A BRIEF (Sort of funny) HISTORY OF (my) VIOLENCE
EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, my wife will hear a noise in the middle of the night.
“I heard something downstairs,” she’ll say, waking me.
I strain my ears to listen.
“Did you hear it?”
“No,” I’ll say. I never hear it, but then again, my hearing is ruined from my high school punk-rock band, and I know that my ears are not a reliable indicator of anything. I already dread the question I know is coming: “Will you go downstairs and check?”
Oh, God. I really don’t want to go downstairs, because it’s the middle of the night and I’m comfortable and, most importantly, because even though I didn’t hear anything, I’m suddenly terrified. What if, this time, somebody actually is in the house? Why is she sending me downstairs to confront my murderer? What I want to say is “You go downstairs”, but I can’t say that because it would violate the ancient contract between man and woman, the one that says men will be the first to face danger. And because it would be such a dick move.
So then I have to get out of bed and creep downstairs and wander around in the dark praying that nobody’s there. Left unanswered is the question of what I’m supposed to do if I should come face-to-face with an intruder. In theory, I guess I’m supposed to kick his arse. In practice, we would most likely have a very awkward
