Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (3:57)

A fable with slips of white paper spilling from the pockets Once there was a man who happened to buy God's overcoat. He was rummaging through a thrift store when he found it hanging on a rack by the fire exit, nestled between a birch colored fisherman sweater and a cotton blazer with a suede patch on one of the elbows. Though the sleeves were a bit too long for him and one of the buttons was cracked, the coat fit him well across the chest and shoulders, lending him a regal look that brought a pleased yet diffident smile to his face. So the man took it to the register and paid for it. He was walking home when he discovered a slip of paper in one of the pockets, an old receipt, he thought, or maybe a to do list forgotten by the coat's previous owner. But when he took it out, he found a curious note typed across the front, Please help me figure out what to do about Albert. The man wondered who had written the note and whether in fact that person had figured out what to do about Albert. But not, it must be said, for very long after he got home. He folded the slip of paper into quarters, dropped it in the ceramic dish where he kept his breath mints and his car keys. It might never have crossed his mind again had his fingers not fallen upon two more slips of paper in the coat's pocket while he was riding the elevator up to his office the next morning. One read, don't let my nerves get the better of me this afternoon, and the other I'm asking you with all humility to keep that boy away from my daughter. The man shut himself in his office and went through the coat pocket by pocket. It had five compartments altogether, two front flap pockets, each of which lay over an angled hand warmer pocket with the fleece almost completely worn away, as well as a small inside pocket above the left breast. He rooted through them one by one until he was sure they were completely empty, uncovering seven more slips of paper. The messages typed across the front of the slips all seemed to be wishes or requests of one sort or another. Please let my mom know I love her. I'll never touch another cigarette as long as I live. If you just make the lump go away. Give me back the joy I used to know. There was a tone of quiet intimacy to the notes, a starkness, an open hearted pleading that seemed familiar to the man from somewhere. Prayers, he realized. That's what they were, prayers. But where on earth did they come from? He was lining them up along the edges of his desk when Isley from Technical Support rapped on the door to remind him about the tentacle meeting. Half an hour of coffee and spreadsheet displays, he said, should be relatively painless, and he winked, firing an imaginary pistol at his head. As soon as Isley left, the man felt the prickle of an obscure instinct and checked the pockets of his coat again. He found a slip of paper reading, the only thing I'm asking is that you give my Cindy another few years. Cindy was Eiseley's cat, familiar to everyone in the office from his Christmas cards and his online photo diary. A simple coincidence. Somehow he didn't think so. For the rest of the day the man kept the coat close at hand, draping it over his arm when he was inside and wearing it buttoned to the collar when he was out. By the time he locked his office for the night, he believed he had come to understand how it worked. The coat was, or seemed to be, a repository for prayers. Not unerringly, but often enough. When the man passed somebody on the street or stepped into a crowded room, he would tuck his hands into the coat pockets and feel the thin flexed form of a slip of paper. Brushing his fingers, he took a meeting with one of the interns from the marketing division and afterward discovered a note that read, please, oh please keep me from embarrassing myself. He grazed the arm of a man who was muttering obscenities, his feet planted flat on the sidewalk, and a few seconds later found a note that read.

Commercial Announcer (8:26)

Why do you do it?

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (8:27)

