As I sat in a waiting room yesterday before an appointment, I scrolled my reddit feed and stumbled upon this thread: What nonsense did you believe for way too long before you found out it was made up? I’m not going to quote the responses (I’m not writing a Buzzfeed article), but I do recommend reading the thread, because there are some good ones in there. Anyway, that led me to ask myself the same question, which—for the first time in years—made me think of the mysterious film noir character that lived in my head as a kid: The Guy.
Before I elaborate on The Guy, I have a confession to make: As difficult as it may be for some people who know me today to believe, I was not a good child. That may be an understatement. I gave my poor parents, who conceived me late in their lives (when they were preparing to enter their softer grandparent years), absolute hell until I finally settled down a bit in my mid-teens. Maybe I’m remembering it to be worse than it actually was, but it is at least true that I was a difficult child to control. That is, until my mom figured out a way.
I’m not sure how the character was originally developed, but I was probably 11 or 12 when it happened. At first, he had a longer name, but it was quickly shortened to The Guy to keep it simple. I always imagined him in detective clothes, but I never knew his actual occupation. I just knew that his job was keeping tabs on unruly children. He didn’t pose a direct threat to me—it’s not like The Guy snatched up kids or something. I just knew that he kept files, much like Santa kept a “Naughty or Nice” list. Sometimes, parents who were at their wit’s end made phone calls to The Guy, and the file on the naughty child would get longer. I don’t know what exactly it was about The Guy’s record-keeping that scared me straight (okay, not completely straight, obviously), except that I didn’t like the idea of a film noir character in detective clothes keeping tabs on me. Part of it was the unknown, I guess. What was the file’s purpose? Would it just keep growing and follow me the rest of my life, or was there a point when I would be out of strikes?
Part of me, however, felt as though my parents were just pulling my leg about this whole “The Guy” thing.
One afternoon—I don’t remember what I did—my mom was completely exasperated with my behavior. She said, “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling.” I decided to call her bluff and watch as she picked up the phone and dialed a number. Yeah, right, I thought. Like she has The Guy’s number memorized. But when I heard an actual voice on the other end say, “Hello?” it was enough for me. “HANG UP, I’LL BE GOOD!!!” I yelled. She did, to my surprise. Phew.
A few minutes later, the phone rang. I picked it up, and the person on the other end knew my name. He introduced himself using a full name (I can’t remember what name he gave) and said he’d been receiving calls from my mom. He said, “Look, kid. I have the phone calls logged in my file on you. I’m going to keep this file a while, okay? I don’t want to receive any more phone calls from your mother.” Click.
From that point forward, all my mom had to do was utter the words “The Guy,” and I was standing at attention.
I was in my mid-teens before my mom finally admitted that The Guy was completely fictional. The man on the phone was my older brother. I was a bit relieved to know there was no file on me in a film noir detective’s office, but I’d pretty much figured it out by then anyway. As a parenting tactic, I don’t know, but I can’t exactly fault my mom for finding something that worked.
What do you want to kibitz about tonight?