Miranda July: The First Bad Man

AT FIVE A.M. PHILLIP STIRRED.He started when he saw me dressed, brushing my hair.

“I don’t know if you drink caffeine. I made some oolong,” I said.

His head bobbled over to the steaming cup on the bedside table. His clothes were neatly folded beside it, the electric toothbrush on top. I’d wrapped the cord into a little bundle. It took him a moment to absorb each of these things. Then he slowly stood up and began to dress in the dark. I leaned against the opposite wall and sipped my tea, watching him.

“I imagine the climate in Thailand is great for the lungs. Maybe that’s home?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I have a lot of options.”

“Just an idea.”

He buttoned and tucked in his shirt, pulled on his black socks.

“Your shoes are on the porch.”

“That’s right.”

We walked to the living room, our mugs from yesterday sitting in the dark on the coffee table.

“He’s sound asleep but if you want to have one last peek at him…” I held out the monitor. Phillip took it but hesitated before looking at the screen.

“Did he seem standoffish to you?” he asked.

“Standoffish? Jack?”

“Maybe I misread him. I felt a chilly reception.” He squinted intently at the sleeping shape. Suddenly he straightened up and handed the monitor back.

“I doubt he’s mine. You know how I know? I don’t feel anything here.” He jabbed his chest with stiff fingers; it made a hollow sound.

I stood in the doorway and watched him put his shoes on; he gave me a small salute from the porch then stumbled down the stairs. I shut the front door, very quietly, and lay down on the couch. Best to try to sleep a little before the day began.

The flight from China was full of families and it took a long time to deplane. Then there was an endless line at Customs and the teenager in front of them couldn’t find his passport. Finally they were headed down the long corridor to Arrivals. Moms and dads and husbands and wives at the end of the hall were exclaiming and hugging. As they walked he wiped his face with his hand and smoothed his hair down. She looked at him nervously.

“Are we late?”

“We’re a little late. It’s okay.”

“What if she hates me?”

“Not possible.”

“What should I call her? Ms. Glickman?”

“Just call her Cheryl.”

“Is that her? That woman waving?”

“Where?”

“Down at the very end. With the blond lady. See?”

“Oh. Yeah. She looks old. Clee came too, that’s Clee.”

“She’s so happy to see you — oh, she’s running.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s pretty far.”

“We could meet her halfway — should we run?”

“Really? I have my bag. How about you just run and I’ll catch up?”

“No, no. We can walk.”

“It’s just — my bag. Oh wow. She’s really gonna run the whole way.”

“Yeah.”

“Just go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, give me your bag. I’ll catch up with you. Go.”

He ran toward her and she ran toward him and as they got closer they both started to laugh. They were laughing and laughing and running and running and running and music played, brass instruments, a soaring anthem, not a dry eye in the house, the credits rolled. Applause like rain.

I would to thank Melissa Joan Walker, Rachel Khong, Sheila Heti, Jason Carder, Lucy Reynell, Lena Dunham, and Margaux Williamson for reading versions of this book and reacting so honestly. A particular thank you to Eli Horowitz, who read many drafts and was profoundly helpful. Thank you to Megan and Mark Ace for the family name Clee, to Khaela Maricich for sending Bowie’s song “Kooks,” and to my father, Richard Grossinger, for permission to excerpt his book, Embryogenesis . Thank you to Michele Rabkin for talking to me about adoption and Alok Bhutada for answering questions about meconium aspiration. Thank you to Jessica Graham, Erin Sheehan, and Sarah Kramer for taking such good care of my son while I wrote. Thank you to my agent, Sarah Chalfant, for saying “you will have a baby AND you will write a novel” and many other boldly inspiring truths. Thank you to Nan Graham for her staunch, unwavering support of my winding path and masterful feedback. Lastly, thank you Mike Mills, to whom this book is dedicated. Your love and bravery and willingness to tangle see me through every single day.

Photo Credit: Todd Cole

Miranda July is a filmmaker, writer, and artist. She wrote, directed, and starred in The Future . Her film, Me and You and Everyone We Know , received a special jury prize at the Sundance Film Festival and the Caméra d’Or at Cannes. July’s stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and Harper’s. No One Belongs Here More Than You won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award and has been published in twenty-three countries. In 2014 she debuted the audience-participatory performance, New Society, at the Walker Art Center and launched the messaging service app, Somebody.

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