Why can't you stop torturing me? That afternoon, on his way out, he was standing by the bank of elevators next to the waiting room. When he came upon yet another prayer. All I want, just this once, is for somebody to tell me how pretty I look today. He glanced around. The only person he could see was Jenna, the receptionist, who was sitting behind the front desk with her purse in her lap and her fingers covering her lips. He stepped up to her and said, by the way, that new girl from supplies was right. Right about what? Well, I heard her talking about you in the break room. She was saying how pretty you look today. She was right. That's a beautiful dress you're wearing. The brightness in her face was like the reflection of the sun in a pool of water. You could toss a stone in and watch it fracture into a thousand pieces, throwing off sparks as it gathered itself back together. So that was one prayer, and the man could answer it. But what was he to do with all the others? In the weeks that followed, he found thousands upon thousands more. Prayers for comfort and prayers for wealth, prayers for love and prayers for good fortune. It seemed that at any one time half the people in the city were likely to be praying. Some of them were praying for things he could understand even if he could not provide them, like the waitress who wanted some graceful way to back out of her wedding, or the UPS driver who asked for a single night of unbroken sleep while some were praying for things he could not even understand. Let the voice choose lunch this time. Either Amy Sussen or Amy Goodale. Nothing less than 30%. He walked past a ring of elementary students playing Duck, Duck, Goose, collected a dozen notes reading Pick me, pick me, along with one that read I wish you would kill Matthew Brantman. He went to a one man show at the Repertory Theater, sitting directly next to the stage, and afterward found a handful of notes that contained nothing but the lines the actor had spoken. He made the mistake of wearing the coat to a baseball game and had to leave at the top of the second inning when slips of white paper began spilling from his pockets like confetti. Soon the man realized that he was able to detect the pressure of an incoming prayer before it even arrived. The space around him would take on a certain elasticity, and thousands of tiny sinews were being summoned up out of the emptiness and drawn tight, and he would know, suddenly and without question that someone was offering up his yearning to the air. It was like the invisible resistance he remembered feeling when he tried to bring the common poles of two magnets together. The sensation was unmistakable, and it seemed that the stronger the force of the prayer, the greater the distance it was able to travel. There were prayers that he received only when he skimmed directly up against another person. But there were others that had the power to find him. Even when he was walking alone through the empty soccer field in the middle of the park, his footsteps setting little riffles of birds into motion, he wondered whether the prayers were something he had always subconsciously felt, he and everyone else in the world stirring around between their bodies like invisible eddies, but which none of them had ever had the acuity to recognize for what they were, or whether he was able to perceive them only because he had happened to find the overcoat in the thrift store. He just didn't know at first. When the man realized what the coat could do, he had indulged in the kind of fantasies that used to fill his daydreams as a child. He would turn himself into the benevolent stranger, answering people's wishes without ever revealing himself to them. Or he would use the pockets to read people's fortunes. Somehow he hadn't yet figured out the details. Or he would be the mysterious, slightly menacing figure who would take people by the shoulder, lock gazes with them, and say, I can tell what you're thinking. But it was not long before he gave up on those ideas. There were so many prayers. There was so much longing in the world, and in the face of it all he began to feel helpless. One night the man had a dream that he was walking by a hotel swimming pool, beneath the sky the same lambent blue as the water, when he recognized, God spread out like a convalescent in one of the hotel's deck chairs. You, the man said. What are you doing here? I have your coat. Don't you want it back? God set his magazine down on his lap, folding one of the corners over, and shook his head. It's yours now. They're all yours now. I don't want the responsibility anymore. But don't you understand? The man said to him. We need you down here. How could you just abandon us? And God answered, I came to understand the limitations of my character. It was shortly after two in the morning when the man woke up. In the moonlight he could see the laundry hamper, the clay bowl, and the dozens of cardboard boxes that covered the floor of his bedroom, all of them filled with slips of white paper he could not bear to throw away. The next day he decided to place an ad in the classified pages purchased at thrift store. One overcoat, sable brown with chestnut buttons, pockets worn possibly of sentimental value, wished to return to original owner. He allowed the ad to run for a full two weeks, going so far as to pin copies of it to the bulletin boards of several in nearby churches. But he did not receive an answer, Nor, it must be said, had he honestly expected to. The coat belonged to him now. It had changed him into someone he had never expected to be. He found it hard to imagine turning back to the life he used to know, a life in which he saw people everywhere he went, in which he looked into their faces and even spoke to them, but was only able to guess at what lay in their souls. One Saturday he took a train to the city's pedestrian mall. It was a mild day, the first gleam of spring after a long and frigid winter, and though he did not really need the coat, he had grown so used to wearing it that he put it on without a second thought. The pedestrian mall was not far from the airport, and as he arrived he watched a low plane passing overhead, dipping through the lee waves above the river. A handful of notes appeared in his pocket. Please don't let us fall. Please keep us from going down. Let this one be the one that makes the pain go away. The shops, restaurants, and street cafes along the pavement were quiet at first, but as the afternoon took hold, more and more people arrived. The man was walking down a set of steps toward the center of the square when he discovered a prayer that read, let someone speak to me this time. Anyone. Anyone at all. Or else. The prayer was a powerful one, as taut as a steel cord in the air. It appeared to be coming from a woman sitting on the edge of the dry fountain, her feet raking two straight lines in the leaves. The man sat down beside her and asked, or else what? She did not seem surprised to hear him raise the question. Or else, she said quietly. He could tell by the soreness in her voice that she was about to cry. Or else. He took her by the hand. Come on, why don't I buy you some coffee? He led her to the coffee house, hanging his coat over the back of a chair and listening to her talk. Before long he had little question to what the or else was. She seemed so disconsolate, so terribly isolated. He insisted she spend the rest of the afternoon with him. He took her to see the wooden boxes that were on display at a small art gallery and then the Victorian lamps in the front room of an antique store. A movie was playing at the bargain theater, a comedy, and he bought tickets, and after it was finished the two of them settled down to a dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Finally they picked up a bag of freshly roasted pecans from a pushcart down by the river. By then the sun was falling and the woman seemed in better spirits. He made her promise to call him the next time she needed someone to talk to. I will, she said, tucking her chin into the collar of her shirt like a little girl. Though he wanted to believe her. He he wondered as he rode the train home if he would ever hear from her again. It was the next morning before he realized the overcoat was missing. He went to the Lost and found counter at the train station, and when he was told that no one had turned it in, he traveled back to the pedestrian mall to retrace his steps. He remembered draping the coat over his chair at the coffee house, but none of the baristas there had seen it, nor had the manager of the movie theater, nor had the owner of the art gallery. The man searched for it in every shop along the square, but without success. That evening, as he unlocked the door of his house, he knew that the coat had fallen out of his hands for good. It was already plain to him how much he was going to miss it. It had brought him little ease, that was true, but it made his life incomparably richer, and he was not sure what he was going to do without it. We are none of us so delicate as we think, though, and over the next few days, as a dozen new accounts came across his desk at work, the sharpness of his loss faded. He no longer experienced the compulsion to hunt through his pockets. All the time he stopped, feeling as though he had made some terrible mistake. Eventually he was left with only a small ache in the back of his mind, no larger than a pebble, and a lingering sensitivity to the currents of hope and longing that flowed through the air. And at Pang Lin's Chinese Restaurant, a new sign soon appeared in the window. Custom fortune cookies made nightly and on the premises. The diners at the restaurant found the fortune cookies brittle and tasteless, but the messages, messages inside were unlike any they had ever seen, and before long they developed a reputation for their peculiarity and their singular wisdom. Crack open one of the cookies at Pang Lin's, it was said, and you never knew what fortune you might find inside. Please let the test be canceled. Thy will be done. But I could really use a woman right now. Why would you do something like this to me?

