In a lot of us the desire to hurt the weak conflicts with the desire to console and protect. How many times did I lend an ear to my brother winging about life, only to find out in the morrow that he had departed me off another hundred pounds? How many times did I mock or patronize a friend, a colleague or my mother, only to realize a couple of days later what an ignorant snob I had been?
In these conflicts between the desire to hurt and the desire to console, there is often no clear winner. One minute one of them takes the upper-hand ; we then act with great resolution. The next moment the other one fights back and floods us with shame, scorn, anger. The average human being navigates between antagonists. This is why stories have heroes.
I once had a friend who was a bully.
My bully friend was physically intimidating. He was of a stocky nature, built of a frame far too wide and strong for his legs. He could have been, if not handsome, at least good looking, but he left his family at an early age and took to drinking. By the age of twenty five his face had swollen, his skin was red and dry, he had lost most of his hair and several teeth.
He always had manual jobs, not that he was lacking intellectual skills -he is in fact one of the cleverest persons I have ever met-, but his body demanded it. He needed to lift heavy loads, to hammer rough things into place, to remove and destroy invulnerable objects. This kind of work sets its mark on a man. My friend had big hands, huge shoulders, a strong chest. When he was talking, people were paying attention. I have to say that I never saw him once use this strength to win an argument. His appearances were never more than a way to make himself heard. For the bullying his brains were a much sharper tool.
He was made of one piece. Once or twice in our earlier times I found myself torn in internal conflicts. I tried to confide in him. I was seeking his advice. I soon learned to refrain, for he just laughed at me: "What do you mean? That you don't know what to do or that you regret what you have done?" "Why are you telling me? Are you asking me to help you? To pity you? This is your problem, not mine. You wouldn't like my solution anyway. You wouldn't live with my solution. As for pitying you, give me a fucking break, please. Who do you think you are?"
His ability to insult was the most extraordinary I have ever come across, matched only by his unbending desire to use it. Not insulting someone was causing him an effort which he released by getting regularly and desperately drunk. Drinking alleviated the tensions of civilized conversation -like sex alleviates tensions in a couple. But it was also loosening the little control he had on himself. He was a lot more insulting when drunk, and a lot better at it too.
He relished the drunken state, even though the day after was a nightmare. He had terrible hangovers. When we started drinking together at the age of fifteen, he would get sick beyond belief. He would puke and shit for hours, sometimes days, after a drinking session. He would get ill, feverish, cold, pale, shaking. He would be unable to eat. Sometimes he could not even keep water down. He would not speak to anyone. If you were talking to him he would be unable to reply back. These were the only moments where you could get into an argument with him and win. But he would not forget, oh no. Any bad done to him would never remain unpunished. Not that he was particularly rancorous or afraid to appear vulnerable. He would simply not waste away a perfect opportunity to hurt someone.
As the years went by, he found a parry: to remain unwound and victorious, he had to remain drunk. Or at least, to keep the hangovers few and far in between. In these moments it was essential for him to hide away. He would take a couple of days holidays, or a week. The day before, he would drink himself to stupor. He could do that quite literally. I have seen him pass out in the most unlikely situations: at the table while talking to someone ; at the peak of a party with people dancing and screaming around him ; at a bar falling off his high stool ; once even while standing up and eating. After such a night he would wake up before everybody and vanish. He would not answer his phone, or his emails, or anything. When we met him again, he would never tell us where he had been. Any question on this topic would be greeted with a rebuke. "Somewhere. Not your business. Why do you need to know? Are you jealous? Are you in love?"
In these conflicts between the desire to hurt and the desire to console, there is often no clear winner. One minute one of them takes the upper-hand ; we then act with great resolution. The next moment the other one fights back and floods us with shame, scorn, anger. The average human being navigates between antagonists. This is why stories have heroes.
I once had a friend who was a bully.
