That there was never a lie at all.
The document will be sent to the judicial records department, where the information will be entered in a database and filed away. It will become public property; it will become common knowledge. Long after Mr. William L. Tippin is gone, this lie will persist, marring any other certification, sullying any other achievement. You wonder how many times this has happened before, men sealing a lie and selling it as their own. You wonder how many times words have been manipulated to serve the needs of others, and whose lives have been cast aside in the expense.
It disgusts you, but the choice was never yours to make. Amid a blur of grainy print you seal your fate, placing the Bic to paper and committing your name with a steady hand.
The ink is still wet as the judge, impatient to clear the docket, whisks the document from the table and adjourns for the next case. You think you feel a pat on your back, Francie leaning over to give you a hug of reassurance.
You blink, expecting a cataclysmic break in the fabric of space and time, for someone to tell you this has been a giant misunderstanding and your old life is waiting for you right outside. You stand, and the ground is unexpectedly, unwaveringly solid.
You have built your life around the written truth; it defines you, it is the lens through which you view every facet of your life. And now there is a new truth, a way of life layered in a myriad of gray, torn as easily as the corner of newsprint.
At the bottom, you have nowhere to go but up. You cast aside thoughts of salvation as you contemplate your new ascension.
*
Common Knowledge
elabyrinthine@yahoo.com