The First Bad Man

by Miranda July

Mi casa es tu casa.” “What?” I had always thought he was Latino, but I guess not. In any case, it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say.

Dignity was on its way. I spit into an empty almond butter jar; there’s something kind of quaint about a spittoon.

At the Ethiopian restaurant I requested a fork. They explained that I had to use my hands, so I asked for it to go, got a fork at Starbucks, and sat in my car.

I had added meaningful layers to things that were meaningless many, many times before.

Rick took my palms and squirted Purell into them. He waved his hands in the air to indicate I should do the same. We flapped our hands.

Rick tipped the baby to the side and he coughed. And then he squawked. Not like a person making his first sound ever, but like an old crow—a bit tired, a bit resigned.

If you were wise enough to know that this life would consist mostly of letting go of things you wanted, then why not get good at the letting go, rather than the trying to have?