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Selected Shorts
Seeing is Believing
00:57:51
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two stories about perception and the relationship between what we see and what we believe. In “Heart of a Champion,” T.C. Boyle gives the children’s classic Lassie an affectionately humorous reboot. The reader is Kirsten Vangsness. In Jamel Brinkley’s “The Let-Out,” an unofficial street party provides a young man with an intriguing encounter, and a bit of family history. The reader is Ato Blankson-Wood.
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Adobe Firefly Promoter
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Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
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Adobe Firefly Promoter
Adobe Firefly is the all in one creative studio with AI powered image and video editing for today's creative process. Built for creators of every kind, Firefly helps you generate, edit and experiment fast because the asks aren't getting smaller, the budgets aren't getting bigger and the timelines? Oh yeah, still tight. With all the best creative AI models in one place, Firefly brings your ideas to life. Unlock a better way to make With Adobe Firefly,
- [01:08]
Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
It's all very well not to believe in Tinkerbell, but not to believe in Lassie. This week on Selected Shorts, T.C. boyle's Frame by Frame send up of the classic television show about the collie who just keeps rescuing you no matter what stupid thing you've done. Stay with me. Meg Wolitzer. You know that adage seeing is believing? Of course you do, but you probably didn't know that. It is credited to the 17th century English clergyman and historian Thomas Fuller, and I promise that's the last you'll hear of him from me. But the reason we care is the seldom quoted second line, seeing is believing, but feeling is truth. We place a lot of stock in the evidence of our own eyes. Why wouldn't we, even in these murky days of AI? But we're sometimes less aware that our feeling is what's really contributing to our sense of what is true. And this friction between believing and truth is at the heart of today's stories. In our first work, an iconic childhood narrative is pushed to ludicrous extremes. In our second, during a hot date at a street dance, what a young man perceives and what is real turn out to be very different things. Our first story is by the wily writer T.C. boyle, whose novels include World's End and Blue Skies, and his 12 collections of short stories have enriched selected shorts programs for many years. In this playful reboot, what looks like a classic heroic dog story turns out to be something completely unexpected. Our reader is Kirsten Vangsness, known for roles like Penelope Garcia on the long running television show Criminal Minds. She is also a playwright and theater maker who was most recently seen in the rock musical
- [03:17]
Narrator/Host
Heart of a Champion. We scan the cornfields and the wheat fields, winking gold and gold, brown and yellow brown in the midday sun, on up the grassy slope to the barn, redder than red against the sky, bluer than blue across the smooth stretch of the barnyard with its pecking chickens and then right on up to the screen door at the back of the house. The door swings open a black hole in the sun and Timmy emerges with his corn silk hair, corn fed face. He's dressed in crisp overalls, striped T shirt, stubby blue Keds. There'd have to be a breeze and we're not disappointed. His clean fine cup cut hair waves and settles as he scuffs across the barnyard and out to the edge of the field. The boy stops there to gaze out over the nodding rose wheat, eyes unsquinted despite the sun and blue as tinted lenses. Then he brings three fingers to his lips in a neat triangle and whistles, long and low, sloping up sharp to cut off at the peak. A moment passes. He whistles again and then we see it way out there at the far corner of the field. The ripple, the dashing furrow, the blur of the streaking dog, white chest, flashing feet. They're in the woods now, the boy whistling, hands in pockets, kicking along with his short baby fat strides, the dog beside him wagging the white tip of her tail like an all clear flag. They pass beneath an arching old black barked oak. It creaks and suddenly begins to fling itself down on them. Immense, brutal, a panzer strike. The boy's eyes startle and then there's a blur, a smart snout clutching his pant leg, the thunderblast of a trunk, the dust of a and spinning leaves. Golly, lassie, I didn't even see it, says the boy, sitting safe in a mound of moss. The collie looks up at him, the svelte snout, the deep gold logician's eyes and laps at his face. And now they're down by the river. The water is brown with angry separations spiked with branches, fence posts, tires and logs. It rushes like the sides of box cars and chews deep and insidious. At the bank under Timmy's feet the roar is like a jetport. Little wonder he can't hear the dog's warning bark. We watch the crack appear, widen to a ditch, then the have separating snatch of red earth, writhe of worm, the poison pitch and Timmy crashing Down with it. Just a flash, but already he's way downstream, his head like a plastic jug, dashed and bobbed, spinning toward the nasty mouth of the falls. But there's the dog, fast as a struck match, bursting along the bank, all white and gold, melded in motion, hair sleek with the wind of its legs, beating time to the panting score. Yet what can she hope to do? The current surges on lengths ahead, sure bet to win the race to the falls. Timmy sweeps closer, sweeps closer. The fall's LOUD now as 100 Timpani, the war drums of the suit. Africa gone, bloodlust mad. The dog strains, lashing over the wet earth like a breast of him. Then she's in the air, the foaming yellow water, her paws churning like pistons, whiskers chuffing with the exertion. Oh, the roar. And there she's got him, her sure jaws clamping down on the shirt collar, her eyes fixed on the slip of rock at the fall's edge. Our blood races, organs palpitate, the black brink of the falls, the white paws digging at the rock. And then they're