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Selected Shorts
Death Sex Money
00:58:15
In the first of two programs created with the podcast Death, Sex, and Money and host Anna Sale, we explore issues of identity and connection. In “Sacrament of Confession,” by Ernie Wang, a man struggles with a messy past that is affecting the present. The reader is Richard Kind. And in a touching do-over, a man meets his wife for the first time—again. Amy Ryan reads Seth Fried’s “You Again.”
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Transcript35 lines
- [00:01]
VRBO Announcer
Book a Loved by Guest property with VRBO and you get a top rated vacation rental that's loved for all the right reasons like being in a great location or having great amenities.
- [00:09]
Kat (College Athlete)
Ugh. I love my VRBO for the view.
- [00:11]
VRBO Announcer
Good reason.
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Kat (College Athlete)
Ooh, and the sauna.
- [00:14]
Anna Sale
Sweet.
- [00:15]
VRBO Announcer
Another good reason.
- [00:16]
Kat (College Athlete)
And that it's one of those good saunas with the hot rock thing. Ugh. Love a good hot rock thing. Fancy.
- [00:22]
VRBO Announcer
That's also a reason. Don't worry about surprises. Book a verbo you'll love with the Love by guest filter. If you know you verbo,
- [00:31]
Tyler Adams
you never forget your first fan.
- [00:33]
Nordstrom Rack Announcer
So how was practice kiddo?
- [00:34]
Tyler Adams
My mom inspired me to dream big and ask myself, what would you like the power to do? My answers helped me become the soccer player I am today, trusting my instincts and stepping onto the pitch without fear.
- [00:46]
Kyle Martino
Bank of America champions U.S. men's national team member Tyler Adams and everyone who dares to ask what would you like the power to do? Bank of America Proud to be the Official bank of U.S. soccer and FIFA World Cup 2026 bank of America NA Member FDSE.
- [01:08]
Meg Wolitzer
Death, Sex, Money Things we think about a lot and that are the turf of podcast host Anna Sale. This week on Selected Shorts. Stories she chose are read by actors including Amy Ryan and Richard Kind. Your choice. Stay with me, Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Anna Sale was a political reporter at WNYC when she had an epiphany. Death, sex, and money were the subjects that everyone thought about and wanted to be brave enough to talk about. She provides that opportunity in her emotionally generous podcast, now in its 12th year. In the podcast, she connects with real people and their stories, but these are also themes we see addressed time and again in fiction. Selected Shorts partnered with Sale a few years ago and we were delighted to have that opportunity again at a recent live show. For this program, we chose stories that engage directly with the core ideas at the heart of her show. How we navigate our relationships, our losses, and our desires, and how money and mortality shape the choices we make. Together, these stories reflect the shared human concerns that inspired this collaboration. Here's Anna Sale speaking from the stage at Symphony Space.
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Anna Sale
Hello, Good evening. Welcome to Saloon Selected Shorts. I am your host this evening. My name is Anna Sale. I'm so glad to be here. In addition to hosting Selected Shorts, this evening I host the Slate podcast Death, Sex and Money. Yes, we have been making this show since 2014. Our team, we say it's the show about the things we think about a lot and need to talk about more. It's also a show about basically the things that short stories are written about. In fact, like the name of the show is kind of a short story. In our very first episode I was interviewing the musician Bill Withers and he said death, sex and money. If you reverse it, that's the story of rock and roll right there. Something special about the stories written tonight. They're all written by human beings
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Kat (College Athlete)
and
- [03:47]
Anna Sale
each of them has at least one moment of deep cringe, like deep feelings of pathetic feeling, pathetic feeling like a clumsy screw up. Feeling so, so alone and reading them and hearing them tonight, you're going to feel that. And then you'll feel how at the end just having touched that, you'll feel lighter, you'll feel light cracking through that cringe feeling, that awe of connection. That is what you can go to when you have that feeling and you want to go to a keyboard, just pull a short story off the shelf. It's as quick and emotional fix as ChatGPT. I want to just quickly acknowledge this is my second time hosting selected Shorts. I'm so glad to be here. All of our performers here this evening have been on the Selected Shorts stage before. And speaking of regulars on Selected Shorts, I just want to take a moment and just appreciate this institution. I feel so honored to be a part of this show. I remember being a kid listening to Selected Shorts on West Virginia Public Radio when I was growing up. And we are coming to the end of a year where so much of how we connect and share stories has been upended, cut, totally wiped away. And it feels so good to be here together with you with these incredible performers. So celebrating this institution with such staying power. Selected Shorts at Symphony Space. Thank you for coming.
