The First Bad Man

by Miranda July

  When I got back she was eating Thanksgiving dinner, her favorite kind of microwave meal. I was a little nervous about the letter, but she seemed to be in good spirits—texting and reading a magazine with the TV on. She was taking it well. I put on my nightgown and carried my toiletries bag to the bathroom. The envelope labeled CLEE was still taped to the mirror. She either had seen it and not read it, or had not gone to the bathroom yet. I went to bed and checked my phone. Nothing. Phillip had been rubbing Kirsten through her jeans this whole time, still no climax. The jeans would be in tatters now, his fingers blistered, waiting for my green light. The toilet flushed in the bathroom.

  A minute later my bedroom door flew open.

  “Who’s the guest?” she said. The room was dark but I could see the letter in her hand.

  “Who?”

  “The one coming Friday that I have to move out for.”

  “Oh, it’s an old friend.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the name of the old friend?”

  “His name is Kubelko Bondy.”

  “That’s a made-up-sounding name.” She was moving toward the bed.

  “Well, I’ll tell him you think so.”

  I slid out of bed and backed slowly away from her. If I ran it would be a chase situation and that would be too terrifying, so I forced myself to walk casually toward the door. She slammed it shut before I got there. Galloping heart and micro-shakes. Shamira Tye calls it “your adrenaline event”; once it begins, it has to play forward—it can’t be stopped or reversed. The darkness was disorienting, I couldn’t figure out where she was until she pushed my head down, dunking me as if we were in a pool.

  “Trying to get rid of me?” she panted. “Is that it?”

  “No!” The right word but the wrong time. I tried to rise, she plunged me down again. I heard myself gasping, drowning. What move were we on? I needed the DVD. My nose was too near her yeasty feet. I was queasy, green. A scream came out as raspy whispers, stuck to my throat. My peak was nearing; if you don’t fight back by the time you hit peak fear then you won’t ever fight back. You’ll die—maybe not physically, but you’ll die.

  It came from my bellows, the loudest noise I’d ever made. Not no, but the old Open Palm battle cry: Aiaiaiaiai! My thighs catapulted upward; I almost leapt into the air. Clee was still for a moment, and then she barreled into me, pulling me down and trying to pin me. It was too much weight. I can-canned with full force, kicking everything in sight, and popped with my hard fist when I could. She repeatedly tried to bring me to the floor until I tried the butterfly. It worked—I broke free. She stood up and walked out of the room. The bathroom door locked with a click. The sink taps blasted on.

  I lay next to my bed, sucking down big pulls of air. Long loose thrums of pain were gently vibrating through my limbs. It was gone. Not just the globus but the whole structure around it, the tightness in my chest, my locked jaw. I rolled my head from side to side. Exquisite. A million tiny, delicate sensations. The skin was burning from something she had done but otherwise loose as a goose. I laughed and sent a ripple up one arm, across my shoulders to the other one. What was that called again? The electric slide? Who was this big goof? Señorita Sillypants. I saw myself flamenco dancing, something with castanets. The water was still running in the bathroom, a pathetic attempt at passive aggression. Waste all the water you want! If she moved out tomorrow I could have the house in order by the weekend. My new muscles shook wildly as I reached for my phone. I left my name and number and requested the same time next Tuesday. Dr. Tibbets’s receptionist was a fraud and a thief and a pretty good therapist.

  CLEE DIDN’T LEAVE THE NEXT DAY. Or the day after that. She was still there on Tuesday but I went to therapy anyway. The receptionist smiled warmly as I placed myself on Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s couch.

  “How are—”

  I interrupted her. “Before I answer that, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you licensed?”

  “I am, I have a degree in clinical psychology and social work from UC Davis.” She pointed to a framed piece of paper on the wall, Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s diploma. I was about to ask to see her driver’s license, but she continued. “I don’t want to violate your patient confidentiality with Dr. Broyard, but I remember scheduling your appointment with him. I am his receptionist, three times a year, when he uses this office. That might have caused some confusion.”

  Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of this obvious and simple explanation? I apologized and she said there was no need and I apologized again. Her shoes. They were a fancy European kind. Did she really need the extra income?

  “How much are you paid as a receptionist?”

  “About a hundred dollars for the day.”

  “That’s less than what I pay you for an hour.”

  She nodded. “I don’t do it for the money. I enjoy it. Answering the phone and setting up appointments for Dr. Broyard is a wonderful respite from the responsibility of this job.”

  Everything she said made perfect sense but only for a few seconds, then it expired. A wonderful respite? It didn’t sound very wonderful. She leaned back a little, waiting for me to launch into my private life. I waited too, for a feeling of trust to arise. The room was very quiet.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I said finally, just to break the silence.

  “Oh dear. You really have to go?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. You have two options. There’s a key in the waiting room with a plastic duck on it. You can take that key and go to the bathroom on the ninth floor, which unfortunately you can only get to by taking the elevator down to the lobby and asking the doorman to use his key to unlock the service elevator. This option usually takes about fifteen minutes in total. Alternately, if you look behind that paper screen you’ll see a stack of Chinese takeout containers. You can go in one of these, behind the screen, and take it with you when you leave. There are thirty minutes left in your session.”