safe. The collie sniffs at Timmy's inert little form, nudges his side until she manages to roll him over, then clears his tongue and begins mouth to mouth. Night the barnyard, still a bulb burning over the screen door. Inside, the family sit to dinner, the table heaped with pork chops, mashed potatoes, applesauce and peas, a pitcher of clean white milk, home baked bread. Mom and dad, their faces sexless, bland, perpetually good humored and sympathetic, poised sift back forks and mid swoop while Timmy tells his story. So then Lassie grabbed me by the collar and golly, I must have blanked out cause I don't remember anything more till I woke up on the rock. Well I'll be, says Mom. You're lucky you've got such a good dog, son, says dad, gazing down at the collie where she lies patiently, snout of her paw, tail whapping the floor. She is combed and washed and fluffed, her lashes mascaraed and curled, her chest and paws white as dish soap. She looks up humbly, but then her ears leap, her neck jerks round and she's up at the door, head cocked, alert. A high yipping yowl like a stuttering fire whistle shuttles through the room. Then another. The dog whines. Darn, says Dad. I thought we were rid of those coyotes. Next thing they'll be after the chickens again. The moon blanches, the yard leans black, shadows on the trees, the BARN Upstairs in the house Timmy lies sleeping in the pale light, his hair fastidiously mussed, his breathing gentle. The collie lies on the throw rug beside the bed. We see that her eyes are open. Suddenly she rises and slips to the window, silent as a shadow, and looks down the long elegant snout to the barnyard below, where the coyote slinks from shade to shade, a limp pullet dangling from his jaws. He is stunted, scabious, syphilitic, his forepaw trap twisted, his eyes running. The collie whimpers slowly from behind the window. The coyote stops in mid trot, frozen in a cold shard of light, ears high on his head, then drops the chicken at his feet, leers up at the window and begins a soft, crooning, sad faced song. The screen door slaps behind Timmy as he bolts from the house, Lassie at his heels. Mom's head emerges on the rebound. Timmy. He stops as if jerked by a rope, turns to face her. You'll be home before lunch here? Sure, mom, he says, already spinning off the dog by his side. We get a close up of Mom's face. She is smiling a benevolent boys will be boys smile. Her teeth are perfect. In the woods Timmy steps on a rattler and the dog bites its head off. Gosh, he says. Good girl, Lassie. And then he stumbles and slips over an embankment, rolls down the brushy incline over a sudden precipice, whirling out onto the breathtaking blue space like a skydiver. He thumps down on a narrow ledge 20ft below and immediately scrambles to his feet, peering timorously down the sheer wall to the heap of bleached bone. As it began, small stones break loose, shoot out like asteroids. Dirt slides begin, but Lassie yarps reassuringly from above, sprints back to the barn for a winch and cable, and hoists the boy to safety. On their way back for lunch, Timmy leads them through a still and leaf darkened cops. We remark how odd it is that the birds and crickets have left off their cheeping, how puzzling that the background music has begun to rumble so suddenly. Around a bend in the path before them the coyote appears, nose to the ground, intent, unaware of them. But all at once he jerks to a halt, shudders like an epileptic, the hackles rising, tail dipping between his legs. The collie too stops short, just yards away, her chest proud and shaggy and white. The coyote cowers, bunches like a cat, glares at them. Timmy's face sags with alarm. The coyote lifts his lips. But then instead of leaping at her adversary's throat, the collie prances up and stretches her nose out to him, her eyes soft as a leading lady's, round as a doze. She's balsamed and perfumed. Her full chest tapers to a lovely S to her sleek haunches and sculpted legs. He is puny, runted, half her size, his coat like a discarded doormat. She circles him now, sniffing. She whimpers her growls throaty and tough, the bad guy, and stands stiff while she licks at his whiskers, noses at his rear, the bald black scrotum. Timmy is horror struck. Then the music sweeping off in bird trills of flute and harp strings. The coyote slips round behind, throat thrown back, black lips tight with anticipation. What was she doing, dad? Timmy asked over milk and sandwich. The sky was blue today, son, he says, but. But she had him trapped, dad. They were stuck together end to end and I thought we had that wicked old coyote, but then she went and let him go. What's gotten into her, dad? The barn was red today, son, he says. Late afternoon, the sun mellow, more orange than white. Purpling clots of shadow hang from the branches, ravel out from the tree trunks. Bees and wasps and flies saw away at the wet, full bellied air. Timmy and the dog are far out beyond the north pasture, out by the old Indian burial mound where the boy stoops down to search for arrowheads. Oddly, Collie is not watching him. Instead she's pacing the crest above, whimpering softly, pausing from time to time to stare out across the forest, her eyes distant and moonstruck. Behind her, storm clouds squat on the horizon like dark kidneys or brains. We observe the wind kicking up leaves flapping like washed saplings, quivering weeds whipping. It darkens quickly now, the clouds scudding low and smoky over the treetops, blotting the sun from view. Lassie's white is whiter than ever, highlighted against the dark horizon, the wind, whipped hair foaming around her skin. Still she doesn't look down at the boy. He digs, dirty kneed, stooped back, oblivious. Then the first fat random drops, a flash, the volcanic blast of thunder. Timmy glances over his shoulder at the noise. He's just in time to watch the scorched pine plummeting toward the constellated freckles in the center of his forehead. Now the collie turns too late, the swoosh whack of the tree, trembling needles. She's there in an instant, tearing at the green welter, struggling through to his side. He lies unconscious in the muddying earth, hair artistically arranged, a thin scratch painted on his