Miranda July: The First Bad Man

“He makes me feel like shit,” she said, and then to Carl, “Well, then go away — I’m having a private conversation here and I can say what I like.” And then to me: “How are you?”

“Good.”

“We never thanked you for taking Clee, but it means so much”—her voice became thick and halting, I could see her mascara starting to run—“just to know she’s getting exposed to good values. You have to remember she grew up in Ojai .”

Carl picked up.

“Please excuse the theatrics, Cheryl, you don’t have to listen to this. Feel free to hang up.”

“Fuck you, Carl, I’m trying to make a point. Everyone thinks it’s such a terrific idea to move out of the city to raise your kids. Well, don’t be surprised when that kid is pro-life and anti — gun control. You should see her friends. Is she going on auditions?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can you put her on?”

I wondered if I was still allowed to hang up if I wanted to.

“She might need to call you back.”

“Cheryl, hon, just put her on.” She could tell I was scared of her daughter.

I opened my door. Clee was eating ramen on the couch.

“It’s your mom.” I held out the phone.

Clee took it with a swipe and strode out to the backyard, the door slamming shut behind her. I watched her pacing past the window, her mouth a little spitting knot. The whole family exerted tremendously toward each other; they were in the throes of passion all the time. I held my elbows and looked at the floor. There was a bright orange Cheeto on the rug. Next to the Cheeto was an empty Diet Pepsi can and next to the can was a pair of green-lace thong underwear with white stuff on the crotch. And this was just the area right around my feet. I touched my throat, hard as a rock. But not yet to the point where I had to spit instead of swallow.

Clee stormed in.

“Someone named”—she looked at the screen—“Phillip Bettelheim called you three times.”

I CALLED HIM BACK FROMmy car. When he asked me how I was, I did my equivalent of bursting into tears — my throat seized, my face crumpled, and I made a noise so high in pitch that it was silent. Then I heard a sob. Phillip was crying — out loud.

“Oh no, what is it?” He had seemed fine when we touched fingers through the computer.

“Nothing new, I’m okay, it’s just the thing I was talking about before,” he sniffed soggily.

“The confession.”

“Yep. It’s driving me nuts.”

He laughed and this made room for a larger cry. Gasping, he said, “Is — this okay? Can I just — cry — for a while?”

I said of course. I could tell him about Clee another time.

At first the permission seemed to stifle him, but after a minute he broke through to a new kind of crying that I could tell he liked — it was the crying of a child, a little boy who can’t catch his breath and is out of control and won’t be consoled. But I did console him, I said, “Sh-sh-shhh,” and “That’s it, let it out,” and each of these seemed to be exactly right, they allowed him to cry harder. I really felt a part of it, like I was helping him get somewhere he’d always wanted to go and he was crying with gratitude and astonishment. It was pretty incredible, when you thought about it, which, as the minutes wore on, I had time to do. I looked at the curtains of my own house and hoped Clee wasn’t breaking things in there. I doubted if any man had ever cried this much, or even any adult woman. We would probably switch roles at some point, down the road, and he would guide me through my big cry. I could see him gently coaxing me into wet tears; the relief would be overwhelming. “You look beautiful,” he’d say, touching my tearstained cheek and bringing my hand to the front of his pants. With a little fiddling the car seat went almost flat; as his wail renewed itself I quietly unclasped my pants and slid my hand down. We’d blow our noses and take off our clothes, but only the clothes we needed to. For example, I would leave my blouse and socks and maybe even shoes on and Phillip would do the same. We’d take our pants and underpants off completely but wouldn’t fold them up because we’d just have to unfold them to put them back on. We’d lay them out on the floor in a way that would make them easy to put on again later. We’d get side by side in the bed and hug and kiss a lot, Phillip would get on top of me and insert his penis between my legs and then, in a low, commanding voice, he would whisper, “Think about your thing.” I’d smile, grateful for the permission to go within, and shut my eyes — transporting myself to a very similar room where our pants were laid out on the floor and Phillip was on top of and inside me. In a low, commanding voice he said, “Think about your thing,” and I was flooded with gratitude and relief, even more than last time. I shut my eyes and was again transported to a similar room, a fantasy within a fantasy within a fantasy, and it continued like this, building in intensity until I was so far inside myself that I could go no further. That’s it. That’s my thing, the thing I like to think about during intercourse or masturbation. It ends with a sudden knotting in my groin followed by a very relaxing fatigue.

As I reclasped my pants he began to slow down, to try to catch his breath. He blew his nose a few times. I said, “That’s it, there you go,” which made him cry a little more, perhaps just politely to acknowledge my words. Finally it was all quiet.

“That felt really, really good.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was incredible.”

“I’m surprised. I usually don’t cry well in front of other people. It’s different with you.”

“Does it feel like we’ve known each other for longer than we really have?”

“Kind of.”

I could tell him or I could not tell him. I decided to tell him.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” I ventured.

“Okay.” He blew his nose again.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Give me a hint.”

“A hint. Let’s see… actually, I can’t. There are no little parts to it, it’s all big.”

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes.

“I see a rocky tundra and a crouched figure with apelike features who resembles me. She’s fashioned a pouch out of animal gut and now she’s giving it to her mate, a strong, hairy pre-man who looks a lot like you. He moves his thick finger around in the pouch and fishes out a colorful rock. Her gift to him. Do you see where I’m going?”

“Kind of? In that I see you’re talking about cavemen who look like us.”

“Who are us.”

“Right, I wasn’t sure — okay. Reincarnation?”

“I don’t relate to that word.”

“No, right, me either.”

“But sure. I see us in medieval times, huddling together in long coats. I see us both with crowns on. I see us in the forties.”

“The 1940s?”

“Yes.”

“I was born in ’48.”

“That makes sense because I was seeing us as a very old couple in the forties. That was probably the lifetime right before this one.” I paused. I had said a lot. Too much? That depended on what he said next. He cleared his throat, then was silent. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything, which is the worst thing men do.

“What keeps us coming back?” he said quietly.

I smiled into the phone. What an amazing thing to be asked. Right now, tucked into the warmth of my car with this unanswerable question before me — this might have been my favorite moment of all the lifetimes.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I quietly leaned my head against the steering wheel and we swam in time, silent and together.

“What are you doing for dinner on Friday, Cheryl? I’m ready to confess.”