He Made One Mistake
He’s a good man, family man, two kids and blonde wife, smiling, twenty year marriage, and he made one mistake.
Well one mistake, many times. Poor man, witch-hunted by the press, poor man, good man, kind man, showman, who made a crucial error when he misread that situation. And the other one, the other other one, the one last month, the one in 1998, the one when she was just seventeen.
‘Its almost Grecian,’ The Times will say, in black and white print to white, white men. ‘How that good man fell from grace for one mistake.’ He misread, he misspoke, his hands misplaced and his body miscrushed hers. And hers. And hers.
You’ll hear the ghosts of the mistakes, the testimony of the ex-groupie, ex-beauty, ex-starlet, ex-child. She looked older, she looked willing, she looked sober, she looked consenting when he mistook, misplaced, misread, misspoke. But he’s not a bad man. How sad that fate had made him fall.
Did he misread her cries as he held her down backstage, dressing room floor, hard wood, when he pulled up her denim skirt, revealing white schoolgirl knickers that betrayed her age? Yes, he misheld her wrists to the unforgiving ground until her hands were numb, miscovering her wide pretty mouth with a wide thick palm. He had misresponded to her cries for mercy from the decent man, good man, family man, until she was silent, staring and spent.
Or when he misspoke, yes, misspoke, when he told the girl with the large dark eyes to share some small favours for the sake of a part. A misunderstanding, sweet girl, so confused, desperate for attention in her failing career.
Or perhaps he was drunk, the truth simply blurring, when he touched the bodies of underage fans. How he had misread the bulbous crush of his sweating carcass on her small stiff body as consenting shyness. How he mistouched the blonde with the autograph book, all mistakes, one mistake, an error of judgement, but not a bad man.
But he’s a good man.
He’s a good man
He’s a family man
He’s made a mistake
But he’s a good man-