cheek. The trunk lies across the small of his back like the tail of a brontosaurus. The rain falls. Lassie tugs doggedly at the knob in the trunk, her pretty paws slipping in the wet. But it's no use. It would take a block and a tackle, a crane, an army of bunions to shift that stubborn bulk. She falters, licks at his ear, whimpers. We observe the troubled look in her eyes as she hesitates, uncertain priorities warring. Should she stand guard or dash for help? The decision is sure and swift, her eyes firm with purpose. And she's off like a shard of shrapnel, already up the hill, shooting past the dripping trees, over the river already cleaving through the high banks of wheat. A moment later she's dashing through the puddled and rain screeched barnyard, barking right up to the back door, where she pauses to scratch daintily, her voice high pitched and insistent. Mom swings open the door and the collie pads in claws, clacking on the shiny linoleum. What is it, girl? What's the matter? Where's Timmy? Yarf roar. Oh my. Dad. Dad, come quickly. Dad rushes in, his face stolid and reassuring as the Lincoln Memorial. What is it, dear? Why, Lassie. Oh, dad. Timmy's trapped under a pine out by the old Indian burial ground, a mile and a half past the north pasture. Dad is quick, firm, decisive. Lassie, you get back there. Stand watch over Timmy. Mom and I'll go for Doc Walker. Hurry now. Collie hesitates at the door. Right, said dad. Mom, fetch the chainsaw. We're back at the woods now. A shot of the mud running burial mound locates us. Yes, there's the fallen pine and there Timmy. He lies in a puddle, eyes closed, breathing slow. The hiss of the rain is loud as static. We see it at work, scattering leaves, digging trenches, inciting streams to swallow their banks. It lies deep now, in the low areas and in the mid areas and in the high areas. And then a shot of the dam, some indeterminate but short, we presume distance off the yellow water churning over its lip like urine. The ugly earthen belly distended, blistered with the pressure. Raindrops pocked the surface like a plague. Suddenly the music plunges to those thunderous crouching chords. We're back at the pine now. What is it there, the coyote sniffing furritive, the malicious eyes that crouch and slink. He stiffens when he spots the boy but then slouches closer, a rubbery dangle drooling from between his mismatched teeth. Closer, right over the prone figure now, those ominous cords setting up ominous vibrations in our bowels. He stoops, head dripping between his shoulders. Iris is caught in the corner of his eyes, wary, sly, predatory, the vulture slavering over the fallen fawn. But wait, here comes the collie sprinting out over the wheat fields, bounding rock to rock across the crazed river, her limbs contourless with sheer speed and purpose, the music racing in a mad heroic the jolting front seat of a Ford dad, mom and the doctor all dressed in rain slickers and flat brimmed rain hats, sitting shoulder to shoulder behind the clapping wipers, their jaws set with with determination, eyes a flicker with pioneer gumption. The coyote's jaws, serrated grinders, work at the tough bone and cartilage of Timmy's left hand. The boy's eyelids flutter with the pain and he lifts his head feebly but almost immediately, slaps down again, flat and volitionous in the mud. At that instant Lassie blazes over the hill like a cavalry charge, show dog indignation aflame in her eyes. The scrag of a coyote looks up at her, drooling blood, choking down frantic bits of flesh. Looks up at her from eyes that go back 30 million years, Savage and blood, lustful and free. Looks up, unmoved, uncringing the bloody snout and steady yellow eyes less a physical challenge than philosophical. We watch the collie's expression alter and midbound, the look of offended AKC morality giving way, dissolving. She skids to a halt, drops her tail and approaches him, a buttery gaze in her golden eyes. She licks the blood from his lips. The dam impossibly swollen, rain festering the yellow surface. A hundred new streams a minute, rampaging in the pressure of those millions of gallons, hard punching those millions more there, the first gap, the water spewing out a burst boobo and now the dam shudders, splinters, falls to pieces like so much cheap pottery. The roar is devastating. The two animals start at that terrible rumbling and still working their gummy jaws, they dash up the far side of the hill. We watch the white tipped tail retreating side by side with the hack and tick, blistered gray one wagging like raggled banners as they disappear into the trees. At the top of the rise we're left with the tableau, the rain, the falling pine and the crotch of the valley's voice, the spot of the boy's head and that chilling roar in our ears. Suddenly the wall of water appears at the far end of the V, smashing through the little declivity like a God sized fist prickling with shattered trunks and boulders, grinding along like a quick melted glacier, like planets in collision. We cut to Timmy, eyes closed, hair plastered, his left arm looking as though it should be wrapped in butcher's paper. How, we wonder, how will they get him out of this? But then we see them, mom, dad and the doctor struggling up that same rise, rushing with the frenetic music now, the torrent seething closer, booming and howling. Dad launches himself in full charge down the hillside, but the water is already sweeping over the fallen pine, lifting it like paper. There's a blur, a quick clip of a typhoon at sea. Is that a flash of blonde hair? And it's over. The valley is filled to the top of the rise, the water ribbed and rushing like the Colorado in adolescence. Dad's pants are wet to the crotch, Mom's face, the doctor's rain. And then the opening strains of the theme song, One violin at first swelling in mournful Mid American triumph as the full orchestra comes in, tearful, beautiful, heroic, sweeping us up and out of the dismal rain, back to the golden wheat fields in the midday sun. The boy cups his hands to his mouth and pipes, lassie, Lassie. And then we see it way out there at the end of the field. The ripple, the dashing furrow, the blur of the streaking dog, white chest, flashing feet.
