Evil Exists: One Thing Most People Don’t Realize
“People who claim that they’re evil are usually no worse than the rest of us… It’s people who claim that they’re good, or any way better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.”
― Gregory Maguire
So, for over a decade my dad was a professional criminal. He made tons of money, lived a life of real adventure, saw things, met people. The whole deal. Maybe I’ll write about it here some day.
The thing is, that kind of life doesn’t last. The money ran out as the adventure turned sour. Fading the heat (avoiding the authorities) became more than something he did at the border, and became something that consumed every waking moment of his life.
His image of himself as a freedom fighter (a bit of healthy self-delusion) turned to recognition he was a hunted animal. He turned inward. His inner demons became his armor against a world that wasn’t just uncaring, but antagonistic — denying him his very identity. I’ll probably write about what that did to my childhood too, someday.
But this story isn’t about him, or me. What he had really done was help make a whole lot of money for other people. Those other people didn’t want to spend the remaining decades of their lives in a Federal penitentiary any more than he did. (They eventually did.)
The difference between those people and my dad was they were still in business.
After my dad went straight, determined to raise his family like any other square off the street, his old partners in crime grew more and more nervous.
Guys were getting pinched by the cops. Guys were going to jail — doing real time. They had to avoid that same fate at all costs. Eventually, someone was going to roll over on them and the trap would shut.
So after years of living on the run, one evening when I was about nine years old, there came a knock at the door. It wasn’t the police (they would come years later dressed in SWAT gear).
It was a nondescript man of average height and build, with a nondescript face under a baseball cap without insignia, in the plain clothes of a Texas farmhand. On his belt hung a large silver belt buckle and a beautifully oiled razor-sharp Bowie knife. The heels of his old cowboy boots clapped against the cement as he shuffled in the doorway.
“Golly, it’s good to see you,” he said in a high-pitched Texas drawl. “How long’s it been? Years, gosh. Mind if I come in for a spell? I know it’s awful rude to drop by without a call first, but I was in the neighborhood. When you’re in the neighborhood, it’s only right to visit an old friend, don’t you agree?”
My dad let him in. He had no other choice.
The two men went into the kitchen. My dad cracked a couple of Lone Star beers and they began to talk, sitting at the kitchen table. The man mostly asked questions, my dad mostly answered them.
I hung out for a bit, paying attention as much as I didn’t, but watching my dad get drunk had been boring for years, so I went off to do my own thing.
Evening turned to night and the men continued to talk, sometimes laughing, their voices often rising. Beer was traded for Fundador, and the two men reminisced into the night. I went to sleep listening to their voices echo through the house.
For the next three days my dad stayed drunk in his room. My mom thought he was just on another bender and told me not to bother him. It would pass.
She didn’t really know who that man had been, but knew he’d dredged up a lot of old memories. Her concern was keeping her job so we could have food to eat and a place to live.
After those three days, my dad came out of his room. Before he sobered up, he decided to tell me something important.
“Boy, you remember that man that was here a few nights ago?”
“Yes,” I said. Although there wasn’t much about him I remembered.
“That man’s name is Ernest. I used to know him. My old friends sent him.”
“How come?” I asked.
“He needed to find out something. He needed to know what I might do if I’m ever arrested.” This was a constant possibility — why my dad had hardly driven a car for almost a decade.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“I’m not a rat.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I think so.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he didn’t come back. I was pretty sure he was going to — one of these last few nights.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You notice how Ernest never cursed? Not once. The worst I’ve ever heard him say is golly gee or rats. He never says anything you can’t say in church. He never sounds angry or annoyed. He’s like Gomer Pyle from the TV show. That’s really who he is. It’s not an act.”
I understood the words my dad was saying, but not why.
“So?”
“So, if he’d come back here, it would have been after we’d all gone to sleep one night. He would have opened a window and slipped in. We wouldn’t have heard him, and he would have snuck through the house, and he would have cut our throats. Mine, your mom’s, your sister’s, yours. Just like that. And no one would ever know he was here. That’s what he does.”
I don’t remember saying anything. My dad went off to take a shower and begin the long process of sobering up.
Ernest was with me from that day forward. I didn’t so much dwell on him as I actively didn’t think about him. I don’t think my dad remembered telling me about him.
But where Ernest lived was in my dreams. Maybe not even there. He was just generally around. In my psyche.
On occasion I’d think about him. When I did I wondered how a person like that could be on the street, walking around with normal people right next to him. How could a person so evil blend in, be so unremarkable? How could someone be so evil he’d cut my little sister’s throat?
Time passed. I grew up. Ernest faded into the recesses of my psyche. I didn’t really think about him.
Then later, after I had my own family, he came bubbling back up, visiting me in my dreams. Opening a window in my house, sneaking in. Like Bob in Twin Peaks. Visiting our rooms one at a time. Night after night.
I thought about Ernest all the time. I dwelled on him while I drove to work, washed the dishes, mowed the yard.
I wondered how evil like that existed among us, as natural and unselfconscious as anybody. How many times had he actually used that Bowie knife? Was he still alive somewhere? Did he remember me?
A thought occurred to me. Ernest wasn’t really evil. At least not to himself. He was just a man. He was just a man with friends and responsibilities. In a pragmatic way, he was just doing what was right. He protected those he cared about.
Here’s the thing about evil. Most evil in the world does not understand its own nature. That’s what makes it powerful. Most evil is unaware of itself. From the inside, evil acts are rational or the product of emotional necessity.
And then I thought, if that’s the case, and evil doesn’t see itself, am I evil? I drive a gas-powered car. I use plastics. I eat meat. I shop on Amazon. All of that. I keep what money I’ve made to feed my own family, although I do give two dollars to homeless pets whenever I buy cat food. Is the society we live in evil? Maybe. Probably.
Do I just not see it? Is that the case for everybody on earth?
Of course, some people do choose to call themselves evil. But in my experience they tend to be fairly benign. It’s either a kind of affectation, or their acts are a sort of cry for help, and if they’re dangerous they’re removed from society pretty quickly. Hopefully before they’ve done too much damage. But they’re obvious, they advertise it.
It’s the other people that are really scary. They blend in. They work their evil in a kind of subconscious way.
It’s the sociopathic spouse or manipulative friend. The successful politician, army general, business owner — the average citizen, co-worker, your sibling, your fellow church-goer — that’s out there every day doing what they do.
Most of them won’t get caught. There’s almost nothing to catch. They wouldn’t even know what you meant if you confronted them about it. They’re just being themselves, doing what feels natural. And they have no idea what they are.