- [05:25]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Death, Sex and Money host Anna Sale speaking from the stage. While Sale's overall themes can wrap themselves around many stories, the two works on this show also share a common element, the idea of starting over. In one, a man hopes to live down a seedy past. In the second, the afterlife turns out to be a lot like life. Our first work, the Sacrament of Confession, is by Ernie Wong. Wong's short fiction and essays have been published in magazines including McSweeney's Quarterly and Pen America, and he was the recipient of Penn's Robert J. Dow Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. This story was commissioned by Selected Shorts for our Comedy Project. Reader Richard Kind is a theatrical polyglot with a broad resume. His Broadway productions include the Big Knife on film. You'll know him from roles in Argo and others on television. He can be seen in shows like Only Murders in the Building. We're delighted that in recent years he's added shorts to his portfolio. Here he is with the Sacrament of Confession by Ernie Wong.
- [06:40]
Richard Kind (Reader)
Before I begin, there is a character on a computer. His moniker or his screen name is Jim Hero and that's spelled G Y M, not J I M. And when you read it you can see, but when you're hearing, it might cause a question. Years ago, in a time before Toby Beckham, assistant pastor at St. John's Episcopal, had surrendered his life to Jesus Christ before he took up his cross and chose a life of penance and prayer, he was quite the skank ho who could not get enough of the attention of women. Man Bacon Beckham, his fraternity brothers would call him, and he would finesse pomade through his powerful curly hair before they would strut to the college wreck to lift weights and admire their gains. Weekends consisted of socials with sorority sisters. A saunter through campus meant stopping frequently to chat with friends passing by, and generally speaking, life was really vigorous and amazing. Toby scratches his thinning hair and thinks about the unencumbered life he once enjoyed. And while he can't definitively say he wishes he could go back, he admits that he recalls these days wistfully. At 38 years old, he feels his body beginning to grind down. He is aware of the extra beat it takes to rise from bed, that he needs more rest after a workout, and how he sometimes forgoes prayer before breakfast anyway. He is reminded of this because his penitent 74 year old Mabel Rogerson, his first grade teacher, has occupied the confession booth for the last 20 minutes and is confessing the heck out of her transgressions from when she was in college. Toby cannot recall the last time he saw Mabel at church, and though he would never try to rush her out of the confession booth, he wonders why she chose today of all days to spill these secrets. His attention is drifting and his patience wearing thin. And then, after Herbert, came Clyde, mabel continues. Now Clyde was a real gentleman and his butt was like a cement truck. Oh Lord, forgive me. I'm getting so hot and bothered. Through the veiled lattice, Toby hears Mabel smacking her lips. Toby says, let's stick with with the confessions. It is a sweltering Monday afternoon and he is hungry and tired. A rap on the far end of the booth jolts Toby awake. Hey, hey, hey, you done yet? A young Man's muffled voice calls out, there's a long line out here. You wait your turn. Eric Hamill. Mabel snaps. I'm very busy. Oh crap. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you, Mrs. Rogerson. Now where was I? Mabel asked Toby. Clyde and his rock hard butt. Oh yes. Oh yes. Mabel cries. This is so exciting. Actually, I'm not sure you've been told correctly what's supposed to happen in a confessional. Rapping with Clyde at the swimming pool was the best. With him I never felt alone. Toby quickly says, let's go to the part where I absolve you of your sins. Now these things happened a long time ago, so actually you're good. You're forgiven. You can go. He checks his watch. Well, I wasn't quite done after Clyde. Totally forgiven. You may go in peace. How about you, Toby? Toby senses Mabel pressing her face into the veil. It strikes him that what separates the sinner from the confessor is a flimsy germ infested cloth. Don't you ever want to share your feelings? She says. Communication is a two way street, you know. Well, that's not how this works. And also, we really shouldn't be addressing each other by name during hogwash. Mabel says. I've known you since you wore diapers. You can share anything with me. Mabel draws open the veil as if it were a