- [20:58]
Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
Kirsten Vangsness performed T.C. boyle's Heart of a Champion. I'm Meg Wolitzer. We've featured many Boyle stories on shorts over the years. He delivers every time, and every time he delivers something you are not expecting. What could have just been a string of over the top rescues, Lassie saving the day again and again turns into something a little dreamier and more fun to watch in your head.
- [21:23]
Narrator/Host
T.C.
- [21:24]
Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
boyle is a writer who dips into culture both high and low as needed, creating the surreal and the delightful and sometimes pulling down blackout shades and leaving us in a new and startling darkness. He's not just a cultural critic or a satirist. His references are deliberate but also serve as catalysts for surprising ideas about how we live. He doesn't feel the need to hold our hand or reassure us as he makes various sharp turns while the reader sometimes feels, wow, what is happening here? This story might go anywhere. It probably only feels that way because the writer knew exactly where he was going. When we return, a street party you'll want to attend? You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [22:14]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
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- [22:44]
Adobe Firefly Promoter
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- [23:14]
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- [24:03]
Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
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 Wolitzer. This week's program considers whether what we perceive is true or whether it is our feelings that really guide our sense of reality. Short fiction is often located somewhere between the empirical and the emotional, and you'll find many strong examples on our website selectedshorts.org we also offer past episodes, information about our performances both at home at Symphony Space and on tour, and our podcast. Our second story on this program is the Let out by Jamel Brinkley. Jamel Brinkley's work includes the short story collections A Lucky Man Stories and and Witness Stories and has been chosen for Best American Short Stories. This piece is a perfect example of how he moves quietly but with intention. The Let out is read by Atu Blankson Wood, making his selected Shorts debut. He is best known for his role in Slave Play. Other stage works include the title role in Hamlet and he was part of the cast of Audible's production of Long Day's Journey into Night.
- [25:14]
Male Narrator/Character
The let out the woman came out of the museum and navigated the masses in the plaza. No matter which way she moved or how often men tried to get her attention, her gaze remained soft, completely nonchalant as she surveyed the crowd. Every first Saturday of the month, the museum offered a free admission as well as lectures, performances, films, and a dance party party, a popular program of events attended by thousands. Aside from the leering Romeos and the stunning head turners, there were also white people, elderly people, families burdened by their children. The woman cut through them all with unperturbed elegance. Or they moved their bodies to make way for hers. Or it seemed that they did. The gold and emerald colors she wore leaped out, the lit glass of the museum's pavilion glowing behind her. One guy stepped away from his friends and into her path, but she dodged him effortlessly, her floral sundress fluttering, her purse bouncing against her thigh. He reached for her wrist, but with no effort at all. Her arm slipped away, escaping that too, and he turned to watch as a breeze pulled her dress against the shape of her body. The woman's mellow beauty and the tranquility and charm of her rejection left his eyes full of bitter longing. Then her gaze abruptly sharpened. Whatever she had caught sight of made her halt and caused her expression to become puzzled. She shook her head. The movement, like a tremor, had run through her, as though a notion had charged into her mind, only to collapse seconds later under the weight of uncertainty. But all of a sudden she started walking again with more quickness and purpose. Her steps were bringing her in the direction she was looking, and it became clear, despite every self abnegating doubt, that she was walking toward me. I felt as giddy as a little boy. I looked to my left as though my friend were standing there, but he hadn't trusted the prospects at the museum, so it was an exchange of glances with no one. Though I felt self conscious in my basketball shorts and my father's hand me down Globetrotters T shirt, I stood tall and puffed out my chest, relaxed my face until it felt like a plastic mask. The woman glided past a few more people and walked right up to me, holding her purse in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. She wore jewelry everywhere. The heat of her sweating body was very close, and her scent was like a complex of spices and honeyed smoke. I have the worst timing, she announced. Can you believe it? She was much smaller than I had imagined and appeared to be around my mother's age, in her 40s, maybe even 50s. From her appearance and enunciation, it was clear right away that she was the bougie type. She had the strange transatlantic accent of the black intelligentsia. When she caught me observing her, she looked away coyly and then sighed, polka? Why would they play polka? What makes anyone think people want to dance to such ridiculous music? Before I had time to think, I did a few half steps and jumps in response. My long legs and feet became a blur. I had taken some lessons in my first year of college, one of many attempts to meet people. If you give it a chance, I told her, polka was actually pretty fun. Then you should be inside cutting a rug, she said, clearly amused. Why be in there when there's so much to look at out here, right where I'm standing? My voice shook as I spoke, but she laughed and touched