Bad Man Outside

You could see noth­ing through the win­dow until a tap­ping began at the glass, a grey leaf­less branch, and you won­dered what makes some­one sit at a win­dow table when it’s dark out­side. You had to ask for another glass of water, yours was filled with hair. While you waited you didn’t know what to do with your­self. The shag car­pet was green. You were look­ing at the dirt under your nails when you heard con­ver­sa­tion from the next table over, some­thing about a man’s ears. You took a drink from your new glass and were sur­prised to find it was orange juice, not water at all. When you called this to the waitress’s atten­tion, she apol­o­gized sweetly but said it would be good for you, and you noticed for the first time that her neck­lace held a gold pen­dant that said Eat Shit. And the peo­ple at the next table over — you could only see their backs, broad and hunched over in check­ered coats, and hats pulled down tight on their heads, though you knew their voices from some­where — they sounded as if they were from a more con­fi­dent coun­try, per­haps from down the road. At times they sounded like men’s voices, at other times like girls’. Their heads turned for a moment and for a moment you knew that every day of your life they’d been whis­per­ing in your ear. Their faces were blurred, made up but hard to fig­ure, and their voices sang as one but jum­bled up and never clear:

There’s a bad man out­side. In a win­dow, at a door. He’s from some­where far away, on this note we’re nearly sure. He has long, soft ears beneath the hat he never wears. He used to live here, so it goes, but no one knows him just the same. Some say he mar­ried and he took their name. Others swear he left after an acci­dent, no one knows the full details, and he headed south, and down again, and peo­ple don’t remem­ber but they were happy to hear of him no more. He was out­side where we once lived and there’s the same smell in the air as before. If we could show you our faces you would see right away: there’s no plea­sure in what we tell, we merely want you to know. Some accuse us of bring­ing him by speak­ing of him, but we wish no ill at all, oh no, we hope he car­ries on his way, because nobody can stop him, we hope he car­ries on his way.

The road was dark and straight, an old song glowed out of the radio. “Here he comes,” the men sang sweetly, their voices all alone. You laughed all the way home, slapped the wheel till your hand hurt. Leaves flicked at the wind­shield. You passed these things: long grey grass wav­ing like a field of your mother’s hair, the last street­light in town, a bill­board full of youngish beau­ties smil­ing at a red chair. Through the trees a light glared the colour of a fast food sign. You knew you were almost home but you’d never seen that light before and when you got there the light was gone and so was the heat. So now you’re bun­dled up at home, your stom­ach grum­bles, a new smell is in the air. The tele­vi­sion shows tanned peo­ple, in skin-tight suits, smil­ing at you for­ever as they rock back and forth in metal chairs. It’s the last thing you see before you fall asleep. The fridge will rum­ble to life every hour, and you’ll jump awake, every time think­ing someone’s at the door. When you wake for good you’ll find us at the foot of the bed, our backs to you once more. You’ll smell the make-up in the air just like you did last night. We’ll say, of course it was and always will be us, before we’ll sing you our song from before:

There’s a bad man out­side. Up a stair­way, through a door. Some say his eyes are dead, oth­ers call them soul­ful. All agree his hands look gen­tle, with short dark sprigs of hair. He’s well-spoken and very quiet, you have to ask him to repeat him­self. You’ll lean in and that’s the last thing you’ll remem­ber till you wake up the next morn­ing on a bed made of fur. We know he’s out there because the smell’s the same as before. He’s from some­where far away where every­body knows his name. He’s got long ears beneath the hat he never wears and he never looks the same. Some say we brought the bad man, but we wish no ill at all. Though there’s no plea­sure in what we tell you, we want you more than any­one to know. Please trust what we say on his behalf, as our source bears no blame at all, oh no, he’ll bear no blame at all.

He came here before, now you’re sure, ask­ing for some­one you didn’t know. Late one day he came up the front stairs to your win­dow and care­fully peered in. You were sit­ting on a stool in the cor­ner. He didn’t see you, it was dark in your half of the room. And you couldn’t see his face because the sun was low and almost blind­ing, the light behind him so bright he bore only a wild dark flame of hair if it was hair at all. He leaned in through the open win­dow and you were cer­tain you heard him sniff long and slow. When you shifted your weight, the stool creaked, and he stood up straight and smiled. You couldn’t see him smile, but you heard the saliva drag. He brought his hands up to the win­dow, an empty bucket and a rag. Do you need your win­dows cleaned, he said. No, not today, you said quite softly. No, thank you, not today.

You’d bet­ter get your head under the sheets because there’s a bad man out­side. Didn’t you see his shadow pass? Ah no, that’s the man on tele­vi­sion, you say, the one that every­body loves. His rat­ings are higher than any­body ever. There are times when he looks off cam­era and a shiver goes through you. And you turn to the clos­est stranger and say, Did you catch that too? But they never say they do. He’s a con­duit for all the worst in you. He says he’ll go across the world and rid you of what hurts, and he’ll take it all upon him­self and you’ll have to pay him for it. He wears expen­sive clothes but he looks like hell warmed over. His teeth are immac­u­late but none of them are real. He’s all right in our books because we write the books for him alone. And he’s not going any­where else until he’s done here. You’re either with him or against him and he’ll decide which one. No one sees his face by day­light because he has no face beneath the sun.

So many years ago you were up all night, a book in your lap, but you fell fast asleep when sun hit the blinds. And you ran and you ran but the streets were full of sewage and crows. Now a bell rings and you’re alone in an empty hall where the floor’s cold and clammy, and look at those dirty toes. There’s your room num­ber but the door’s taller, you can’t see through the wire glass. Inside they are singing a rhyme you’ve never heard. How out of tune they sound. See the shock of your teacher’s hair high against the win­dow, never so red before. You can almost see his face when some­one calls your name from the lock­ers. Dropped some­thing, we say, laugh­ing into our hands. It’s small and papery and a draft nudges it around until it’s trapped under the sole of a shoe. We pick it up and say if you’re sorry we’ll bring it home to you. But it’s not the only one, you tell us, there are hun­dreds all over the floor. Now there’s a tap on the win­dow and you’re afraid to look up. Bad boy, we whis­per, you’re a bad boy and you have to stay out­side. You won’t remem­ber what you’ve dreamed. You dreamed about some­thing you don’t remem­ber. You dreamed you fell asleep and dreamed.

There’s a bad man out­side. Through a door­way, down a hall. You’d bet­ter keep your card­board boxes under the bed, all folded up and flat, because the man’s grown tired of the weather and now he’s look­ing for a roof to stay under. You thought you saw his shadow, but the ceiling’s got a stain, it’s brown down the side with yel­low. When you wake up you’re thin and shiny as wax paper, shud­der­ing as if a screen’s plugged into you, but it’s only the refrig­er­a­tor doing what it’s not sup­posed to. And we still sit here at your table, in our check­ered shirts and hats, singing the song we always sing in voices that con­fuse us. The bad man out­side, he lis­tens closely and taps along at someone’s glass. Go climb between those boxes, child, and put your head to bed. The bridge is closed, the lights are blown, and you don’t know where he’s at.