curtain, a window curtain, and peers at Toby through the lattice. Upon making eye contact, she waves enthusiastically. No, no, no, you can't do that. Toby exclaims, quickly sliding the veil shut. Mrs. Rogerson, please. You're stressing me out. Mabel draws open the veil. Tell me your darkest, freakiest secrets. Didn't they call you man bacon back in the day? What? No. Toby slides the veil shut. Mabel draws open the veil. Don't you lie to me, Daddy Beckham. Go on now. It's Father Beckham. He sighs. He will not be leaving anytime soon. Not at this rate. He cares for his congregation on most days. He tolerates his job, enjoys it even. But sometimes he just wants to go home and lock the bedroom door and shut out the world. And this is what he does. That night, alone in his apartment. Marta is working her second job, though he doesn't want to think about that. He scarves down his dinner, retreats into the second bedroom and boots up his deteriorating laptop. Toby's dark, freaky secret that he will confess to nobody. Not Mabel, not God, certainly not Marta is his obsession with 21 year old Hermione Herro, future Internet sensation with a can of ginger ale by his side. He heads straight to her live stream. Besides her wizarding robe and her wand that she keeps by her side, she dons a bright purple wig and her makeup is lovely, her glasses large. There are six other viewers. Hermione leans forward in her chair and waves. Bacon Boy. She exclaims. Welcome. I missed you. How was your day? She lifts her wand and casts a magic spell on Toby. Distress from his day is alleviating already. Is he ashamed? Well, of course he is. Will he do the right thing and stop visiting her streams? Well, let's not go crazy. Plus, he recently subscribed to her channel for another 24 months. Well, my day was magical, Hermione continues. We were discussing Jim Hero's girlfriend problems in the chat box. Jim Hero types a sad face. Why are we talking about him again? Toby mutters. He has gathered that Jim Hero recently graduated from high school and has convinced Hermione that he is handsome, which Toby doubts. Now you listen to me, Jim Hero, hermione says sternly, waving her wand at the screen. You are attractive, athletic and compassionate, and you deserve to be with somebody who appreciates you. Jim Herro fills the chat box with an array of hand heart emojis. Little shit. Toby grouses. Have I ever mentioned I was the captain of my wrestling team? Toby types, unable to stop himself. Hermione claps her hands with delight. Well, that's wonderful, Bacon Boy. She exclaims. I knew you were an athlete. Was that the girls wrestling team? Jim Hero types. Toby fumes, but he's terribly slow with comebacks, so instead he takes a defiant sip of his ginger ale. Now, Jim Hero, let's stay away from jokes of that nature. Hermione admonishes him. Her face clouds with disappointment. Oh no. Oh, we lost two viewers. Can you please stop fighting, you two? We should all get along fine. Jim Hero types Fine. Toby types. Hermione retrieves her ukulele from underneath her desk and strums beautiful, harmonious chords. La la la la, she sings. Somewhere over the rainbow, Way up high and the dreams that you dreamed of Once in a lullaby. Toby is mesmerized. My first grade teacher confessed today. He types before deleting and starting over. My grandmother told me today about her sex life when she was young, and it made me uncomfortable. I understand, Hermione says melodically strumming her ukulele. It's weird to imagine old people being sexually active, even when we're talking about their younger selves. Just remember, one day you and I will be old, if we're lucky. And we'll be reflecting on our younger selves, too. Toby pictures himself in his twilight years. Will he still be suffering endless confessions and delivering sermons to unattentive congregations? Will he still be venting to some broke college student streamer? He reaches for his wallet. He wonders if he's made a terrible mistake committing his life to the church. Hermione puts down her ukulele and covers her mouth. Oh my God, bacon boy. She gasps. Thank you so much for the $500 donation. Toby types a heart emoji. Thanks for listening, he says quietly. For a moment, guilt and shame overtake him, and then he closes the tab and deletes his Internet history. Toby wakes the next morning and stumbles into the kitchen to find Marta in her flight attendant uniform, leaning on the counter and cradling a coffee cup. A packed sports bag lays by her side. He does not disclose what he knows. He does not casually ask about the bikini and the platform heels hidden in the bag, or ask how much he was