my arm and I felt proud. Oh, is that what you're doing here, all by yourself? Looking? Her gaze lingering on my face even more, seemed to be posing additional questions. Well, at least the exhibits are high quality, she said. I actually came yesterday to see them, but by the time I got here the museum was already closed. Bad timing, I said. The worst timing. But today, here I am. I made it. And let me tell you something. I can't stop thinking about the photographs. Exceptional. What do you think? I thought they were exceptional, I told her, which was a lie. I hadn't seen the photography. I hadn't gone inside the museum at all. Only one thing had brought me all the way down to Brooklyn that night. The let out. It didn't matter to me what music was playing. The true dance was the shadow dance or the dance that follows the dance. And it was here where a circle of boys who dared to be daring raised their arms and voices in collective awe of girls taking pictures of themselves in various poses. Here, where there was an openness to the haphazard and the serendipitous, where it seemed feasible to make contact. You haven't told me your name, she said when I told her what it was. She closed her eyes and nodded and gave a little hum of pleasure. Then she shared her name, which was Ramona, and looked at her watch. There's still over an hour before it closes, she said. Come on, show me some more of that fancy footwork. Prove me wrong. And then she raised her arm and waited. She wanted me to take it, I realized, and this, despite my highest hopes, was a complete surprise. What in the world was happening? For my friend, the explanation would have been simple. I could hear his whispering voice now. Cougar.
- [31:16]
Narrator/Host
A cougar stalketh.
- [31:19]
Male Narrator/Character
He joked that way when we saw a woman of a certain age acknowledge the force of her sexuality. But women like that never actually spoke to us. We were never their prey. Besides, the quality of Ramona's attention seemed to be different from that. For one thing, she, a woman, had noticed me, which hardly ever happened. I was not the kind to be noticed. It felt thrilling to be picked out from the background, to step forward rather than recede. I hooked my arm into Ramona's, but she wouldn't move until I moved first. We walked through the growing crowd like that, arm in arm, toward the museum, like two smitten lovers on a date. She swaggered against me, bumping me with the swell of her flesh, the swing in her hips even more emphatic than when she had first approached. People went out of their way to look at her, but she ignored them. Instead, she kept glancing up at me. We threaded our way through the people in the pavilion, past a line of wide brick pillars, and into the lobby of the museum. The spacious court surrounded by sleek ivory archways was filled with people. But in stark contrast to the scene on the plaza, almost everyone here was white. As I showed Ramona a few simple steps, we both kept looking down from certain angles. There appeared to be another floor underneath this floor made of the same exact materials. Was it an optical illusion or was it real? I couldn't tell, but at some point the question ceased to matter. The important fact was that I was dancing with a woman. This woman on sheets of glass layered beautifully by a subtle magic. Ramona rolled her eyes and complained playfully about the music, but she never stopped moving. She did so with agility and grace, no surprise, given the way that she walked. With the same dreamy expression from before, she looked up into my face and said, okay, I'm ready. Let's dance. I wasn't sure what she meant. Ready for what? Weren't we already dancing? But then she took my right hand and placed it low on her back, where the cut of her dress exposed her flesh. She held onto my shoulder, and our free hands came together. At first she took control, interlocking our fingers and drawing us unusually close. But then she relinquished it. She waited again for me to lead, and I became eager to do so, to prove to myself that I could. As we danced, the scent from her hair was so full in my nostrils I could taste it. I haven't danced like this in so long, ramona said after a while I thought you'd never danced to Boca before. To live music, I mean, she said. I mean, in the arms of a man. I smiled. One of my first memories, I told her, is of my mom and dad dancing in our living room. So he's the person who taught you how to lead? I laughed, thinking of the rare times my father would try and fail to coax my mother into a bit of romance. Oh, I don't think it's a real memory, I explained. I'm pretty sure I made it up. I used to do that kind of thing a lot when I was younger. Ramona leaned away and looked at me, her expression bemused, but then she gave a little squeal of delight. Well, she said, certain lessons don't need to be taught. It's just biology. It's in the blood. We kept dancing until there was a break in the music. Ramona clapped wildly during the applause between songs, which was when I noticed a wedding band among her many rings. I stared blankly at it as the music started up again. She looked at the wedding band, too, and then at all the jewelry on her fingers, before drawing her hands up slowly to her necklaces. To tell you the truth, she said, that ring is by far the most boring thing I'm wearing. It tells you the very least about me. Then she added, don't worry. My husband is all the way on the other side of the country, and he doesn't really give a damn what I do. He certainly doesn't care if I dance with another man. She seemed to be going out her way to refer to me that way, as a man, with or without her husband's approval. It seemed obvious that Ramona was looking for some excitement. Any concern I had about somehow violating her marriage was draining steadily away. I was simply too curious about where things could go. I want to see the photography again, she announced. I leave tomorrow, so I won't have another chance. Let's go back. We still have time. I want you to show me which one