knew presses you against a wall and won’t let you go—what do you do? A man yells a crude comment about a part of your body he’d like you to show him—do you show it to him? No. You turn and look straight at him, point your finger right at his nose, and, drawing from your diaphragm, you make a very loud, guttural “Aiaiaiaiaiai!” noise. The students always liked that part, making that noise. The mood shifted when the attackers came out in their giant-headed foam pummel suits and began to simulate rape, gang rape, sexual humiliation, and unwanted caress. The men inside were actually kind and peaceable—almost to a fault—but they became quite vulgar and heated during the role-plays. It brought up emotions for a lot of the women, which was the point—anyone can fight back when they’re not terrified or humiliated, when they aren’t sobbing and asking for their money back. The feeling of accomplishment in the final class was always very moving. Attackers and students hugged and thanked each other while drinking sparkling cider. All was forgiven.
We still teach a class for teen girls, but that’s just to keep our nonprofit status—all our real business is in fitness DVDs now. Selling self-defense as exercise was my idea. Our line is competitive with other top workout videos; most buyers say they don’t even think about the combat aspect, they just like the up-tempo music and what it does to their shape. Who wants to watch a woman getting accosted in a park? No one. If it weren’t for me, Carl and Suzanne would still be making that type of depressing how-to video. They’ve more or less retired since they moved to Ojai, but they still meddle in employee affairs and attend the board meetings. I’m practically, though not officially, on the board. I take notes.
Phillip sat as far away from me as possible and seemed to avoid looking at my side of the room for the duration of the meeting. I hoped I was just being paranoid, but later Suzanne asked if there was a problem between us. I confessed I had shown him some heat.
“What does that mean?”
It had been almost five years since she’d suggested it—I guess it wasn’t a phrase she used anymore.
“I told him when in doubt . . .” It was hard to say it.
“What?” Suzanne leaned in, her dangly earrings swinging forward.
“When in doubt, give a shout,” I whispered.
“You said that to him? That’s a very provocative phrase.”
“It is?”
“For a woman to say to a man? Sure. You’ve definitely shown him—how did you put it?”
“Some heat.”
Carl walked around the office with a dirty canvas sack that said OJAI NATURAL FOODS and filled it with cookies and green tea and a container of almond milk from the staff kitchen, then he bounced over to the supply closet and helped himself to reams of paper, a handful of pens and highlighters, and a few bottles of Wite-Out. They also unload things they don’t know what to do with—an old car that doesn’t run, a litter of kittens, a smelly old couch that they don’t have room for. This time it was a large amount of meat.
“It’s called beefalo—it’s the fertile hybrid of cattle and bison,” said Carl.
Suzanne opened a Styrofoam cooler. “We ordered too much,” she explained, “and it expires tomorrow.”
“So rather than let it rot, we thought everyone could enjoy beefalo tonight—on us!” shouted Carl, throwing his hands into the air like Santa.
They began calling out names. Each employee rose and received a little white package labeled with their name. Suzanne called Phillip’s name and my name in quick succession. We walked up together and she handed us our meat at the same time. My meat package was bigger. I saw him notice that and then he finally looked at me.
“Trade you,” he whispered.
I frowned to keep the joy in. He gave me the meat that said PHILLIP and I gave him the meat that said CHERYL.
As the beefalo was distributed, Suzanne also wondered aloud if anyone could take their daughter in for a few weeks until she found an apartment and a job in LA.
“She’s an extremely gifted actress.”
No one said anything.
Suzanne swayed a little in her long skirt. Carl rubbed his large stomach and raised his eyebrows, waiting for takers. The last time Clee had been to the office she was fourteen. Her pale hair was pulled back into a very tight ponytail, lots of eyeliner, big hoop earrings, pants falling down. She looked like she was in a gang. That was six years ago, but still no one volunteered. Until someone did: Michelle.
THE BEEFALO HAD A PRIMAL AFTERTASTE. I wiped the pan clean and ripped up the white paper with Phillip’s name on it. Before I was even finished, the phone rang. No one knows why ripping up a name makes a person call—science can’t explain it. Erasing the name also works.
“I thought I’d give a shout,” he said.
I walked to the bedroom and lay down on my bed. Initially it was no different than any other call except for that in six years he had never once called me on my personal cell phone at night. We talked about Open Palm and issues from the meeting as if it wasn’t eight o’clock and I wasn’t in my nightgown. Then, at the point where the conversation would normally have ended, a long silence arrived. I sat in the dark wondering if he had hung up without bothering to hang up. Finally, in a low whisper, he said, “I think I might be a terrible person.”
For a split second I believed him—I thought he was about to confess a crime, maybe a murder. Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before we ask someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.
“No,” I said in a whisper. “You are so good.”
“I’m not, though!” he protested, his voice rising with excitement. “You don’t know!”
I responded with equal volume and fervor, “I do know, Phillip! I know you better than you think!” This quieted him for a moment. I shut my eyes. With all my throw pillows around me, poised at the lip of intimacy—I felt like a king. A king on his throne with a feast laid before him.
“Are you able to talk right now?” he said.
“If you are.”
“I mean, are you alone?”
“I live alone.”
“I thought so.”
“Really? What did you think when you thought about that?”
“Well, I thought: I think she lives alone.”
“You were right.”
“I have a confession to make.”
I shut my eyes again, a king.
“I need to unburden myself,” he continued. “You don’t have to respond, but if you could just listen.”
“Okay.”
“Yikes, I’m nervous about this. I’m sweating. Remember, no response necessary. I’ll just say it and then we can hang up and you can go to sleep.”
“I’m already in bed.”
“Perfect. So you can just go right to sleep and call me in the morning.”
“That’s what I’ll do.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait—you haven’t said the confession.”
“I know, I got scared and—I don’t know. The moment passed. You should just go to sleep.”
I sat up.
“Should I still call you in the morning?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night.”
IT