tipped last night, grinding on the laps of groomsmen and divorcees and fraternity brothers celebrating their 21st birthdays. At any rate, he wants to know nothing about that. Mostly he wants to ask how she manages to function with so little sleep. He vaguely recalls her slipping into their bed at some point early this morning, and he is thankful that she still sleeps in the same bed as him. But instead he forces a smile and cheerfully greets her a good morning. Outside the kitchen window it is dark and gloomy. In fact, it's begun to rain. Marta lifts her cup. I'm going out with my girlfriends after work, she says, and the ease with which she lies never fails to sting him. In her day job, she works the flight from Dayton to Chicago and three hours later, the return flight. He imagines her biding time between flights at the Terminal Sports bar with her fellow crew members, filling the space with laughter, and he cannot help but imagine her later that night on stage, topless, gyrating before a roomful of gloomy men. Why won't you just tell me? He wants to shout, but the reason is likely because she is ashamed. So instead he mumbles, drive safe. And then, awkwardly, he waves goodbye. And then it's just him in the apartment. He wishes he could dash outside, wave Marta down, and when she rolls down the window he would say, let's talk, please. We used to share everything. But then he imagines her saying, fine, what do you want to discuss? And in this scenario he would not muster the courage to put into words, how he felt. No, what he really wants is for her to turn back and say, I miss you. I miss our talks. Let's fix things. And he would casually agree, as if he had not given this much thought, though his heart would beat furiously, and he would summon all willpower to refrain from breaking down and telling her how lost he has felt since they drifted apart. After work that day, Toby changes into jeans and a sweatshirt and drives down to Dayton Mystique. He pulls into the parking lot, dons his Bengals cap and sunglasses, and he steps out of the car. Inside, he is overtaken by the deafening music and the clouds of cigarette smoke. In college, coming here filled him with vigor and a sense of wonder. Now it reeks of despair and seediness. On the stage, a woman older than Toby tiredly spins around the pole. He slides into a chair by an empty table in the corner, lowers the bill of his cap, orders a ginger ale, and scans the stage where Marta is nowhere to be found. But eventually he spots her at the far end of the room. She's speaking earnestly with a man dressed sharply in a suit. The man is significantly younger than him and, based on his attire and posture, considerably wealthier. They're alone at his table, where she's doing most of the talking. Toby grips the table. A woman approaches Toby's table. Hey, you're gorgeous. Why don't you come closer to the stage? She asks brightly. His smile disappears when he ignores her. When she realizes he is not going to speak at all, she shrugs, walks away. Toby studies Marta. He tries to make out her words, but it's dark and he won't remove his sunglasses anytime soon. What really bothers him is that they're not engaged in physical intimacy, they're simply talking, and in a way that suggests that they're really interested in what each other has to say. And in the corner the server brings Marta a cocktail and and the man another scotch. Marta and the man gesture invitingly at the server, who happily takes a seat with them, and the three engage in a lively conversation, and laughter erupts and jealousy rips through Toby, and he is grimly satisfied when Marta's boss approaches their table and taps her on the shoulder. She stands. She follows her boss to the stage, but not before she gently places her hand on the customer's shoulder and then the server's shoulder, and as Toby sneaks out, he reminds himself that it is entirely Marta's call on how she lives her life. But this does not keep him from feeling despondent and, frankly, inadequate. I had a rough day. Toby types later that night oh no. Bacon Boy. Hermione Harrow exclaims, her purple wig brightly reflecting the light from her desk lamp. Tell me everything. Hermione's viewership is growing. There are currently 37 viewers and Toby feels a mix of excitement for her and annoyance for having to compete for her attention. I think my wife is going to divorce. He begins to type, then, remembering his place, starts over. I think my girlfriend isn't interested in me anymore. He's lying about having a girlfriend. Jim Hero types. Now you be nice, Jim Hero. Hermione admonishes him. Right now we're going to help Bacon Boy work through this. She picks up her ukulele. Now tell me, how long have you guys been together? 