Miranda July - The First Bad Man

The last three lessons were slightly disturbing; it was obvious why Open Palm never made a dime from this series. Dana asks the viewer to gather up some household items — a soccer ball, a pillowcase, bungee cord — and fabricate a makeshift head. “When you’re kicking a real head, it won’t bounce as much, but there will be some give and you want to be ready for that. Skulls are softer than you think.” By “Lesson 10: Mercy and Advanced Mercy,” I wondered if any of us had ever watched this video all the way through; Dana seemed to be doing her own thing. With her high heel pressed against the soccer ball she listed the reasons why a person might be allowed to live. “They have little children. They have pets that are unlikely to be adopted — for example, a smelly old dog with no teeth. Are you killing a dog by killing her owner? Maybe ask if they have pets and then ask to see a picture or for a description of the pet’s health level. Lastly: religious reasons. These are personal and fall outside of the scope of this video, but in some people’s religions killing isn’t allowed, even in self-defense. If you’re not sure, you might want to check with a local parish, synagogue, or mosque.”

The next morning I took a deep breath and approached Clee on the couch. I had a question for her.

“Do you, um, know where the nearest drugstore is?”

She blinked, a confused half second. Then her left nostril curled and her eyes hardened.

“Yes, I do,” she said, slowly rising to stand. Which wasn’t the right line, but close enough.

I REHEARSED NEW SCENARIOS EVERYafternoon while she was at work and introduced them each morning before she left. For a few days it was exciting to reveal each one as if I’d just dreamed it up with my own very creative mind. But soon it was frustrating when Clee did and said things that were completely inconsistent with Dana’s attacker. It would have been a lot easier if she just watched the DVD and learned her part. On her day off I put Combat with No Bat on the coffee table while she was sleeping. I did it without thinking too hard, got in my car and headed to work. At a red light I drew in all my breath and froze. What had I done? The moment she put the disc in she would know I had practiced moves in front of the TV and memorized lines, as if I really cared about this. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment — now she would see me, see who I really was. A woman whose femininity was just copied from another woman.

“Feel my forehead,” I said to Jim. “Is it a million degrees?”

“It’s not hot but it’s clammy. And you look pale.”

I could see her sitting on the couch and pressing play on the remote. Every gesture, every scream, every glare and growl I’d made for the last week was Dana’s. Who are you? she would rightly ask. Are you Dana? Do you even know who you are? No , I would sob, No, I don’t. Jim brought me the thermometer.

“It’s the kind you stick in your ear. Or do you want to just go home?”

“No, no. Can’t go home.” I lay on the floor. At noon Phillip texted a single question mark and a tiny cartoon emoticon of a clock. He’d been waiting for almost two months now. Just two months ago my life had been ordered and peaceful. I rolled onto my stomach and prayed for him to deliver me from this situation I’d gotten myself into. What would be the emoticon for Carry me to your penthouse and tend to me as a husband ? Jim laid a wet paper towel on my forehead.

At seven P.M. Nakako asked me to turn on the alarm when I left. “You do know the code, right?” I pulled myself up off the floor, stumbled out with her, and drove home shivering. I parked in the driveway and forced myself out of the car, braced for ridicule.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the front door.

“Yum, yum, yum,” said a voice from the shadows. She swaggered out and put her hand on the small of my back. She was wearing a backward baseball cap.

“Step away!” I barked, and she hung back for exactly one, two, three seconds before lunging. The next five minutes proved that my neighbors didn’t care if I lived or died.

When I finally made it to the front door I shut it behind me and smiled, touching my cheeks. Of course there weren’t any actual tears, but I was that moved. She must have practiced all day, rehearsing in front of the TV. Any two foes can fight in anger, but this was something rare. I was reminded of the Christmas Day soccer game between enemies in World War I or II. She still repulsed me, I’d still shoot her in battle the next day, but until dawn we’d play this game.

The next evening we did the entire DVD, in order. “Gang Defense” was the most confusing because there were two bad men and another man in all denim who didn’t want trouble. “Hey,” he said to the others. “This isn’t cool. Let’s scram.” Clee switched roles between the three men with no warning; I was constantly stopping to reorient myself.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “I’m over here.”

“Which one are you?”

She hesitated. Until now there had been no overt acknowledgment of the video or that we were anyone but our own angry selves.

“I’m the first man,” she said.

“The one in denim?”

“The first bad man.”

It was the way she was standing when she said it — her feet planted wide, her big hands waiting in the air. Just like a bad man, the kind that comes to a sleepy town and makes all kinds of trouble before galloping off again. She wasn’t the first bad man ever but the first I’d ever met who had long blond hair and pink velour pants. She snapped her gum impatiently.

We sailed through the rest of the scene and then repeated it two more times. It was like square dancing or tennis, I told Ruth-Anne the following week. “Once you get the moves down, it’s second nature — a real vacation for the brain.”

“So you would describe your pleasure as…?”

“A little theatrical but mostly athletic. And I’m the most surprised of anyone because I’ve never been good at sports.”

“And for Clee? Do you think her enjoyment is also athletic?”

“No.” I lowered my eyes. It wasn’t really my business to say.

“You think it’s something else?”

“For her it might not be a game, it might be real. She’s a ‘misogynist’ or something. That’s her thing.” I described the wolfish intensity that came over her when she simulated. “Of course this is your department, not mine. Do you think it might be psychological?”

“Well, that’s a broad term.”

“But accurate, right?”

“Sure, okay,” she said begrudgingly. She thought I was trying to get two diagnoses for the price of one.

“Say no more,” I demurred, holding up the palms of my hands. To change the subject I pointed to the heavy-looking Chinese food cartons lined up on her desk. “Is that all from you?”

“I drink a lot of water,” she said, and patted her water bottle. “At the end of the day I gather them up and empty them all in the bathroom at once.”

“The bathroom here or the bathroom at home?”

“The bathroom here!” she laughed. “Can you imagine? Me driving home a zillion containers of urine and feces? What a mess!”

She mimed driving a car and we laughed about that. It really was a very funny image. Laughing like friends always emphasized that we weren’t. This wasn’t real like the laughing she did at home.

She kept driving, and I ponied up another chuckle. Why didn’t she stop?

“So what if it’s real for her?” she said, suddenly dropping her hands. “Real comes and goes and isn’t very interesting.”

The Open Palm fundraiser is a big hassle every year and not even very lucrative but I’m always giddy as I get dressed for it, knowing Phillip’s getting dressed too. If this were a movie they would cut back and forth between me pulling up my nylons, Phillip polishing his shoes, me brushing my hair, and so forth. It used to be this was the only time I saw him outside the office — now I could say He texts me all the time and it wouldn’t be a lie. When he saw me in the new persimmon blouse he might feel embarrassed or ashamed about the texts. “Hey,” I would say. “Look right here.” I’d point to my eyes. “There’s no room for shame in this relationship, okay?” Would he then pull me toward him with the farmer’s market necklace, which I decided to wear again? And then what would happen? Someone else might have to give Clee a ride home, I might not be available. I’d tell her this when she was done showering. Why was she even coming? She hadn’t been to an Open Palm fundraiser since she was a little girl charging around the dance floor.