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How nice!
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Many a man have held dreams of being a husband, even a father. It is, most certainly, a noble dream. Noble indeed because it asks of him, “cast away your selfish ways. Do away with childish things and give yourself, wholly, eternally, to something greater”.
Adventure is the promise and as with all adventures, the narrative is more gripping than the creation. What boy is told of sleepless nights? What young man is warned of nagging wives? What lad is made aware of intimacy to be shucked and denied? None, I gather. For if any there were, the human species would be in steady, then sharp, decline.
Any man need only live the adventure to learn that there is little to be gained and more than ample to be lost. Some men, old and tired, go on to die of resentment — their faces bearing scowls as they are interred with the earth. Others, those of a more inquisitive and introspective predisposition, seek escape long before death comes their way.
And what then? It has been said that man needs a mountain to climb, a dragon to slay, a whore to tame…
Haydn was around that age when, it is generally agreed, most men come to an understanding of themselves. Of course this can mean several things: some good, some bad and some, if you are in too close of a proximity, quite ugly.
There he was sitted in the recruitment office. A solitary ceiling fan whirling its aged blades. On his person was nothing but a backpack with enough clothes to last him two days. Hopefully, that would not be the case since he had no funds to afford him room and board. He’d been told they’d take him in and give him, until the application process is complete, a place to sleep.
His was ugly. A wretched and vile form of self-comprehension. The sort that warps the lives of all those who knew him. And even this is necessary for man — some men.
You see, Haydn was always a good man. Perchance, good is rather too powerful of a word. I would wager that there are very few good men alive today and, of those, even fewer would be perceived as good by the public at large.
Haydn had been a nice man. Nice the way his mother had taught him, the way his teachers had beat into him, the way thousands of hours of TV time had molded him.
At the age of twenty-one, when his peers went off to graduate school or entrepreneurship, Haydn got down on bended knee and surrendered his life to love. I say surrendered because that is what it is — a surrender. And his wife Lana was, from a distance, worthy of such surrender. Yes, she was a bit older than him but she was composed, respectable, kind, and even, to a degree, equally nice.
Though there was a lot that Haydn did not know about his nice wife as he had a knee on pavement bearing his heart, and a ring, to be devoured. Like all women, Lana would reveal herself in pieces. A little now, a little later. Each revelation a pin prick against Haydn’s sensitive soul. But, being nice, he knew better than to let that dissatisfaction consume him.
Yet it did. It always does.
He grew judgmental, quick to anger, withdrawn. Lana watched him and felt the distance grow but she knew something that Haydn would never admit to himself, especially as a man in his early twenties: “where else can he go?”
Women are imbued with a blessing so powerful that makes the world bend to their will. When he was twenty-five, Lana gave birth to their first child. With that the gnawing question “where else can he go?” metastasized into “why would he want to go?”
With time, the canary learns to be dependent on its cage.
Thus, Haydn shoved the pain further, deeper with the faith that with time, love and family all of it would dissipate giving way for a wholeness that all nice men believe is found in sacrifice.
But don’t men know that the sacrificial lamb is nothing but a feast?
Two years later, Lana delivered their second child making her the matriarch she always wanted to be. “They all need me,” she felt. “I am vital to their lives.” Consequently, Haydn’s insides twisted and churned. It was in his stomach. At first a mild discomfort that, over time, developed into an unbearable pain that he likened to a punishment from God.
“What is it I’m doing wrong?” he asked himself. “Am I not giving enough? Is it gratitude I lack? Maybe if I do more, sacrifice more, then God will reward me with peace and ease my suffering.”
No more drinking. Goodbye to the Camels. Farewell to nights with friends. All of his time was to be committed, selflessly, to his family and their well-being. Surely, they would be happy with him. Certainly, Lana would acknowledge his great sacrifice and love him as all men dream of being loved.
But alas, this was not so.
I have often heard that women are more in-tune with the spirit. That, from others, they can sense a psychological malaise that claws at souls. This might be the case, but it was Haydn who was first to feel the shift in the air.