Meg Wolitzer (20:35)

Why.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (20:38)

Make me happy?

Meg Wolitzer (20:47)

That was a fable with slavery, clips of white paper spilling from the pockets. By Kevin Brockmire Performed by Geoffrey Arend See, beyond the bargains, there can be real magic in thrifting, what Kevin Brockmire calls a fable. Here is a reflection on the power of observation and petition that is, in a way, incidentally fantastic. It brings to mind the Latin American tradition of choosing a particular saint and writing down a request to them on a paper note and leaving it on an altar. Stories themselves written on paper by one person and with a little luck, read by another person remind us of the human desire for communication, for connection, for being heard. When we return, how to repay a karmic debt by driving a bus. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (21:44)

Hi, I'm Jenny Slate, and believe it or not, someone is allowing us to have a podcast. I'm Gabe Liedman.

Nick White (21:50)

I'm Max Silvestri, and we've been friends for 20 years, and we like to reach out to kind of get advice on how to live our lives.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (21:57)

It's called I need you guys.

Nick White (21:58)

Should I give my baby fresh vegetables?

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (22:01)

Can I drink the water at the hospital? My landlord plays the trombone and I.

Commercial Announcer (22:06)

Can'T ask him to stop.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (22:07)

You should make sure that you subscribe so that you never miss an episode.

Commercial Announcer (22:12)

I need to go.

Meg Wolitzer (22:22)

Ever spend $200 on a fragrance only to realize you hate it? Micro Perfumes fixes that. Now you can try luxury scents without the luxury price. Pick from real designer fragrances like Gucci, Chanel and Versace. It's the real deal. Authentic scents starting at just a few bucks. They come in sleek travel sprays, ship fast, and there's no subscription required. Why gamble on a full bottle? Go to microperfumes.com podcast for up to 60% off. That's microperfumes.com podcast for up to 60% off. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Walitzer. This program is full of fiction about unexpected revelations. Maybe the show is providing some unexpected revelations for you. If so, please consider sharing it. Or heck, all of selected shorts with your friends and loved ones and let us know if you do. And writing us a review on your favorite podcast platform is great, too. Now a story by Nick White. He's the author of the novel how to Survive a Summer and the story collection Sweet and Low. His Twitter bio tells us that he's working on a new book, which he says is weird, probably demonic, and 100% queer. We are here for it. This story about losing games while finding one's voice will be read by Michael Urie. He's been on Broadway multiple times, including the recent reboot of Once Upon a Mattress, and has been a memorable presence on series such as Younger. He's currently in the Apple TV series Shrinking. Now here's Michael Urie reading Lady Tigers By Nick White.