14 years. Hermione's eyes widen. 14 years? Well, how old are you? Toby swears 14 months. Sorry, typo. Hermione nods. Well, 14 months is a long time to be with somebody. A lot can happen. What kind of discoveries have you made about each other in that time? He thinks, well, that my wife's a stripper. Instead, he types, I might have become a boring person. Jim Hero types, you definitely did. Oh Bacon Boy. Hermione exclaims. You are most certainly not boring. You are young and exciting and full of surprises. Toby resists the urge to reach for his wallet. And then again, Hermione continues, Some relationships just run their course. In which case it's best that you go your separate ways in a way that doesn't undermine your future relationships. Toby's face falls. Jim Hero pastes a website link into the chat box. Against his better judgment, Toby clicks on the link and has led to a website advertising Blow Up Dolls. Toby Gritson said, Motherfucker. Now you stop that, Jim Hero. Hermione says. She twirls her wand at the screen. Bacon Boy, I am casting a spell on you for everything to work out exactly how things were meant to be. She flicks her wand one last time and then switches to her ukulele. La la la. She sings. There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising sun and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. With growing Dismay, Toby watches Hermione's viewer count ticcup. Now at 45, he whispers, you are loved, Hermione, before logging out for the night. The next morning, Toby's brewing coffee when Marta enters the kitchen, her hair damp from her shower. He reaches for her cup. They silently wait for the machine to stop sputtering. Toby fills her cup and then asks, are you seeing somebody else? Marta stares at him with surprise, then, recovering, asks, what's your guess? My guess is yes, I have an idea, she says tiredly. Why don't you find out from your online sorceress friend? What's her name? Bellatrix Gandalf? Aren't you paying her enormous fees for all the answers? By the way, where you getting all that money from? Toby's mouth drops open. Marta walks to the sink, pours her coffee down the drain. You ever wonder what it's like being the wife of a pastor? He remained silent. He's never wondered about this. It's difficult. For starters, nobody will share anything with me. As if the first thing I would do is tell you everything. Also, nobody wants me as a friend. They're convinced I would spend all my time judging them. At the door she turns and says, I'm not seeing anyone. I'm not seeing anybody else. I would divorce you first. She steps outside and shuts the door. Moment later she reopens it, sticks her head inside. If you're serious about trying to repair things between us, you need to stop communicating with your witch friend. She pauses and then with a wistful smile, says, I thought so. She closes the door once more. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been 47 days since my last confession. His voice is young, still in his teens. On his bench, Toby feels stiff and old. Tired. Go on then, Toby prods him. The boy speaks haltingly. Well, I guess what's on my mind is I'm not sure that I believe in God anymore. And I think I want to take a break from all of this. Attaboy, toby whispers. I'm sorry. Excuse me, Father, I meant please continue. Toby says. Tell me, why is it that you feel this way? Well, I'm just not sure that it's worth the effort. I don't know, it's just. It's so overwhelming. Hell yeah, Toby says even more quietly. Father, are you okay? Well, your sense of hearing seems to be just fine. Look, if you feel the need to take a break, take the break. These things get harder the older you get. Now's the time to do it. Oh wow. Really? It's that easy? Oh, this is awesome. Toby hears the boy stand. Well, have a good day, Father. And then it's silent. Toby stands and exit the confession booth and bumps into Pastor o'. Connell. Oh God, oh God, you scared me. Toby says. What the hell was that? Oconnells face is filled with indignation. What? What? What was what? What you just told that kid. How in the world does that come close to adhering to the sacrament of confession? Toby remained silent. And now also this is good time to talk about how you've been stealing money from the tithes and doing God knows what with that money. Toby averts his gaze, focuses on the wall where a crucified wooden Jesus frowns with disappointment at him. Toby settles for staring at the ground. O' Connell sighs. Look, Toby, perhaps it's a good idea