My bully friend was physically intimidating. He was of a stocky nature, built of a frame far too wide and strong for his legs. He could have been, if not handsome, at least good looking, but he left his family at an early age and took to drinking. By the age of twenty five his face had swollen, his skin was red and dry, he had lost most of his hair and several teeth.
He always had manual jobs, not that he was lacking intellectual skills -he is in fact one of the cleverest persons I have ever met-, but his body demanded it. He needed to lift heavy loads, to hammer rough things into place, to remove and destroy invulnerable objects. This kind of work sets its mark on a man. My friend had big hands, huge shoulders, a strong chest. When he was talking, people were paying attention. I have to say that I never saw him once use this strength to win an argument. His appearances were never more than a way to make himself heard. For the bullying his brains were a much sharper tool.
He was made of one piece. Once or twice in our earlier times I found myself torn in internal conflicts. I tried to confide in him. I was seeking his advice. I soon learned to refrain, for he just laughed at me: "What do you mean? That you don't know what to do or that you regret what you have done?" "Why are you telling me? Are you asking me to help you? To pity you? This is your problem, not mine. You wouldn't like my solution anyway. You wouldn't live with my solution. As for pitying you, give me a fucking break, please. Who do you think you are?"
His ability to insult was the most extraordinary I have ever come across, matched only by his unbending desire to use it. Not insulting someone was causing him an effort which he released by getting regularly and desperately drunk. Drinking alleviated the tensions of civilized conversation -like sex alleviates tensions in a couple. But it was also loosening the little control he had on himself. He was a lot more insulting when drunk, and a lot better at it too.
He relished the drunken state, even though the day after was a nightmare. He had terrible hangovers. When we started drinking together at the age of fifteen, he would get sick beyond belief. He would puke and shit for hours, sometimes days, after a drinking session. He would get ill, feverish, cold, pale, shaking. He would be unable to eat. Sometimes he could not even keep water down. He would not speak to anyone. If you were talking to him he would be unable to reply back. These were the only moments where you could get into an argument with him and win. But he would not forget, oh no. Any bad done to him would never remain unpunished. Not that he was particularly rancorous or afraid to appear vulnerable. He would simply not waste away a perfect opportunity to hurt someone.
As the years went by, he found a parry: to remain unwound and victorious, he had to remain drunk. Or at least, to keep the hangovers few and far in between. In these moments it was essential for him to hide away. He would take a couple of days holidays, or a week. The day before, he would drink himself to stupor. He could do that quite literally. I have seen him pass out in the most unlikely situations: at the table while talking to someone ; at the peak of a party with people dancing and screaming around him ; at a bar falling off his high stool ; once even while standing up and eating. After such a night he would wake up before everybody and vanish. He would not answer his phone, or his emails, or anything. When we met him again, he would never tell us where he had been. Any question on this topic would be greeted with a rebuke. "Somewhere. Not your business. Why do you need to know? Are you jealous? Are you in love?"
Tears, however, took him aback. He did not know how to react to them. He looked like an awkward child staring at a broken toy. I will always remember the day when he made my girlfriend cry. He was rather found of her, mainly -I think- because she was a silent, quiet person subject to sudden rages. He did not understand that. Rage was foreign to his nature. But violence was not, and the impredictibility of my girlfriend's fits was a source of surprises. In a sense he was finding life too easy, and people increasingly boring. For him she was a small nugget of real excitement found in the everyday mud.
Did that day change something in him? I would not be able to tell, for that day definitely changed something in me. Beforehand I had never questioned the nature of our friendship. I had taken it for granted from the first time we met. But that Thursday I saw Gwen's eyes get bright and fill with water, I watched tears roll down her cheeks, hang for a second at the edge of her jaw, and drop silently onto the table of the Meerkat. At that moment I was drunk, all I could do was laugh to imitate my friend the bully. But as I woke up on the Friday, as the hours passed and I sobered up, I started thinking. That scene was stirring something in me. That was not anger. That was not resentment. But that feeling was not a happy one. It got us all into real trouble.