Commercial Announcer (24:23)

Lady Tigers Rusty sat behind the wheel of the bus and watched the sky turn sour. A year ago, when his father had coached the Lady Tigers, he'd been expected to serve as the team's waterboy in addition to his regular duties as their bus driver. But Coach Culpepper, bless him, had no such expectations. He told Rusty he could stay on board. After all, Rusty was a senior and probably had important tests to study for. He didn't. Last night, after her shift at the Piggly Wiggly, his mom had brought home the latest Catwoman to help him pass the time during the ball game. But his attention had been sidetracked by the onslaught of sky bracketed within the bus's windshields. Skies were bigger in the Delta than in the hilly country he was used to. He knew that. Everyone did, and yet its bigness still surprised him. The sky pushed on and on, great swaths of blue every which way. It was a marvel the Lady Tigers could hobble bases and throw balls with so much vastness bearing down on them. Eventually he spotted in the distance a blue so deep it was purple. Only not purple, no, a sootiness inching toward the ballpark. An infection. For two innings. The thundercloud spread, billowing out of itself like smoke, soaking up light as it grew. The bus didn't face the diamond, but Rusty could make out the sounds of the game, the clink of metal bats, the random chants from the opposing team, the Lady Stars. Now hush. You don't want none of us. Before he realized it, late morning looked more like early evening, and a vein of lightning cracked through the cloud mass. Fat raindrops followed, slapping hard against the windshield, warping the world liquid. Then he heard them, the Lady Tigers, as they slammed against the side of the bus like blind cows hollering to be let inside. He pulled the lever above the stick and the accordion like door squeezed open. In they hurtled one by one, smelling of sweat and hairspray, popping bubble yum. Clad in their black and gold uniforms, number 12 lumbered up first, eye black smeared down her rosy cheeks, her topknot all but destroyed. The bat bag strapped to her shoulders nearly clocked him in the side of the head as she plodded by. More of them were close behind, pushing to get in out of the rain. Numbers 45 and 62 and 33 and 8. They were yammering on about a female ref's bad calls and possible dykey ness. Licky, licky, said number 16, the only black lady tiger, causing her teammates to squeal. By the time the coach shoved on, he was soaked. His black polo clung to his torso, his nipples poking through. He held a clipboard in one hand and toted an orange Gatorade cooler with the other. Now your poor coach don't need any help, he said, fake mad and huffing. The lady Tigers tittered. You'll melt in the water, Kochi, number 36 said. You so sweet. Rusty tried to grab the cooler, but the coach waved him away with his clipboard, dousing Rusty's glasses with rainwater. Crank us up. The coach threw the clipboard onto the seat behind Rusty and slung the cooler down the aisle, colliding it with Number eight's hindquarters. Hey, she said, that's my caboose. He told her he knew good and goddamn well what it was and to shut up about it and set the cooler on top of the spare tire. While she was at it. Turning back to Rusty, he said, why ain't we moving? Looks kind of bad, don't it? He said. Shouldn't we wait it out? The coach leaned forward and removed Rusty's glasses. He called over Number two, who was somehow remarkably drier than the others, and used her jersey to wipe off the lenses. As he placed them back onto Rusty's face, his fingers grazed Rusty's ears, sending a shock of goose flesh down his back. You get us on home now, the coach said, using the same steady voice he'd used the week before when reciting a Miller Williams poem to Rusty's AP English class. Well, rusty said, sure thing, Coach. He woke up, the engine balancing his feet between the clutch and brake. The bus roared alive. Two parts diesel, one part magic. Only about 5ft of road showed itself to Rusty at a time. Even with the headlights on bright, the rest was coated in murk. They were going along at 40, sometimes slower when approaching. Pockets of muddy water pooled in dips in the road. It was a solid two hours from home at a normal pace, but at this rate it would be dinner time before they rolled up to the high school. Not that anyone on board seemed to mind. The lady Tigers he eyed in the big circle mirror had donned headphones. Bone Thugs n Harmony's latest CD, E1999 Eternal, had been making the rounds on some of their Walkmans. To Rusty, their Music was softer than what the girls normally listened to. Two seats back, numbers 12 and 8 sang along to parts of the crossroads, their voices not as ethereal as the original but just as mournful and loud enough for him to make out over the kerplunking rain and almost, almost enjoy. The coach lay on the seat behind him, prime viewing in the rectangular mirror directly above Rusty when he leaned forward a little and cocked his head, a dangerous position, he knew, since it took his focus off the road, but he allowed himself a few glances anyhow, not likely to have another chance like this one anytime soon. The coach had stripped down to his khaki shorts. He was dozing with his legs bridged across the aisle, his bare feet resting on the seat where his polo and socks had been draped to dry. He'd peeled his clothes from his pink and hairless body with a slowness Rusty had thought impossible in real time. Lord, he said to himself and put his eyes back on the road. Wind was batting harder against the bus now, an invisible hand nudging them sideways. The coach had claimed the rain would slack up once they'd put some distance between themselves and the Delta. The God awful Delta, he called it. Like with so many things, the coach had been wrong. The