Don’t make a fuss, that’s not what we do… us.
Do you remember that lad that went under the bus, got right up and hopped to the pavement, and sat there saying;
“Don’t fuss with uz, it’s just me arm and me hip and that, where’s me hat? I don’t want to look like a daft twat… I’ll be ok, hey?”
Then he tried to laugh, and there was blood on his lip, mixed up in his spit.
And when I went to wipe it away with a tissue, he turned his head and said, maybe just to himself;
“I’ll be alright, it’s nothing much.”
Then he winced as he touched his lip, and his cheek, wonky smiled at me a bit, just whispered “thanks.”
Looked a bit meek, and his lip quivered a tiny bit, so he buried his head in his arms.
Even when the ambulance came and took him away, what did the ambulance people say;
“You can go home if you like, but you’ve just come off your bike and gone under the bus, we don’t want to fuss, but you’d be better coming with us, ok lad?”
Made me feel sad that he couldn’t say that he’d had a big shock and his arm was bust up.
He needed some help, he needed looking after.
When we gave him some water in a paper cup, before the ambulance got there, he chucked it up and apologised.
Looked all ashamed, so we went along with the game and just acted the same, like nothing had happened and he was all right.
The next night I was down in the local with the boys and what’s his name said;
“Did you hear about that lad that went under bus, he wouldn’t stay over night at the hospital, went home and this morning the neighbour found him dead, he’d bled in his head, he didn’t know it was that bad, he was a canny lad, and I feel a bit sad for his Mam and his Dad.”
And old Billy, who never said anything good, I’m not sure he could since being a kid, he took a swig of his pint and looked round the table at us, and said;
Aye, it’s a shame like, I knew his old fella at school and if his son was the same, he was a bit of a fool, a fussy little fucker, can’t remember his name.”
We all just nodded and lowered our heads, thinking, not daring to say though, “thats not quite right is it Billy?” And we felt silly, knowing that showing and sharing was not what we do, us, is it? Meanwhile still feeling a feeling in wer hearts for the lad that went under the bus, and his Mam and his Dad.
Never heard the lad mentioned again, and that sadness and that pain that I felt in me heart that night is stored away deep down in the space with the other not quite right nights, cos keeping face, that’s what we do, us.
This just showed up this morning, no idea it was there or here… weird hey?
Just for clarity, honesty, transparency… mine maybe and maybe yours too, I am not seeing these guys as baddies, bad men, and I have sat in those pubs with these lads and dads and heard similar blather and buried my head a little, swallowed some beer, and had that queer feeling of not liking it and not knowing what to do with that.
Also had the opposite, seeing a friend in the pub saying something big for them, and when that gets laughed at or dismissed or ignored by the lads… I have said… “that sounds big for you, not easy, how are you doing with that?”
And that silence and those grimaces and embarrassment in that moment as the group feel that well known rule, broken… mostly unspoken… but heard later, one to one, outside, walking home…”shit Mark, that’s not what we do, it’s Friday night for fucks sake, leave that for later or just leave it altogether, you’ll just make it worse for him, he doesn’t want to wallow in it, neither do we.”
Anyway, last night/early morning, I had a call from a friend, a writer friend and much more, they were sharing and describing all the stuff that they do around writing and finding ways to be real and feel real and not get bogged down in the taking apart and critiquing and dissecting and trying to look clever and formal and please those who reckon they know… anyway… maybe their thoughtful and deep sharing around staying real while being honest and saying what is seen, who is seen and understood, who is named and made visible… feels to me… the right way toward… good… feels good and the right idea, thanks for being you, my friend.
You are brave and bold and uncertain and go too big for the outside and the inside world and get lost and hide and shrink… curling up with just yourself… and somehow… you are amazing to me… a whole beautiful human… not that my feelings for you compensates for the rawness of always feeling big feelings and reeling and being misunderstood, being reduced and patronised… laughed at and patted on the back… not fully heard… maybe just herded… a way… along with the norms.
And I know this alone is a disservice to you and all those tricky things are your gifts too and I have seen you take pleasure and comfort despite the struggles… within your bigness, your capacity for closeness, your joy in the honesty, the sharing.
Anyway… this fussy needing to be heard little story came up this morning and needed writing. And somehow you were maybe that nudge that tipped it out here for me, from me, with me.
Remember last night I said that I have something to write that falls under… I Am A Manly Man… I think this might be part of that… not the first part maybe, cos I’d rather that was about how manly I was when wearing flamboyant threads and makeup and hanging out with the queerest and dearest… how manly I was when I was changing my kids nappies… how manly I was when sitting with my Mum and Dad as they lost who they were and slipped away… but this maybe, wants to be, the first steps towards this I am a man thing.
To all those who find their way to allow space… to care… and share in the vague hope that once in a lifetime it means something to someone, thanks for your honesty, it all helps me learn into and lean into mine.
Pic, from my front room last night. As the daytime turns into night.