Bad Faith
“Don’t ask me, darling. Use your own mind for once.” These words are enough to send the temperamental little sod storming off in a sulk and I haven’t the inclination nor the energy to pursue him or even to shout an apology at his retreating form. I think that lethargy aside, I’m justified in this. I could’ve offered him no advice of any real value. Owing to our long standing intimacy, he knew very well what form my advice was likely to take, so in seeking it he had already made up his mind on the subject and was merely desirous of validation.
I discovered this theory in Jean Paul Sartre’s ‘existentialism and humanism’, a
Philosophical essay I finished reading only this morning. I found myself agreeing with most of it hence my treatment of George’s question. Not that I’d expected him to react in so amusing a manner.
I hear the front door open and then slam shut and know that George is still angry with me. He has a habit of leaving the house in this noisy fashion whenever
I’ve upset him. He’s always to be found in the same place – our local pub (I say local but it takes a good half hour to walk it). There he waits until pride gives in and guilt holds dominion over me, at which point I venture out to said pub and attempt to apologise, never an easy business with George. I think he’s in for one of his longer waits this time. I hope he’s not too drunk, he’ll be even more awkward. Perhaps I’ll go now. Nonsense, I’ll do no such thing. His behaviour was the height of overreaction. Or was I tad nasty? Maybe I should have explained the theory to him.
No, I’m not to blame; I didn’t tell him to leave. What was it that Sartre said? Ah yes.
‘Bad Faith’, to deny that one always has a choice and is always accountable for one’s actions. I’m sure that was it. Sounds like George, doesn’t it? He’s a sensitive creature but it was nonetheless his choice to clear off down the pub. If he thinks otherwise he’s
living in Bad Faith. I’m going to bed.
I stare into the darkness and struggle to recall when I was last in bed by ten o’
clock. I assure myself I’m not upset.
Sleep won’t come. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been lying here because I don’t
want to look at the clock.
George hasn’t come home. I check the guest bedroom and experience only a half
measure of surprise when I see the bed empty. I never eat breakfast so after making
do with a can of cola, a glass of milk and a cigarette, I set off for the pub, with the
intention of establishing whether it was George’s destination of last night. Needless to
say his mobile phone is switched off, regardless of how many times I attempt to call him.
I arrive at the pub twenty minutes before opening but I’ve no desire to wait. I peer in at the window and see Ryan, the landlord, arseing about with the till. I go to the door and knock, loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to appear rude. After looking up from the till, squinting and establishing my identity, Ryan takes his time in getting to the door, unlocking it and opening it just far enough to stick his head out.
“Morning.”
“Morning, Ryan. Was George here last night?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that though. Do you know where he is? What I mean to say is did he
perhaps-”
“He’s here.”
“Still here? Ha! That drunk was he? It was good of you to put him up.”
“It wasn’t quite like that.”
He goes on in an apologetic and then sympathising vein but he can’t help but appear
smug. I cut him off as quickly and with as little awkwardness as possible and hurry home.
I sit down in the only armchair we have, light a cigarette, look at it and stub it out. My jealous green eyes recall the smugness of Ryan’s eyes. Jealousy gives way to a loathing for both of them and then to self-loathing. I know I treated George shabbily. Why didn’t I go after him? Because I’m a stubborn bastard. I wish I could live in Bad Faith but I know who is to blame and I know who to blame.
by D. Diedrich
Copyright February 2006