bus seemed bound for perdition, not away from it. Rusty believed in two versions of the coach, the one who taught literature to seniors and wrote poems for the school newspaper, the Growl, and the other one who was desperately in over his head and had led the Lady Tigers to the end of a thankless season with no wins. During the era of Rusty's dad as coach, there had been trophies, special segments devoted to him and his rowdy girls on the local news channel, interested recruiters from as far away as Nashville and Hattiesburg. The Lady Tigers had been unbeatable their last season state champions. Rusty didn't like to wallow in thoughts about what went on last year, so he was glad when the coach came and asked about their location. When he told him, the coach said, my God, the Delta. It just goes on, don't it? Before Rusty could respond, the coach nestled back into his napping position and closed his eyes. Rusty tilted forward and stole another glance. The coach was not much older than he was, 23 or 24, fresh out of a nearby regional university with a teaching license. Rusty had been prepared to hate him out of some lingering loyalty to his dad, but his dislike evaporated during his first class with the coach, who came in reciting the famous soliloquy from Macbeth. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow Forney Culpepper. The name stuck in your throat, but otherwise he was beautiful. A boyish face, sandy hair he kept pushed behind his ears. According to the Growl, the coach was from the Delta, which maybe explained why he hated it so much, and a poet, which was what first drew Rusty's attention. Around the end of the first nine weeks of school, the Growl published one of the coach's poems, a sestina called Hooch, about a dog killed by a couple's willful neglect of the animal. After reading it, Rusty bolted from study hall for the bathroom to wipe the wet from his face. He decided not to look at it a second time, though he could recite the repeating end words without even trying. Muscle map, song, touch, trap, break. Rusty mumbled them now. As he plunged the bus deeper into a storm that showed no signs of letting up, he noticed the coach was changing positions. Sitting up, he was scrutinizing the goings on outside, and Rusty thought he was about to tell him to pull over. His eyes stayed ahead of him on the road, but he might as well have been turned around with his tongue hanging out like that woebegone dog in the coach's poem, because he never saw it coming, whatever it wasa chunk of asphalt. Hail God's own right fist. A diagonal crack slicing from the bottom left to the top right of the windshield was the only evidence it left behind of itself. After it ricocheted off, Rusty lost control and sent them careering off the road. The week after he had told his mom he liked boys, his dad confessed to inappropriate behavior with one of the Lady Tigers. Rusty was stunned. Not because it had happened, but because he had been around his dad and the Lady Tigers for years and hadn't suspected a thing. After he showed no talent for sports, Rusty was tasked with being his dad's lackey, going with him to all the games, keeping stats, pretending to care. His parents were worried about him the way he did things. Like a girl, though that's not exactly how they put it. Curious, they called it. When Rusty turned 17, his dad insisted he try earning a commercial driver's license and add chauffeur to his list of duties for the Lady Tigers ball club. So he spent his junior year carting the Lady Tigers around the state, all while his dad had been sparking with one of them right under his nose. Rusty had been distracted by his own secrets that year. His name was Robert, but everybody called him Sparse because he was so thin. He was black and wore glasses and had a tongue as red as a canary. When Sparse's parents found out about them. They sent him to live with an aunt in Memphis, and Rusty had been so depressed he confided in his mom, telling her everything. His mom said at first that she didn't believe in homosexuals. Rusty told her he was real enough all right, but they both knew what she meant. She suggested that they keep this between them. So when Rusty's parents had called him into the living room one evening for a conversation, he assumed he knew the reason his mom had caved. His dad knew. But no, he was all wrong. In fact, he probably couldn't be more wrong. His mom did most of the talking. Very factual, the details. His dad had done this and this, and now this was going to happen. Rusty recognized the words but couldn't comprehend the language. Which one? Rusty's dad wouldn't say at first, and when he finally told him the name meant little to Rusty because they were more pack than team and more team than individual people, he never bothered to learn their names. Who? Rusty's dad said. The pitcher. Oh. He knew then. Double zero. What? His mom said. What did you say? It's not important. She grabbed her purse and stormed outside. They heard the car pull out of the driveway into the street. She'll be back, rusty's dad said. Rusty had his doubts. Right, dad? So I'm gay. What? No. What? Yeah. You sure? Rusty nodded. Hmm. His dad walked into the kitchen and poured himself three fingers of Crown Royal. The next morning, Rusty found his mom on the couch, dipping the ashes of her Virginia Slim into an empty can of Tab. Your father? She said. He's skedaddled. Where to? She didn't know. Or if she did, she wasn't telling. His glasses had been knocked off, his shirt torn. His nose had taken the worst of it, smashing against the wheel. He remained semi conscious throughout, conscious enough to realize the coach had been thrown into the stairwell. At first, the coach appeared more flustered than hurt. He clambered out of the entranceway and proceeded to call the Lady Tigers a bunch of bitches and