  The pee made an embarrassingly loud sound shooting into the container but I reminded myself that she had been to UC Davis and so forth. Overflow was a concern but it didn’t. I held the hot container in my hands and peeked at Dr. Tibbets through a tiny tear in the screen. She was looking at the ceiling.

  “Is Dr. Broyard married?”

  She became very still. “He is married. He has a wife and family in Amsterdam.”

  “But your relationship with him is . . . ?”

  “Three days a year I take on a submissive role. It’s a game we like to play, an immensely satisfying adult game.” She kept her eyes on the ceiling, waiting for my next question.

  “How did you meet?”

  “He was my patient. And then, many years later, long after he had stopped analysis with me, we met again in a rebirthing class and he told me he was looking for an office, so I suggested this arrangement. That was about eight years ago.”

  “You suggested just the part about the office or the whole thing?”

  “I’m a mature woman, Cheryl—I ask for what I want, and if the desire isn’t mutual, well, at least I haven’t wasted any time thinking about it.”

  I came out from behind the screen and sat down again, carefully placing the takeout container next to my purse.

  “Is it sexual?”

  “Making love is something he can do with his wife. Our relationship is much more powerful and moving to me if we don’t compact our energy into our genitals.”

  Her genitals, compacted. The image triggered a wave of nausea. I pressed my fingertips against my mouth and leaned forward slightly.

  “Are you ill? There’s a trash can right there if you need to throw up,” she said flatly.

  “Oh, that’s not why I—” I touched my lips several times to show how it was just a thing I did. “Are you i
n love with him?”

  “In love? No. I don’t connect with him intellectually or emotionally. We agreed not to fall in love; it’s a clause in our contract.”

  I smiled. Then unsmiled—she was serious.

  “I’m sure the prevailing logic is that it’s more romantic to guess at each party’s intention.” She fluttered her big hands in the air and I saw chickens with ruffled feathers, stupid and clucking.

  “Is the contract written or verbal?” My legs were twisted together and my arms held each other.

  “How are you feeling about all this new information?” she asked soberly.

  “Did a lawyer make it?”

  “I downloaded a form from the Internet. It’s just a list of what is allowed and not allowed in the relationship. I don’t have it here.”

  “That’s okay,” I whispered. “Let’s talk about something else now.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  I told her about fighting back. The story was less triumphant than I thought it would be, especially since Clee was still in my house.

  “And how did you feel after she left the room?”

  “I felt good, I guess.”

  “And how about right now? How’s your globus?”

  The flamenco feeling had not been long lasting. In the morning Clee didn’t seem particularly cowed by me—if anything she was more relaxed since the fight, more at home.

  “Not great,” I admitted, squeezing my throat a little with my hand. Ruth-Anne asked if she could feel it; I leaned forward and she gently pressed my Adam’s apple with four fingertips. Her hand smelled clean, at least.

  “It is quite tight. How uncomfortable.”

  Her sympathy set off a crying response. The ball rose and tightened; I winced, holding my neck. It was hard to believe it had been so loose so recently.

  “Perhaps you’ll get relief tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “If you and Clee have another”—she made her hands into boxer’s fists—“encounter.”

  “Oh no. No, no—she needs to go. I’ve already put up with this much longer than I should have.” I thought of Michelle, how quickly she’d booted her. It was Jim’s turn now, or Nakako’s.

  “But if the globus—”

  I shook my head. “There’s other ways—surgery—well, no, not surgery, but counseling.”

  “This is counseling.”

  My eyes fell on Ruth-Anne’s mauve fingernails. Polished, but chipped. A receptionist needed nails like those, but a therapist didn’t. In three months she’d get another manicure.

  I DROVE STRAIGHT TO OPEN PALM: it was my in-office day. All the employees looked strange and shifty to me, as if they weren’t wearing any pants under their desks, genitals uncompacted. Was Ruth-Anne pantless behind the receptionist desk when I first met her? It was an icky and unsanitary thought; I swept it away and got to work. Jim and I had a brainstorming session with the web designer on KickIt.com, our youth initiative. Michelle was called over to coordinate the media. Before she sat down she cleared her throat and said, “Jim and Cheryl can take notes alone; they are the best at taking notes—”

  Jim cut her off. “Have a seat, Michelle. That’s just for group work.”

  She blushed. The pseudo-Japanese customs were always tricky for new employees. In 1998 Carl went to Japan for a martial arts conference and was blown away by the culture there. “They give gifts every time they meet someone new, and they’re all perfectly wrapped.”

  He’d handed me something wrapped in a cloth napkin. I was still an intern at the time.

  “Is this a napkin?”

  “They use fabric for wrapping paper there. But I couldn’t find any.”

  I unrolled the napkin and my own wallet fell out.

  “This is my wallet.”

  “I wasn’t really giving you a present—I was just trying to show the culture. The gift would be a set of little sake cups or something. That’s what the head of the conference gave me.”

  “You went into my purse and got this? When did you do that?”