was your favorite. We linked arms again, but then she slid hers down and took hold of my hand. Our fingers interlocked for a second time, and when her thumb started skimming across mine, a current ran through my body. Everyone was looking at us as we left the party, which was a new experience for me. I'd never been that kind of a person before. Ramona and I ended up riding the elevator with two well dressed middle aged white women. They were discussing the latest horrors in the local news. A girl shot to death in Queens, families being displaced in Brooklyn, but with a kind of theatrical dismay. Then, as they became aware of Ramona, they got quiet and frowned. For some reason, the raw fact of her was too much for them to bear under the elevator's fluorescent lights. Her abundance of jewelry, her brightly painted nails, and her dark, sticky caterpillar lashes could have made her seem tawdry, but I felt protective and proud of her. The two women made no effort to hide their disapproval of her and of us, holding hands, scowling at them. I put some bass in my voice and I said, is there a problem here? The women simpered at me, but neither said a word in response. When the door opened, they rushed off the elevator. Ramona and I got off, too, and started walking in the opposite direction, toward the galleries. I see you've got a little bit of a temper, she said. I get it from my mother, I admitted. You could sense the pulse of my mother's temper always, but it almost never flared up. It seemed to be held in check by what I could only understand as her modest expectations regarding life. A few early memories cast her as a laughing woman, but it seemed likely that they were also inventions, nothing more than wishful make believe. Definitely from my mother, I said. Or at least that's what my father likes to say. And you think he's the gentle one? I wondered for a moment if Ramona was thinking about her own marriage. Her own husband is gentle the same thing as quiet? I asked. No, I don't think so. Well, you seem gentle and quiet, like a hunter in a forest. So it must be your daddy you take after for sure. I don't think so, I repeated. I bet people say you look like him. Like who? Your father. Her eyes darted up at me, and she studied me for a moment. What's wrong? Nothing, I said. It just feels like I'm talking to someone who's been secretly watching me my whole life. Ramona looked down, her lashes fallen low over her eyes. When I first saw you, she said, I couldn't believe. Felt like 1989 all over again. What I mean is, I knew him. He and I were friends then. Back in the day, she added with a hint of irony. I should have told you immediately, but then I wasn't sure. You actually don't resemble him as much as I thought. I don't understand, I told her. Your father, she said. He used to be my friend, but that was a long time ago. The sensation of holding Ramona's hand immediately lost all of its allure. I felt like a little boy being escorted across a busy street. How could you have been friends? I asked. You're from the other side of the country. I live there now, in California, but I'm from here. I grew up in the Bronx, just like my father. I was running up and down the Grand Concourse when I was just a fresh little thing in pigtails. But tell me, how's Lawrence doing these days? My hand pulled reflexively away from hers. It was disturbing to hear his name, his given, proper name, in Ramona's mouth. No one called him Lawrence, not even my mother. Even worse, the question invited a comparison I was unable to make. I could tell her he was better or worse now, but better or worse than what? My father's involvement in my life had been suspended in the late 80s, at the very end of the decade. I was only 5 then, and aside from the things I fabricated for my own peace of mind, I hadn't yet formed many memories that would endure. What I remember most from those years aren't images or events, but sensations, feelings of anger, aggression, and obstinacy, a soup of emotion in which I was constantly simmering, like the sulky child I was said to have been facing. A question that I didn't want to answer. I kept my mouth closed and shrugged stiffly in response. You have his mind, don't you? She said. It feels like you do. Does he still tell those incredible stories? She was talking about my father again. Are you sure you two were friends? I asked. It sounds to me like you've got him confused with somebody else. The man I know barely says a word. Is that right? Things change, I suppose. Just tell me, please, that Lawrence isn't balding. I was annoyed that Ramona was talking so much about my father. It made me think I had to compete with him, or with some wonderful and therefore unbelievable version of him that was lost in the past. A new edge came into my feelings about Ramona, too. She seemed to know my father better than I ever could, and that, on some level, made her a rival. Actually, he's been growing this preposterous Afro, I told her. Stop. No lie, I said. And the facial hair. It's like he stepped out of a time machine. I told him that 1972 called and wanted its mutton chops back. It's too embarrassing. I keep thinking this man couldn't possibly be my father. Well, you do have his hands, she said, assuring me. And you're tall and thin, just like he is. Way taller than him now, I said. He's only, what, 50? But he's already started shrinking and forget Finn. He's got an old man belly. I swear to God he's ready for the retirement home. Well, let's see. You're younger than he was when I knew him, she said. Maybe he was just as tall when he was your age. And maybe he's been getting smaller and smaller ever since. Maybe when his mama birthed him, he was a giant. She began to laugh hard at her own joke, which made me think for the first time that she might be a little nuts. But I quickly put that thought away. I made a futile attempt to picture my father as a giant. He had always seemed small to me, diminished even when he returned to our family and I myself was no bigger than a twig. Both of my parents seemed especially