Rusty a shit for a driver. Then his eyes rolled, his feet came out from under him and he tumbled back down into the stairwell. The Lady Tigers rushed toward him, number 12, barking orders to everyone else. Meanwhile, Rusty tasted copper. Blood was eking from his nostrils into his lips. Without asking, number 45 plugged his nose with tampons. When he tried to stand, Number eight pushed him back down. She shined a small flashlight into his pupils and declared him to be concussed. He felt okay and tried to say so. But Number eight said for him not to waste his breath. Her mom was a nurse and she knew things okay. His arms and legs worked, no cuts or bruises. Slowly, surely, the world settled down around him and he began to understand a few things. For one, the bus rested at a slight angle, its grille buried in the gully of a ditch, the whole front end leaking smoke. For another, the Lady Tigers had divided into two groupsone to see about him and the other to tend to the coach. The sight of the shirtless coach being toted out of the stairwell by numbers 12 and 2 reminded him of a painting, Christ being carried down from the cross. The artist and title of the work escaped him, though it was a favorite of his, just zipped out of his ear into the ether. Maybe he was concussed. They took the coach to the back of the bus and propped him up on the last seat. Number 62 tried slapping him. When nothing happened, she did it again. Rusty got to his feet and lunged toward them. What are y' all doing? He wanted to know. Coach. He cried as number 45 tackled him, knocking the tampons from his nose. After a mild struggle, she pinned him to the floor. I cannot breathe. Number 45's heft muffled the edge in his voice. Number 12 said, that's the point. A slap of thunder rattled the window latches, and they all seemed to remember the storm outside. Number two wondered aloud if they'd ever see a sunny day again. Both number 8 and 16 remembered passing a gas station a few miles back. One of them even recalled its name, the Spaceway. Sounds like salvation to me, number 12 said. A plan began to form. They'd wait out the weather, and as soon as it was clear, they'd backtrack to the Spaceway and phone for help. Number 62 worried about the coach looking so puny. She suggested another slap to rouse him. Number eight disagreed, claimed she'd seen something on 2020 about how violent people got if you woke them up from being knocked out. That's sleepwalkers, dummy, number 45 said, before asking number 12 if she thought it was all right if she got up off the sissy. My ass, she said, is falling asleep. I second her proposal, rusty said from beneath her. Number 12 squatted and wanted to know if he was prepared to behave himself. He replied that he didn't see how much of a choice he had, being outnumbered and all, which seemed good enough for her. She nodded, and number 45 pushed off. He leaned up, the blood rushing back to his skull. He yawned so big that his jaws popped. Now closer to the coach, he noticed the knot on the man's forehead. The Lady Tigers regarded Rusty warily, as if he were a wild animal they weren't sure would bite or not. As he made his way over to the coach, Rusty rubbed his fingers across the swollen skin. The coach felt warm, feverish. So did you just run us off the road for Fun or what? Number 45 asked. Or what? He told her. Something like a smirk fixed itself on number 12's face, and she told him to call her Deedee. The coach's head had tilted against his window, his breath fogging the glass, a dewdrop of spittle in the corner of his mouth. Rusty didn't like the look of the knot, all shiny. It seemed to grow bigger each time he eyed it. He looked away. He imagined they are still on the road, bound for home. He's driving and the coach is talking, not the way he does around the Lady Tigers, but in that quiet, hungry way that falls over him when he considers poetry a genuine word eater. He once described himself and Rusty tells the coach about Sparse, the time in the park, the time at his house after school, the way it burned the first time he touched himself after Sparse had been sent away. Eat these words. The coach, he understands all too well. He says the coach has known heartache too. Their eyes meet in the bus mirror, let's say the circular one. A hand finds Rusty's shoulder, squeezes. The Lady Tigers hadn't moved for some time. Their faces were turned from him, on alert for cyclones. Outside he tried speaking. I am in a dream, but the words wouldn't come. The Lady Tigers turned as if they had heard him anyway. They turned and their mouths dropped open as they spoke with thunder. He jumped awake. Number eight sat beside him, cussing. You have a concussion, dumbass, she was saying. No sleepy time for you. What about the coach? She told him the coach was a different matter but didn't bother to elaborate. A greasy jar of peanut butter was making the rounds. The Lady Tigers used the same spoon to dig out a fat dollop and eat. Number 45 had opened the cooler and was passing out paper cups of whatever liquid was inside, something purple. Dee Dee, who was lounging in the seat in front of them, leaned over and told Number eight she had an idea for how to keep the sissy awake. They'd tell stories, like around a campfire. Number 45 trotted back down the aisle. What kind of stories? The kind with words, dede said, and everyone groaned, patting Rusty on the knee. Number eight proclaimed she had one a Real doozy, she said. And it relates to our current predicament. She went on to describe this girl she knew in first grade. She had brown hair and was tiny. Tiny. She rode horses and her parents were veterinarians. She snatched the jar of peanut butter and shoveled some brown goop in her mouth. Number 16 gawked. That ain't no story, dee Dee said.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (46:45)