if you want to take some time off. Ask yourself if this is really what you want. Ministry is a lifelong commitment. The redness in Toby's face deepens. Where would I go? Wherever you need to. O' Connell clasps Toby's shoulders. You're not a bad guy. It breaks my heart knowing we don't pay enough. Now go. Go get a hold of yourself. Come back with a renewed vigor for what we do. Figure out a way to support yourself without stealing. But what would I do? Toby asks as o' Connell walks away. What we always do when we try to connect with the world around us, o' Connell says over his shoulder. We confess. There are 173 viewers tonight, many of whom are pouring their life's troubles into the chat and seeking Hermione's counsel. Mostly about relationship troubles, but also family problems, fights with friends, stress at school. Guys, guys, hermione says, her voice quavering. I can't keep up with all your requests. If you can just slow it down, then I will get to you all eventually. This has the effect of speeding things up, and the messages flow more furiously. Hermione wrings her hands. Guys, guys, please, she pleads, and then she rubs her temples vigorously. Her erratic hands accidentally caused her purple wig to slide off, revealing her severe alopecia and strands of hair that sprout from her otherwise bald head like stringy reeds and a head shaped like the end of a potato. The flow of messages in the chat box freezes. Toby gasps, but then he quickly recovers. He was caught by surprise, that's all, really. And in the crucial moments that follows, he returns to feeling the same fondness towards Hermione that he has always felt. The other viewers do not feel the same. The chat box fills with a litany of WTFs and what the hell is this? And bro, you're a cat Catfishes. Hermione snatches her wig, places it back onto her head, but her face reveals her shock and embarrassment. Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. And she stares into her screen and Toby knows that she is looking at her viewer count and the number in the Corner drops to 97 and then 71 and then 57 and then 12. Hermione slumps in her seat. Oh gosh. Oh gosh. Her hands flail, taking a frantic life of their own. Oh gosh. Yo Cap' n Whore. A viewer writes in the chat box and then her viewer count drops to nine. Hermione throws her hands in the air. So this is it. This is it. Am I done? Toby is the first to respond. Don't give up. You'll get through this. You'll rebuild. He swallows hard. She will regain her community. No one should have to be alone. Jim, hero chimes in. We with you, Hermione. We're here for the magic. That's what matters. Hermione begins to cry. Oh. Oh you guys. You guys. I have to go. Toby types. He lingers for a moment, then sighs and pushes the unsubscribe button. Her screen goes dark for the final time. I'm sorry, Hermione, he says quietly. He locks the front door and starts his car and begins to drive. He takes a seat in the back. Hidden in the dark. Mystique is mostly deserted. A few men are sprawled on chairs by the stage, the others scattered across the room. At the stage, Marta dances alone. From Toby's vantage she's dwarfed by the expanse of the stage. Pulsing strobe lights from above and fog rising from the machines below cast her silhouette in a misty blue. Through the speakers. A glam rocker mournfully pines over her former lover to the beat of a resilient drum, and the men sitting below Marta gaze up, observe her, and then lower their gazes and return to their drinks. Toby wonders if they have partners waiting for them at home or families, friends at least. He wonders if the life of a flight attendant is not as glamorous as he has made it out to be. It was his desire to eradicate his loneliness, he knows, that really drew him to ministry. A loneliness that started in college, surrounded by his fraternity brothers and one that never went away. He imagines Hermione staring into her own future, so bleak and bald and devoid of magic. If God really created humans for the purpose of sharing love, he wonders why God made him so stunningly bad at this. This, more than anything, convinces him that he is not fit to serve. Fogg surrounds Marta. She spins on the pole. She tilts her head upward toward the ceiling. The rocker laments her unrecoverable past the baseline, traverses the floor makes its way to the back, tingling Toby's feet. A sea separates Marta from her onlookers. She leans away from the pole and thrusts her arms outward as if in prayer, pointing at a sky filled with singular planes crisscrossing the horizons. She gazes out into the room. Toby can hardly breathe. She is beautiful.