diminished to me now, and this quality they shared was a central reason I was convinced, despite any troubles they may have had, that they were 100% right for each other. So she asked, did Lawrence ever find someone else? Someone else? Her hands came together in front of her stomach, her fingers forming a barrier between us, a flimsy pulpit she stood behind. When things didn't work out with your mother, she said slowly, with a bit of condescension, wasn't there a divorce? A childish urge rose in me then, an impulse to take a swipe at the place where her fingertips met, to blast her little pulpit into pieces. Where are you getting that from? I asked. You're way off. They are together. She considered this for a moment, and I did too. What I had said was the truth, but the strain in my voice had made it sound much more like a lie. All things considered, maybe it was both. The family was intact, yes, but we hardly talked to one another. The feeling at home was any attempt at conversation could lead to too much conversation, and too much conversation could be deadly. The source of our strength was a strict and tacit agreement to preserve and cherish at all costs the simplicity of things. So much is made about the importance of achieving depth in human interactions. But what about the delicate surface? What about the skin? They got back together, Ramona said finally, that's wonderful. It is. But the expression on her face didn't match the brightness of her tone. He found his way back to her. That really is something else. What do you know about my mother, anyway? The sense that Ramona disapproved of her was overwhelming. As far as I can tell, she said, I don't know a thing. Then with an abrupt turn, she walked toward the next room of the gallery. I considered going immediately, just leaving without saying goodbye recrossing that impatient street on my own. But I needed to know more about this mysterious man, Lawrence, and I needed to understand what Ramona wanted with me. The way she looked at me. I needed to understand the contours and ends of her desire. You were supposed to show me your favorite, she said. There was a hint of flirtation in her voice again, a hint that something exciting, even forbidden, could still happen. So which one is it? I don't know yet. I told her I had forgotten about my earlier lie. It's like you said, they were all exceptional. But she insisted with a flutter of her false eyelashes. So we went around together, and I pretended to reconsider the art. After a minute or two, I chose the most blatantly sexual photograph in the room. A man and a woman embraced in Central park, according to the label. As he pressed her back against the trunk of a tree, Ramona hummed. She examined every part of the photograph for an absurdly long time. I didn't understand what she was looking for. When she finally spoke, she asked me to explain why I liked it so much. What do you mean why? I said. I mean, what does it make you think? How does it make you feel? Why do you think the photographer took it? What does it communicate to you? Her questions annoyed me. She was playing dumb by playing smart. The reason I chose the photograph should have been obvious and more than sufficient. There was no need to explain. If the script of the evening was what I thought it was, she should have simply taken her cue. I don't know. I just think it's hot, I said. Don't you? To tell you the truth, I don't think it's very interesting at all, she said. Here, let me show you my favorite. The photograph she liked on an adjacent wall also featured a couple, a man and a woman, though they were dull by comparison. They were walking down a street, neither one looking at nor touching the other, both in the middle of long, perfectly synced strides. Other than the harmony of their steps, there wasn't a single remarkable thing about them. This might sound like total nonsense, ramona said, staring at the photo, but do you ever think that something can happen in your life that stops time dead in its tracks? Her question was accompanied by a heat that seemed to radiate from her head, and I became aware again of her scent. Here's what I mean. It's like whatever future you could have had, all that newness waiting out there to introduce itself to you, it just vanishes. It gets cut off entirely. Then the only options you're left with. The only ones you can even imagine are the ones you've already had. Her tongue and jaw became active again before she continued. Tell me, why do you think your parents got back together? They must have realized they were still in love, I said. Is that what you really think? What else could it be? Have you ever been in love? Not yet. She laughed dryly. That's mighty optimistic of you. I've only been in love in that deep bone marrow love one time, that's it. After you experience that real thing once, you assume it will happen again. But what if it doesn't? I don't know what you're talking about, I told her. Ramona frowned and kept staring straight ahead. No, I suppose you don't. Have you ever been to Los Angeles? She asked. When people manage to escape New York, that's often where they end up. Or at least I did for a little while. It's beautiful in all the ways you expect. The palm trees, the weather. God damn that weather. There's the smog, of course, but you can bank on it being bright and 75 almost every day. She got quiet for a moment, but I didn't say anything. I just watched her on the flip side. The sameness of it can work your nerves, I guess. It's not actually the same, but time gets funky, like you're stuck in a loop or in a simulation of life instead of the real thing. I didn't feel like that, not at first, but some people do right away. She raised a finger to her eye and touched the tips of her long lashes. Like your father. Lawrence never liked it that much. It was becoming clearer now what she was suggesting. He was there, too, she said, when I was. I responded, as I often did, especially when I was younger, with a sort of willful, innocent denial. At home I was allowed to sit in my innocence