And.

Commercial Announcer (46:48)

Number eight finished chewing and offered Rusty the jar. He declined. Number 45 said, what the fuck is even happening right now? As if that were her cue. Number eight said, oh yeah, A tornado killed her. She paused, and when nobody said anything she continued, well, not the tornado itself, see, she slept with her mouth open. She paused, and again when nobody spoke, she added more. So when the tornado ripped off her bedroom wall, her mouth filled up with all this. What do you call it? Debris. Dee Dee interrupted her to ask the point of the story. I guess. I don't know. Bad things can happen. Shit. Number 16 grabbed the coach's limp hand and waved it at Number eight. Hello. I think we know that already. Even Rusty laughed while number eight waved her middle finger for all to see. Number 62 said, Coach Culpepper is the storyteller, rusty said. He's a poet. Same difference. Dede told them to hush. She had one. Your nosebleed, she said, looking at Rusty. Reminds me of Carrie Ann, number 45 said. Oh, geez, the nose bleeds, Rusty remembered. Nosebleeds had been her trademark. Nerves, his father had called it, but they became the stuff of superstition. She was a force on the pitcher's mound anyway, lobbing balls past hitters twice her size. But during the games her nose oozed blood. She pitched perfect shutouts, not allowing a single player from the opposing team even a base hit. Rusty said, double zero. Dede's eyes narrowed. I saw her mama last month, number 16 said. Thought they moved just to have the baby. Rusty thought about the time he'd found them alone in the field house before a home game, his dad and double zero. He was holding a bag of ice to the bridge of her nose, trying to clot the bleeding. He was up to his elbows in red, and the sight made Rusty feel sick. I didn't know, he blurted out. No one heard him. They were listening to Dede, how she was in the Sunflower, how she was minding her own business, looking at crochet needles for her mom when who rounded the corner? Carrie Ann's mom, that's who. For a moment, a split second, Dede considered hiding. But I thought to myself. No, we didn't do nothing to be ashamed of, did we? So they spoke. First about the weather, then Carrie Ann's mom said her girl was doing just fine, had earned her ged, was taking classes at the community college, and the shit of it is she just pushed her card on, went to the next aisle, pretty as you please. I didn't know, rusty repeated. Promise. Numbers 16 and 45 glanced his way. He couldn't make out their expressions, something between pity and contempt. He didn't have the word for it, but he knew it well. It was the same look his mother gave him when he told her about sparse. I used to drive by Yalls house after I found out this was Number eight. She looked at her lap. Used to think about driving my car into his bedroom. I used to think worse, said number 45. Me too, said number 16. I promise, I promise. Rusty was saying. He saw his mom dipping ashes in the soda can. She was telling him they'd be better off with his dad gone. It never happened, she'd said. And I refused to speak on it anymore. Number 45 spoke up. What I can't understand is why you kept driving us. Rusty nodded to the coach across the aisle, still unconscious. He wasn't sure if they understood what he meant until Number eight said, figures her mom had the baby with her. Deedee was wiping her face. Looks like you too. Same eyes. I promise, rusty said again. I promise, I promise. Dee Dee reached toward him and he violently chirped back. She was only placing a sweat rag against his nose. Here, she said. You're bleeding again. The Lady Tigers stuck to their plan. As soon as the weather cleared, some two hours after the wreck, they were trailing down the interstate toward the spaceway. Number eight assured him they were both out of danger. Her mom was a doctor, after all. When Rusty said that, he thought she was a nurse, Number eight squinted. Nurse practitioner, she said. He doubted very much that he was ever in danger, but the coach was a question mark. His knot still looked nasty. He came to when the girls were out of earshot and stumbled outside to puke in the ditch. Rusty searched the front of the bus until he found the Catwoman comic wedged under the gas pedal. He looked it over. The raven haired Selina Kyle had found herself in the jungles of South America fighting drug lords with her usual mix of stealth sass and double jointedness. The weedy ditch felt soggy beneath Rusty's feet, a loud sucking sound with each step. I think they may try to fire me over this, the coach said he stumbled to his knees when he tried to walk over to Rusty. The ground made more ugly noises as he straightened back up. Second thought, I think I may just quit. Rusty climbed the small bank and stood on the edge of the interstate. Bits of sunlight burned through the remaining overcast. Birds wheeled around in the big sky, crazed by the stillness left after the storm. Not a single car coming in either direction. That was the Delta for you. So empty it could convince you it was big. He rolled up the Catwoman and peered through it. The Lady Tigers were about half a mile away, toting their bats in case of trouble, but Rusty knew there wouldn't be any. They would probably confuse the hell out of whoever was working the spaceway until Dede explained everything. When Rusty got home tonight after being checked out by the hospital, he wouldn't begin with the wreck. He would cut to the quick. The baby. Why didn't anybody tell me? He would ask his mom. He tried imagining her answer, but none came. Russ, the coach had managed to make it up the ditch and stood beside him. Got to think about what we're going to tell them. What we're going to say. Rusty kept looking at the Lady Tigers. The Delta was flat enough that he could watch them walking away for a long time. He dropped the comic and stretched out his palm like this, in forced perspective. He held the Lady Tiger's in his hand. You wrecked us, but my ass is the one on the line. See? The coach picked up the comic and swatted it at Rusty's hip. We need to be friends on this. Stick together. You know what I mean? Little by little, the Lady Tigers shrank. He regretted not learning all their names. Maybe there was still time at school, around town, but he couldn't exactly picture them hanging out. Carrie Ann. He knew that name, Sister. Well, he knew that one, too. The coach kept talking, and Rusty didn't listen to a word of it. He wanted to hold the team, all of them, in his palm for as long as he could as they continued to get smaller and smaller until at last they were no more.

