I once met a bad man

I once met a bad man—or at least, he hinted at it. I was in college, and he lived in a guesthouse behind some friends’ off-campus home. I remember he had “Houston” tattooed on the inside of one arm and “Texas” on the other. One night, we were all hanging out at my friend’s place—drinking, smoking, sitting outside in the humid Houston night, causing shenanigans, being loud and reckless. Just college kids.

He and I talked about weed, about his dealing, about the things he’d seen. There was a faraway look in his eyes when he mentioned sneaking into someone’s house to reclaim a stash that had been stolen. He went quiet after that, like he knew he’d already said too much.

Maybe it was just a story, an image he wanted me to buy into. But I didn’t want to find out. I don’t like crossing certain lines once people let their guard down. People tell me things. I just have that kind of presence; they sense I’ve seen things too, so they feel they can talk to me.

This world can be brutal. Men can be brutal, and often, they want to be feared. Fear is simpler than love; fear has predictable consequences, while love is harder to plan for. Over the years, I’ve met a lot of bad people—men who consciously scare others to get what they want, who manipulate or hurt others to send a message or assert dominance.

I’ve tried to be good, to lead without using fear. Usually, people respond well—until someone who relies on fear decides they don’t like my approach.

I never want to be the guy with that distant look in his eyes, haunted by his past actions. I’ve met plenty of men who feel no guilt, sociopathic narcissists who just don’t care. The cannabis industry is full of them. Life is full of them.

All I know is, I want to be on the right side of things—on the right side of God, if such a thing exists. I may die poorer than some, but I won’t be morally bankrupt or haunted by the idea of Hell.

I met a bad man once, and I hope I never meet him again.