On one February night, the kids had gone to bed when Haydn felt it apropos to play one of Lana’s favorite shows. He sat by the couch and asked her to sit beside him. She always did. He brought down a blanket to cover them both as it was quite cold. Under the blankets, his leg moved up, not purposely, against Lana’s. She immediately moved away.
Now it is quite likely that this was not intentional. That did not matter. Haydn dug deep into that moment and all others from then on out.
But Haydn was… nice. “Probably reading too much into things,” he convinced himself. “She’s tired. The kids, the house, her hobbies (of which she had none) are all too much.” Like all nice men, Haydn doubled down.
“Don’t bother with the dishes,” he said each night.
“I’ll get the kids to bed."
“The cooking is on me.”
“Laundry is easy. I’ve got it.”
For some reason, he noticed, Lana inch further and further away. Eyes were rolled when he spoke of love, a disgusted contortion when he reached for intimacy.
“What am I doing wrong?” He thought to ask but, being a (nice) man, he knew better.
"Give more,” he concluded.
And with each conclusion, his wife became less and less… so.
Would you blame her? Possibly. But, why?
Consciously, she could see and accept that Haydn was doing a lot for their family, for her. However, deep in her psyche lay a whisper that jeered whenever she saw him leap to execute another attempt at seeking her approval. She knew it, you see, the way no man can ever know: his constant need, desire, for her validation repulsed her to no end.
Lewis did not talk much. Where Haydn would have offered an explanation, he gave silence. Initially, this frustrated Lana but with time a curious excitement bubbled up in her core. And when Lewis handed her his business card and asked — no, said — that she should contact him, Lana was less than surprised to find that the universe, on one summer day, conspired to have her all alone (a rare occurrence) with nothing to do.
“You’re exhausted,” he said to her as they sat for lunch.
With some reluctance, Lana responded, “not now.”
She was not. Probably for the first time in aeons, she felt a vivaciousness that she thought was lost with age. Lewis dined her, had her in the passenger seat of his car as he drove recklessly up mountain roads and parked by a cliff overlooking the city.
“Thank you,” she started. “This is the best day I’ve had in a while.”
“It’s not over,” Lewis said as he placed his palm around the nape of her neck. Lana surrendered. Lewis plundered.
I once heard that women are good at keeping affairs a secret. That this is more a flaw in the male design which is weak in picking social cues. This, unfortunately, does not describe Haydn.
Over the years, his neediness, clinginess, developed in him an understanding of his wife that was exceptional. What was initially withdrawal was, he sensed, an attachment to something new.
“She smiling more,” he thought.
“That’s a new dress,” he noticed.
“Her schedule is more detailed.”
Unlike a good man, the nice man works behind masks and hidden agendas. There is no clarity or honesty in his dealings. So, instead of asking “what’s going on?” or “is there something I need to know?” the nice man opts to snoop. Search his wife’s bag, check her phone, go through messages.
Nothing good ever comes of this, the nice man soon discovers. Worse yet, he finds exactly what he is looking for — which Haydn did.
Despite being wronged, Haydn was fearful of confronting his wife. He tried to approach her but quickly backed down after recalling her harsh words and cutting critiques of his person.
Months went by. He knew what she was doing, yet he reached for intimacy, for understanding. Resentment grew, hatred hastened until…
Haydn stood before the recruiter and said, “I’m here for the legion.”
“Sign here,” the recruiter said. “Please be aware that we require a minimum of five years commitment to the legion. Do you acknowledge that you’ve been informed?”
Haydn was ready to open himself up to a new beginning. A new adventure full of purpose, maybe even freedom.
The room, quiet except for a ceiling fan above their heads, was no larger than four by six. Three chairs were placed against a wall before the recruiter. No one else was there. Only Haydn before the laconic recruiter with his commanding presence.
“Once you sign, take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m finally free,” he thought behind a curated smile. His eyes veered to the recruiter who gave him one pass glance, then proceeded with his paperwork as the ceiling fan whirled round and round and round,