The Bad Man

A decade or so ago I dared to post on a social media platform that men really weren’t all that bad. I bet you already know how that went.

As a man growing up in the UK and now living in the USA, I’d noticed that the message I’d heard over and over was that men… well, they were just bad. If you have been human and alive at any point in recent history then you can’t have failed to notice this. I’m a man, but not me, of course. I wasn’t bad. We’re never talking about this or that particular man, or really any men in present company. Only other men. And to be clear, I was only hearing this from women. Men fell silent on the subject, like the guilty always do I suspect.

I grew up in Scotland with three older sisters and, from age nine on, a single mother. My mother and father had divorced soon after my ninth birthday and it wasn’t long after that time that I quickly learned that men were really not all that great. Again, let’s be clear here, other men, not me. No, at age nine with my voice still in the higher octaves, I was on some sort of unspoken probation. I learned that if I behaved properly, treated women correctly, then it was understood… maybe implied at least… that I could maybe avoid being one of these “bad men”. There weren’t any examples of what a good man might be, so my potential future as a man looked hazy at best. Something to be discovered I suppose?

Of course, at the time, with age still in single digits, I believed all of it. I soaked it up! Here, finally, I was being let into the real truth that explained everyone’s behaviour. And it was given to me in that way, the sideways, head bent down to the ear, whispery sort of way that said, it was the truth no one had dared to say before - maybe because bad men wouldn’t allow the truth to be spoken I imagined. At least in the beginning. Later, it would be more outright, in your face, more like a slap than a whisper. And why would I even think to question these older people who obviously cared so much about me? They didn’t mince words; they knew the lines like they had been researching, theorizing, and debating them for years. Unlike talks about the price of food or politics or the neighbours, on this subject they spoke with conviction and clarity. In fact, it was the one thing they all agreed on without question and without confusion. Men were bad.

Dad was bad, of course. Maybe even the worst. We, my mothers, sisters and me - the only real family - would never talk about him or why the divorce happened, without making sure it was clear who was to blame. And we didn’t need to; it was known by osmosis, he had been bad and that had brought to an end all the stability, all the money for food, all toys and friends, everything good. Whenever we went to my dad’s house, once a week at most, for dinner, we were just visiting. Dad always had a spare room available for me. Maybe he fooled himself that he was being given respect by his ex and her children; that maybe one of them might stay with him for more than a few hours.

Mum didn’t waste any time getting her first, then second, maybe third, fourth boyfriend. I don’t remember; I think maybe they overlapped at times, as one tests the footing ahead before leaving the current holding your weight. There was a lot of drinking going on, a lot of strange men to meet in the wee hours at one or two in the morning. My bedtime prior to the divorce was nine pm. I knew this because all the best TV programming came on at that time and I got to hear the theme tune to them as I stomped upstairs with my sisters. I pleaded of course. Just five minutes more. Nope. Off to bed.

After the divorce things got a lot better. Since mum started leaving the house soon after dinner, it was just me and my sisters. Most of the time they would go out too, to friends houses or boyfriends or somewhere, so it was just me; they stayed over somewhere else, or were just up all night in the streets, who knows. Mum knew I would be alone, and she was kind enough to buy me ginger and crisps to keep me company for the next five or six hours by myself. For the non-Scots readers, “ginger” was lemonade soda and “crisps” were potato chips. It was maybe some sort of apology in way; sorry for leaving you alone in a house while everyone goes out, but enjoy this and don’t tell anyone. Or maybe she just wanted me to enjoy myself because she felt guilty about enjoying herself.

And I finally got to see what was on the other side of nine. I’d still get myself into my jammies around nine o’clock, but then I’d watch all the late night adult movies, horrors, thrillers, you name it, it was mine, all the adult secrets for my young mind to devour. Deep into the last act of second of the horror movie double-bill, usually around one or two in the morning, I’d hear banging and fumbling at the door, the loud slurred voice of my mum, the strange deep voice of someone else. I’d rush to turn off the TV and the light and dive like a panicked superhero into bed before they’d come crashing in. Safe. Or sometimes I’d be caught still in the living room mid-rush; they’d be too quick, and I’d be caught. No, not sent to bed, not told off for being up late on a school night. No, in fact, it didn’t matter if I made it into bed, because even if I was in bed, then I’d invariably be “awoken”, with the bright overhead light turned on, and dragged out “come on get up… meet Johnsnsafara…” she’d slur, her eyes struggling to find my face. No, those times I’d have to meet various strange men who seemed maybe bemused at me, maybe irritated at the delay in their evening’s plans, maybe even feeling sorry for me.

They were of course drunk themselves, that fact you could smell without any investigation, but never too drunk. Mum, without fail, could barely stand upright. She would drunkenly faun over me, alternatingly hanging on to me and dragging me back into the living room. I didn’t want these men here, in my house, in my room. I didn’t like they way they were hanging on to my mum. I didn’t like that mum couldn’t keep her eyes straight, or stand up without swaying, or speak clearly, and that her clothes looked like they had been pulled all angles. I didn’t even want mum here. Not in the state she was, where I felt like the one who had to take care of things. I didn’t feel safe, but I didn’t know what that feeling was.

She’d be grinning, and he would be grinning, winking at me, like we were both part of some club. Except I had no idea what a wink meant; I hate winks, their strange uncomfortable secret familiarity that you are forced into and complete lack of clarity. I just knew it didn’t feel safe, and there were no rules, no boundaries, no being told to go to bed. No, indeed, I was the star attraction. Paraded by mum for these men to marvel at. What a smart boy! How intelligent! What I’d do in the future! Stories of my amazing acts of deduction or invention, aged just three years old, were dragged out into the smoke-filled living room. And he’d have to pretend he was impressed. He’d have to agree.

Even at nine I knew what boredom looked like. I knew what it felt like to be an obstacle, a chore to be endured to get to the fun stuff. I knew that all the things I was being held up as accomplishments for were meaningless accolades, like some old aunt showing her family photos that no one wants to look at, or the endless stories that no one wants to hear. I would just stand there, in my jammies, waiting for a moment when she lost track of where or who I was, so I could slip away into the darkness of the bedroom. I’d lay awake for another few hours, until the door slammed and maybe I could allow myself to sleep. But mum was always in a conversational mood. Maybe there wasn’t enough conversation in the hours that preceded or maybe she was just sentimental, but she’d come into my room and lovingly slobber over me. She might have thought she was being loving; I felt like I was being eaten alive. It was a wet, suffocating nightmare of nasty perfume, nylon material, bulges, and heavy breathing. I didn’t get any hugs, that I recall, during the day, so now, apparently, was her chance to express all that had been missed. When the drunken slobbering finally finished and she staggered off to bed, I could wipe my face clean and turn over to sleep. The house was finally quiet. I knew every sound of every thing that moved in that house. Nothing could sneak up on me. I’d be ready.