Miranda July: The First Bad Man

“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 in 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.”