Miranda July: The First Bad Man

“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 COULDget 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 the 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 DISHESwhen 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.

When I opened the door she was right there, about to come in.

I was so startled that for a moment I forgot it was a game. I walked past her to the kitchen, dripping faucet, must turn off. She was right behind me. The moment I was through the door she pressed me against the kitchen wall, same as the first time. The pressure began, my bones panicked, and then a kind of rhythm began to hum in my veins, something like a waltz — so I waltzed. I butterflied her elbows and they bent reflexively. I slid along the wall, using it for balance as I tried to bang her head against it. When I started to can-can she threw me down to the ground face-first, pinning me easily with her knee. Last time she’d been holding back — that was obvious now. Something huge was grinding into my spine and I couldn’t keep from screaming, an ugly little noise that stayed in the air. I tried to get my arms under me and push up but she bore down with her upper body, her hard skull against mine.

“You’re not allowed in the store,” she hissed, her lips against my ear. “I’m there so I don’t have to look at you.”

I gathered all my strength and tried to roll her off with a guttural bellow. She watched me, unmoving. I gave up. And just when my back began to spark into flames, the endorphins arrived, just like last time but stronger. My throat was a warm easy puddle; my face against the floor felt cold and wonderful. An immensely satisfying adult game, just as Ruth-Anne had said. Looking sideways I could just see the tips of her lowered eyelashes and the top of her upper lip, dotted with sweat and panting. She probably thought I couldn’t see her. It was almost poignant to me, this moment we were in, although there was something excruciating about it — or maybe the pain radiating out of my back was excruciating, or maybe that was what I meant by poignant: painful. She slowly rolled off me, I quietly whimpered with relief. Instead of rushing to the bathroom she just lay there, catching her breath, our shoulders lightly touching. The floor spun lazily, my arms and legs trilled and quivered. Was she feeling this too? Minutes passed kaleidoscopically, then, very gradually, the kitchen reconstituted itself, the counters, the sink, up there. As Clee shifted and began moving to her feet, a ridiculous wave of abandonment washed over me. Her blank, dumb face headed to the door. And then, at the last possible moment, her eyes flicked back and met mine. I quickly rose to my elbows, readying myself for a question, but she was already gone.