A man’s guide to not being

Eugene Bingham wonders, at a time of #MeToo, of cultural awakening, where do men like him sit?

Something happened on the way to work one day. I was on a bus on my usual route, typical morning scenes of Auckland’s west rolling by, framed by the window.

Some of the streets we drive through are in the types of suburbs which draw a roll of the eye – the back of Massey, the edge of Henderson, places that some people tar-brush as westie. Whatever. To really know the west, is to know the raw beauty of this place and its people; folk who don’t think of ‘‘westie’’ as a derogatory term, who instead wear it as a badge of honour; good sorts like those who were climbing aboard the bus as it meandered down a clogged-up Triangle Rd.

I hadn’t really been conscious of what was going on inside the bus on this particular morning, as usual I had my headphones on listening to a news programme on my phone and scrolling news sites.

But as we sat on Lincoln Rd waiting to turn on to the motorway, I looked up and noticed something. The bus was packed, but the seat next to me was empty.

And it got me wondering. Have I become someone others are unwilling or afraid to sit next to? As a middle-aged male, am I somehow toxic?

And it started me thinking about the face I present to the world, and about my place in it.

At a time of #MeToo, of gender equality, of cultural awakening, where do men like me sit? Is there even a place for us on the bus that is taking us to this more enlightened place?

They’re big questions. Am I even capable of tackling them?

After all, former British prime minister Margaret Thatcher apparently once said : ‘‘A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure.’’

The provenance of the quote is debatable, with some attributing it instead to a British socialite, but, in this context, I quite like thinking of it as being said by Thatcher, the staunchest of female political leaders.

Anyway, notwithstanding Thatcher’s alleged antipathy, I started thinking about those questions.

And about something that happened at an after-work function.

Small talk to crazy talk

It was an early summer evening. One of those nights not long after daylight saving has started and you still can’t quite believe it’s light after six o’clock.

I was at a do in the city with a bunch of people squeezed into a slightly too-small room to celebrate the start of a new thing. Glasses of wine, beer and orange juice were lined up on a table (why are there always multiple and plentiful alcoholic options at events, but hardly any non-alcoholic?) and delicious canapes were circulating, carried by a couple of young people.

The gathering was convivial, mostly what you’d call a business crowd. I was in the middle of the room, attempting my usual awkward version of what passes for small talk. I’d been introduced to a guy who was slightly older than me, stylishly but not pretentiously dressed, maybe nearing 60, fit-looking – you could imagine him playing golf with a respectable handicap.

The conversation, such as it was, turned to the company he owned and the task of managing staff. He talked about the difference he found in the younger generation, how they were tech-savvy, but also less likely to pick up a phone and talk to a customer. He was trying to teach them the power of personal connections in sales.

Innocuous, if bland, enough stuff to chat about to someone you’ve just met.

And then it turned.

Then again, he said, the Christmas parties were still as fun as always, or words to that effect. Drinking and carry-on, you know, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

I didn’t like where this was going and bit down on a pastry-covered morsel so I didn’t have to say anything.

And that was the thing, he said, with all this #MeToo stuff – it has swung too far. Can’t people have fun any more? Boys will be boys, you know? It’s not like it was in his day, you know.

I knew exactly what he meant.

The bus was packed, but the seat next to me was empty . . . Have I become someone others are unwilling or afraid to sit next to? As a middle-aged male, am I somehow toxic?

But I was frozen.

I still didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, though, all that was left of the canape which I’d used to disguise my silence previously was a crumb stranded on my beard.

And so I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head, a classic distraction technique involving the drinks table. ‘‘Excuse me for a second.’’ It was a lie – I had no intention of going back.

I was shocked. How could a conversation with someone you’d just met so quickly slide down a path of condoning God knows what?

How could someone talk about wanting to educate young people about business one minute and then so quickly veer down a path of turning a blind eye, at best, towards blurred issues of consent and the safety of his staff.

Most of all I was shocked with myself. Why couldn’t I conjure up anything to say? Why hadn’t I challenged him?

Wasn’t it my responsibility to say: ‘‘Hang on, mate. No, actually, it’s not good enough to say ‘boys will be boys’. That’s totally unacceptable, not only in this day and age – but in every age, actually; it’s just that now people aren’t prepared to stand for it, and, as a boss, you certainly shouldn’t.’’ Or something like that.

As I left the function not long afterwards, and in the days and weeks that followed, I’d shake my head thinking about it. Where was my voice?

I started thinking about those questions.

And about something that happened in a podcast I’d listened to.

Music as medicine

There’s a show I started listening to recently called Sound Opinions. It’s an American podcast from Chicago public radio, in which hosts Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot engage in what someone excellently described as ‘‘accessible music snobbery’’ – enlightening and entertaining a music dunce like me, letting me in on secrets about songs I thought I knew, and introducing me to tunes and genres I don’t.

Anyway, one of the regular segments is called Rock Doctors,