Miranda July - The First Bad Man

THEY WANTED TO HAVE A PARTY.

“It’s not a party. It’s just some of me and Clee’s friends from high school who live here now,” Kate said. “Some of our old classmates. Right?” Clee nodded. She was slowly turning the pages of a magazine, recommitted to ignoring me.

“I can’t allow anything that will depreciate the value of the house,” I said. “I draw the line there.”

“The value will for sure not depreciate,” Kate said.

“Will there be loud music?”

“No way,” she said. “I don’t even listen to music.”

“What about drinking?”

“No. None.”

“You would have to clean up afterward.”

“I love to clean; it’s, like, my thing.”

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in a small gathering of classmates.”

“I’m thinking about it more now? And actually a few people might be drinking. But I can tell them to keep the bottles in paper bags if you want.”

First a big group of loud girls came. Then a group of boys came and Kate plugged her phone into my stereo using a cord that one of the boys had brought. They moved my Mexican artifacts off the top of the speakers, which I appreciated. My phone buzzed. SHE JUST HELD MY STIFF MEMBER FOR ONE OR TWO MINUTES, BUT NO MOVEMENT.

Then the boy turned the stereo up to its absolute maximum, which made it so everyone had to scream when they talked.

Then a steady stream of girls and boys came.

Then I went into the ironing room and typed up a note to the neighbors about the noise and printed out six copies. Once I was outside I realized the whole block could hear the music and six was not enough. When I went back to print out more copies the boys and girls were playing a game involving spraying alcohol on each other.

I’LL ADMIT IT, I WANT TO CREAM IN HER MOUTH.

And immediately after that: I REGRET THAT LAST TEXT, IT WAS TASTELESS AND SHOWED A LACK OF RESPECT FOR KIRSTEN. I HOPE YOU CAN OVERLOOK THAT LAST ONE. WE LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR DECISION. TAKE YOUR TIME!

Some men came. They didn’t even look young; one of them might have been my age. He grinned at me. It seemed as though the men had brought drugs. Definitely hashish or ganja, maybe something else too. It was impossible to use the bathroom — I was waiting in line for more than twenty minutes before Kate bounced over and yelled, “People, people, people! This is the woman who owns this house! Her name is Mrs. Beebe! Let her cut to the front of the line!” She was very drunk. I told her thank you and instead of saying You’re welcome she yelled, “People like me, they just do!” and handed me her drink.

“Is this alcoholic?” I yelled.

“It’s punch!” she screamed in my ear.

I drank it while peeing to save time even though I didn’t really need more time right now. It tasted alcoholic. All the towels were on the floor, which was wet. DO YOU WANT TO SEE A PICTURE OF HER? he texted. I deleted it.

I leaned against the living room wall and watched Clee. She jumped on a boy’s back and yelled, “Foul on the play! Foul on the play!” with one hand up in the air. She knew I was watching her. Now she was saying, “Dang, girl, you need to shave!” and Kate was saying, “No I don’t, I’m Asian!” I watched them hold their legs in the air for different boys to compare. Poor Kate, who had to look so ordinary and be best friends with someone who looked like Clee. Someone whose eyes, though a tad far from her nose, were an exotic feline shape, someone whose hair was so sleepy and golden it seemed to be endlessly shifting like water, even in the picture I found online of her making pretend gang signs in a food court. Someone whose mouth was really too tender to be in public. I watched the sweaty, eager faces of the two boys Kate had enlisted in the leg test. She was screaming, “Shut your eyes so you don’t know whose leg it is!” The two boys were rubbing their hands up and down Clee’s leg and smelly foot and she was looking right at me. I looked back at her. It had been almost three weeks since we’d done a simulation. Why was she even here? My phone vibrated.

I squinted at the photograph on the screen. Kirsten was short with broad shoulders and chin-length dirty-blond hair that was either damp with massage oil or just naturally very stringy. She wore glasses with circular John Lennon — style frames and karate pants with a big white T-shirt that had a picture of a dancing alligator on it. The alligator had green, black, and red dreadlocks and was saying MSC ROCKS, MON. Her smile was enormous and hopeful, full of spitty gums. Her small eyes strained open and her arms were extended like an uncertain opera singer. Or a teenager. She was even less attractive than I had been at the same age.

When I looked up Clee was gone. I went outside, and she wasn’t there either. She was probably in some car doing something with someone. I rubbed the side of my head; a pinging. Maybe I was dying or drunk. I walked into the middle of the street and then down the block. On foot it was hard to remember which house it was until I saw the toddlers in the window. Just their silhouettes through a yellow curtain. Because they were twins everything they did was mirrored like inkblots, a symmetrical butterfly, spilled milk, a cow’s skull. I could still hear the low part of the beat but otherwise it was quiet when I dialed.

Phillip answered immediately.

“Cheryl?”

“I’ve decided,” I said, my eyes on the yellow curtain.

He exhaled a tight little laugh. “I’m afraid I’ve been harassing you.”

“Yes, definitely, but I’ve come to my conclusion.”

“Some of those texts were pretty inappropriate.”

“All of them were.”

“I wasn’t sure if you got them all.”

“I did.”

“Because you didn’t always write back. I kept telling Kirsten how busy you are.”

“I’m not that busy.”

“Well, sure, you don’t fill your life up with meaningless activity like the rest of us.”

“I just didn’t have an answer yet.”

“Which is what I told Kirsten. Did you get the one I just sent? The picture?”

“I got it.”

He was quiet. The light in their bedroom snapped off; the yellow curtain went dark.

“Should I say my decision now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do it.”

When I got back Clee and four other people were standing on the couch singing a song that didn’t seem to be in English. The part everyone liked the best went jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah . Phillip was already having intercourse with Kirsten, I could feel it — from his point of view. I was in him, in her. Each time Clee sang jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah she pumped her pelvis forward to the beat and her bosom bounced. Dear God, look at those jugs, Phillip panted. I whispered the word.

“Jugs.”

He wanted to rub her through her jeans. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah . And cream in her mouth. Mutual soaping. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. My member was stiff. The song was nearing its peak, she and the other girls, the ugly girls, were jumping faster and faster, and the men were screaming at the top of their lungs, not even to the song anymore, just releasing howls because it felt good.

I went into my room, locked the door, took off her purple bra with its shiny, shiny straps, and pressed my balding head into her jugs. My big, hairy hand worked itself down the front of her jeans and my fingers, with their thick blocky fingernails, slid into her puss. She was wet and whimpering. “Phillip,” she moaned. “Put it in.” So I quietly, forcefully, made love to her mouth. This was the kind of young woman he deserved — a bombshell, not a rat-faced little girl.

After such a long buildup the release was immediate and incredible. When I creamed it was a huge mess, semen everywhere. Not just on her hair and jugs and face but all over my duvet cover and the throw rug. A rope of semen even hit the top of the dresser, splattering across my hairbrush, my earring box, and the picture of my mother as a young woman.