Meg Wolitzer (55:57)

That was Michael Urie performing Lady Tigers. By Nick White I'm Meg Wolitzer. The plot may be straightforward, but White underpins the narrative with a lot of emotional information, especially our protagonist's choices. Rusty's feelings about the team, his home life, and a sense of his identity or all feed into his attempt at redemption. We had a chance to ask Nick White about how the story took shape for him.

Nick White (56:23)

The second part of my collection, Sweet and Low, is what I like to call A story cycle. It all deals with the same character of Forney Culpepper, who makes an appearance in Lady Tigers. I thought it would be fun to have a story with Forney Culpepper as a teacher. And I also thought it would be fun and interesting to have the story set in someone else's point of view and to sort of get a look at him as this kind of incompetent coach slash English teacher through the eyes of someone who had a crush on him. And I think also the story is about softball players. I grew up in a large family in Mississippi, and a lot of the women in my family played softball and we would go to softball games and I just loved watching them play. And so it was fun to write about that. I wanted the story to mimic how the main character saw the Lady Tigers. He saw them only as numbers. And then after the wreck, as they begin to take care of him, they begin to define themselves more and he begins to see them more as individuals. He mimicked my own experience of following my younger cousin who was in a softball team for many years in high school. These were strong young women who loved to compete and had their own kind of inside language with one another. It was just fascinating. I love, love writing about place. I love writing about setting. Coming from a place as troubled and as beautiful and as misunderstood as Mississippi is. Those endless kind of quilted together fields and the rivers that run through. That's what I grew up around. And one of the great ironies in my life is I could not wait to leave Mississippi. And then as soon as I left, I immediately started writing my way back in.

Meg Wolitzer (58:16)

That was Nick White talking about his story, Lady Tigers. Rusty is juggling a lot, even before the bus crash. But maybe this is an example of how an unexpected revelation slips in. Not in moments of impatience when we all but demand some big shift in our thinking, but when we're distracted and our defenses are down. Maybe it's then that the world sneaks in and lets us see something new. Maybe that's the right time and place for a happy accident. I'm Meg Walitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's. That's the deal. Performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (59:54)

Foreign.

Commercial Announcer (60:01)

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Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (60:30)

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Meg Wolitzer (60:40)

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Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (60:42)

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Meg Wolitzer (60:48)

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Narrator/Story Performer (e.g., Geoffrey Arend, Jenny Slate, Angie Hicks) (60:51)

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Meg Wolitzer (60:57)

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