the way a neglected infant is left sitting in a soiled diaper. But I hoped now that it might force Ramona's hand. Is that where the two of you met? She shook her head, and the motion wiped away the smile that was forming on her face. It had already started, the situation between us. Your father and I, we ran away to Los Angeles together. When I went there, I went with him. She closed her eyes and I could see them rolling beneath the lids. One of the things that my family declined to talk about, perhaps the source of all the other things, was that span of time. In the past I'd had vague memories of asking to see my father and of my mother looking down at me, kindly and saying that I couldn't, that he was too far away. Or maybe, as usual, I had invented this, especially the comforting tone of the response. What I really recalled was the feeling of his absence, that near boiling sensation that had defined my early childhood. Afterward, the sensation abated, but it never went away. When my father returned, he stepped into the absence he'd left, but he was no longer equipped to fill it. The thought of this made that feeling flare up in me now, and even more acutely. I knew about you, ramona said. Her eyes were still closed. He would tell me about you back when everything between us seemed to be fine. I wanted to meet you. I was even willing to. She shook her head. But then things stopped being fine. And then your father left. And then there I was, alone in paradise. I looked at Ramona, her hair, her face, her body, and imagined her as a younger woman. I imagined his hands touching her. I looked again at her jewelry and wondered if anything she was wearing had been a gift from him. I scrutinized her with something like disgust, but I couldn't help comparing her favorably to my mother, who was a slight, unadorned woman the color of stale coffee with too much cream. Other memories, whether real or false, came to me then. Ramona's odor, the odor of spice and smoke, wafted back through the open vents of the years and into the furnace of the past, through my father's hair, along the sleeves and collars of his shirts. I saw my mother when she was young, with only me and herself to care for, the odor clogging her nose and her throat as she held my small hands and whispered useless consolations. Can you see it? Ramona asked. See what? I said, and I could hear the soak of petulance in my voice. We would walk down this street together, this exact street, Hollywood and Vine. Can you see it? We were beautiful, inarguable. People would look at us and smile. They would turn their heads to watch. What is wrong with you? I said. Ramona opened her eyes and looked at me like I was the one who had asked something insane. One day, she said, you'll want someone to give you the nod. You'll want somebody to remember the person you were when you were happy. I wanted to tell her that this wasn't true, that in my family we never asked each other to remember anything. But I also wanted to protect my family from her. I refused to reveal anything else about us. What are you doing? Ramona asked, staring wildly at me. Her eyelashes were black clots. Nothing, I replied, but it was an obvious lie. I licked the salty wetness from the corners of my mouth and wiped my cheeks before pinching my lips together in shame. I looked away, toward the tick of the guard shoes. As he approached us. He stopped and announced that the museum was now closing together. Ramona and I slowly retraced our steps through the galleries, one person who had dreamed up life's memories and another who had actually lived them. But neither of us could be corroborated, so both of us slumped along in postures of defeat. I wanted to turn away and leave her on the spot, this woman from my father's past, but I remained by her side. After all, she was part of my past, too, and my mother's. She belonged to us, and that belonging was irrevocable, even if no one at home, including me, would ever speak her name. We parted without either of us saying another word. I didn't move. The doors churned at my back. The voice of a woman emerging from the dimming lights of the museum said, excuse me, and someone else demanded I get out of the way so people could go home. But what was the point of going home? Someone who knew me was out there, I imagined. Someone I knew who would find me among all the shadows drifting along the plaza. So I just waited. I stood in place.
- [57:46]
Meg Wolitzer/Narrator
ATU Blankson Wood Read the Let out by Jamel Brinkley I'm Meg Wolitzer. Despite being set at a street party, this story is elegant and subtle. We share the young man's first romantic impression of Ramona at a distance, her radiant glamour and then the slow unfolding of her role in his life makes her both more real and less unattainable. Jamel Brinkley creates characters who are original and discreet from one another, but what makes them really work is how they interact. This story starts out as if it might be a character sketch of a woman viewed by a male narrator. But as the narrator's footing gets a bit shaky, we start to wonder, is the story more of a character study of him? The interplay between people and the results it brings are one of the many reasons to dive into Brinkley's fiction. On this program, we're unpacking the act of seeing and whether its emotional counterpoint feeling is what really makes something true for us. TC Boyle's playful story pushes back at the social contract with a classic that, however improbable, we believe. And Jamel Brinkley reminds us that a first impression is often an invitation to a much more complicated reality, one that we need to feel as well as see because more often than we admit, it's not what we see that convinces us, it's what we feel. I'm Meg Wolitzer. 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, Vivianne 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 Jennifer Nolsen. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf 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.
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