  “When you were in the bathroom, just a few minutes ago.”

  He wrote up a list of guidelines for the office, to make the atmosphere more Japanese. It was hard to know how authentic the list was, since none of the rest of us had been to Japan. Almost two decades later, I am the only one who knows the origin of the office rules, but I never go into it since there are now actual Japanese-American people on the staff (Nakako, and Aya in education and outreach) and I don’t want to offend them.

  If a task requires a group effort—for example, moving a heavy table—it should be begun by one person, and then after a respectful pause a second person can join, with a bowed head, saying, “Jim can move the table alone, he is the best at moving the table, I am joining him even though I’m not much help, because I’m not good at moving the table.” Then, after a moment, a third person can join, first bowing his head and stating, “Jim and Cheryl can move the table alone,” etc. And so on, until there are enough people assembled for the task. It’s one of those things that seems like a drag at first and then becomes second nature, until not doing it feels rude, almost aggressive.

  When the meeting was over I asked Michelle to stay for a moment.

  “I wanted to discuss something.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wanted to ask you about Clee.”

  Her face grayed. “Are Carl and Suzanne mad at me?”

  “Was she mean to you?”

  She looked at her hands.

  “She was. Was she violent? Did she hurt you?” I said, continuing.

  She looked surprised, almost aghast.

  “No, of course not. She just . . .” She was choosing her words carefully. “Her manners were different than I’m used to.”

  “That’s all? That’s why you kicked her out?”

  “Oh, I didn’t kick her out,” she said. “She just left. She said she wanted to live with you.”

  I ENTERED THE HOUSE SILENTLY, even though she was at Ralphs. I had never snooped through her stuff or wanted to, but it was no crime to sit on my own couch. Her nylon sleeping bag released a puff of body odor when I sat down. I was careful not to move the old food wrappers or the hairbrush clotted with blond hair or the bulging pink vinyl bag with colorful thong-style underwear spilling out of it. I lowered my head onto her pillow. The scalp smell was so intense I held my breath for a moment, not knowing if I could handle it. I handled it. I inhaled and exhaled. My body was rigid, almost floating, to keep the purple sleeping bag from touching my skin. I counted to three, drew up my knees and slid into it, burrowing down. It was so dirty it was almost moist. Was that the door? I jumped up, caught, speechless—no, just the rain; it roared against the roof. I pulled the nylon maw up under my chin. Her nest without her was utterly vulnerable, each of her junky things exposed in the bleak afternoon light. I swallowed with emotion, smiling a little as my globus tightened. We were in this together. I had a partner, a teammate.

  Tonight I’d pop. Butterfly. Bite. Kick.

  She chose me.

  THE ONLY WAY I COULD get to Ralphs quickly enough was to run. The urgency predated cars—it had to be me alone thrusting through space, chest out, hair blown back. Each driver who saw me thought, She is running for her life, she will die if she doesn’t get there, and they were right. Except it was quite a bit farther on foot than I had anticipated, and the rain had thickened. My clothes became heavy with water, my face was washed again and again. Each driver who passed me thought, She is a giant rat or some other wet, craven animal whose hunger strips her of her dignity. And they were right.

  I scared people as I walked through the grocery store, a monster whose grotesqueness is how wet she is. Cashiers’ jaws fell and the man behind t
he deli counter dropped a fish. I squished along the row of aisles, looking, looking. The skinny redheaded bagger boy smiled knowingly and pointed toward aisle 15.

  Her back was to me.

  She was unloading condiments from a pallet onto a shelf. Yellow mustards in their pointy hats, four at a time. She turned tiredly; What man is staring at me now? she was thinking. But it wasn’t a man.

  Her head reared back in an automatic flinch. Like seeing your mother at school.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I ran my fingers through my dripping hair and steadied myself. I had no plan for this moment; she was just supposed to see that I knew now—I was in on it. We were playing a game, an adult game. I smiled and raised my eyebrows a couple of times. Her mouth curdled; she wasn’t getting it.

  “I know,” I said. “What’s going on.” And in case there was any confusion I pointed back and forth between us a couple times.

  She blushed angrily and quickly looked behind herself and all around, then turned back to her mustards and began slamming them onto the shelves. She got it.

  The rain had stopped. I dried and grew taller as I walked home. Each driver who passed me thought, Now there is a person who either just graduated or just got promoted or just won an award. And they were right.

  I WAS DOING THE DISHES when she came home. I kept the water very low so I could hear her. Turning on the TV. Doing each thing in the usual way. She walked into the kitchen, got her meal, stood behind me as she watched it spin, and then ate it on the couch. Suddenly it occurred to me that nothing might be happening. I’d done that before. I had added meaningful layers to things that were meaningless many, many times before. It was silly to think Phillip was still rubbing Kirsten’s jeans. He’d slid them off by now and done just fine without my blessing. I let the water run over my hands. Clee was twenty; nothing she did meant anything.

  I put on my nightgown and went to bed early, lying with my hands folded over my chest. The faucet was dripping in the kitchen. I heaved the covers off and stood up.