The First Bad Man (10 page)

“Who’s Mrs. Beebe?”

Kate laughed into the back of her hand in an oddly dainty way. She probably had a tiny dainty mother.

“You heard that? Oh shit, we were just kidding around!” She checked my face to see if I was mad. “Clee’s all right. She likes to act all tough, but she’s a total softy when you get to know her. I call her Princess Buttercup.” She laughed nervously and turned the ring on her pinky. “I think you know my dad. His name is Mark Kwon?”

Mark Kwon, the divorced alcoholic Suzanne had set me up with years ago. That was her dad. Kate Kwon.

Princess Buttercup came roaring back down the street. “That’s got some crazy go!” She did a few circles and then jumped off. Kate patted the seat. “Your turn, Cheryl.”

“That’s okay. I don’t think I have the right license for operating—”

Clee walked me over to the grotesque bug. “Ever ridden a motorcycle?”

“No.”

“It’s easier than that. Get on.”

I got on.

“That’s your gas, that’s your brake. Have fun.”

I pushed down on the gas the littlest possible amount. Kate and Clee watched as I very, very slowly pulled away from the curb, and then, like a woman astride a giant tortoise, gradually rolled up the street. It was interesting to be up so high and not enclosed. I’d never moved in such a leisurely way on my own block. My neighbors’ houses looked unfamiliar, almost bleached. The putt-putt of the motor overwhelmed all the usual sounds; I was enclosed in a bubble of noise. A dog barked silently; a young mom in a sun hat put sunblock on the silently wailing faces of two toddlers. They grew still as I slowly rolled by. Twins. I’d never seen them before. Except I had.

Where are you going?
they asked in unison.

Up the block, I guess.

But you’ll be back for us?

I’
ll be back, but not today.

They were crestfallen, both of them. Somehow both Kubelko Bondy. Why had this soul been circling me for so long? Did it stay young or was it getting older too? And would it eventually give up on me? This was the wrong question—obviously it was I who would eventually give up. It was just a habit, like memorizing license plates. A silly little tic, that’s all. I stomped down on the gas pedal and the mini ATV jumped forward, roaring up the next block. The noise shook everything out of my head. What a magical way to get around. I’d always thought of these types of machines as toys for uneducated people who didn’t care about the environment, but maybe they weren’t. Maybe this was a kind of meditation. I felt connected to everything and the motor volume held me at a level of alertness I wasn’t used to. I kept waking up and then waking up from that, and then waking up even more. Was everything redneck actually mystical? What about guns? I turned around. Clee and Kate were very tiny but I could see them, wildly gesticulating for me to come back. I tried pushing down all the way on the gas. In an instant I was zooming toward them and they were running out of the way, screaming.

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.

THEY DIDN’T HELP CLEAN UP.
They pretended to—at around noon Kate picked up some beer bottles and asked where the trash was, but when I said, “Those are recyclables,” she looked overwhelmed and sat down. Clee wandered around groggily in boxer shorts and a tank top, her hair matted in the back. They were both very hungover.

At first I thought it might have been a onetime thing that had a lot to do with the punch. But as I vacuumed and mopped and sponged and wiped down the walls, I had to glance down repeatedly to be sure I wasn’t visibly pulsing or swelling, because there was so much energy vibrating in my groin. It was a new experience for me. When Clee parted her legs so I could wipe off the coffee table between them I had to put the sponge down and walk myself to my bedroom. I kept my hand over Clee’s moaning mouth so Kate wouldn’t hear. Not
my
hand—Phillip’s. He thrust so hard his tufty ears shook.

At dusk Kate ordered a pizza.

“It’s a thank-you pizza,” she said. “Thank you.”

Clee dug in and I nibbled at a narrow slice.

“My dad is remarried now, by the way,” Kate said, chewing behind her polite hand.

I smiled and nodded. I could barely recall what he looked like but it would be rude to say that. “We had a good time, but it was just one date.”

“Do you remember what you wore?” Kate asked.

Clee gave her a sharp look.

“No,” I laughed. “It was a long time ago.”

Kate took a sip of soda and cleared her throat.

“My dad said—ow!” She paused to inspect the spot where Clee had just kicked her. “My dad said you were dressed like a lesbian.”

I smiled. Mark Kwon making a big show out of my failure to attract him was not hard to picture; that’s just what he was like. Clee turned her head away as if this conversation was too boring to endure.

“Did he say that?”

“Yeah. What were you wearing?”

“I don’t remember.” But now that she asked I suddenly did remember.

“Was it something like what you’re wearing right now?” She pointed at my pants and tucked-in T-shirt.

“No, this is just to clean in. No, I think it was a long green dress with many buttons down the front. Corduroy.” I still had it.

For some reason this was hilarious to Kate; she laughed and looked at Clee with a gaping mouth until Clee finally smiled.

KATE HAD SUCH A GREAT
TIME.
Kate didn’t need her Tupperware back. Kate would text Clee about Kevin and Zack. Kate had trouble loading up the mini ATV. Kate wanted to know where the nearest gas station was. Kate needed to use the bathroom one more time. Kate sat in her truck looking at her phone. Kate finally, finally left.

Clee shut the door and looked right at me—squinting. For a moment I thought she knew what I’d been up to. Then she simply slapped me, as if the whole visit was my fault and could have been avoided. “Fighting from Inside Cars” began with a (simulated) slap, so we continued with that scenario. “Come here, sugar-pie,” she recited dourly.

We were back, except it was too late—I was playing something else now. I mimed knee thrusts and elbow jabs, awkwardly wheeling around a phantom erection. At the end I limped to my room, throbbing; shut the door; and slapped her cheek with my giant hairy hand. Just moments after I creamed in her mouth, my phone rang. If it was him I would ask what he did to Kirsten and then I’d do that to Clee. It was just another roiling corner of our journey together; I felt what he felt and it was staggering, tremendous.