- [40:38]
Meg Wolitzer
Richard Kind Performed the Sacrament of Confession by Ernie Wong I'm Meg Wallitzer. Wong skillfully maneuvers around the conventions of the confessional. The performative aspects of revealing and concealing oneself in front of another person are explored in all their hilarity and pathos. When we return for a second chance at love, maybe start at the beginning. You're listening to selected shorts or recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [41:08]
VRBO Announcer
A vacation rental shouldn't come with surprises. It should come with verbo care and 24. 7 life support. If the hot tub's broken, that's a verbo care thing.
- [41:15]
Richard Kind (Reader)
If my teenager starts calling me Leslie,
- [41:17]
VRBO Announcer
that's a family thing. Leslie Verbo Care and 24. 7 Life Support. If you know you VRBO terms apply. See vrbo.comtrust for details.
- [41:24]
Tyler Adams
I want to grow the game so every kid can fall in love with soccer like I did. So I asked myself, what would you like the power to do? My answers inspired me to invent a pop up soccer goal that can turn any basketball court into a street soccer pitch.
- [41:40]
Kyle Martino
Bank of America champion street soccer advocate Kyle Martino and everyone who dares to ask what would you like the power to do? Bank of America proud to be the Official bank of US Soccer and FIFA World Cup 2026 bank of America NA Member FDSE so good, so good, so good.
- [41:56]
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- [42:43]
Meg Wolitzer
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. On this week's program, we're showcasing works that were part of a recent collaboration with the podcast Death, Sex and Money and host Anna Sale. It's a fair bet that many works of fiction involve one of these three crucial topics and that our archive includes some great examples on our website SelectedShorts.org, you can find recent shows and catch up with our podcast and with our sister show Too Hot for Radio, where you are definitely likely to find some provocative takes on death, Sex and Money. And please join our extended literary family by subscribing Our second story from our live evening hosted by Death, Sex and Money's Anna Sale is by fiction and humor writer Seth Freedom. He is the author of the novel the Municipalists and the short story collection the Great Frustration. Reader Amy Ryan is another member of the Only Murders in the Building cast on television. Her extensive film credits include Birdman and On Stage, she's commanded attention in classics including Uncle Vanya. Here she is performing youg Again by Seth Freedom.
- [44:08]
Kat (College Athlete)
You Again after his death, Felix was surprised to find himself at the party where, four decades earlier, he'd met his wife. There he was again in Arnold Dobson's apartment, which was barely furnished and reeked of cigarettes. If he remembered correctly, this was just before Arnie left the city to teach French literature at a university in the middle of some gray Ohio prairie. But even stranger than being back in his old friend's underheated loft, everyone standing around in their winter coats, was that he himself was 33 again and no longer had that constant thrum of discomfort in his knees. He was also alarmed to notice that he was holding a blue plastic cup filled with whiskey. One never forgot the smell peat smoke and wood, like a damp field the devil had walked through. He placed the cup on an end table where he hoped it might go unnoticed, along with a few bottles of beer and a half empty glass of wine. He didn't know how he'd gotten here, but felt no disorientation. It was remarkable how little he thought of slipping back into this moment, and yet, looking down at his blue cup, the taste of whiskey still in his mouth, he was occupied with the same revulsion that had caused his older self to give up the drink for him. That taste had once been a heady combination of relief and sophistication, but now, on his tongue it tasted like rot and sugar, the feeling of waking up without having brushed your teeth the night before. He wondered with a sense of longing how much foolishness he could have cut out of his life if he had quit indulging in this stuff all the way back then. He might have even avoided putting his health in such a state toward the end of his life. But standing there, he was intrigued to realize that then was now, and yet he still was not a drinker. Here was his chance. As he considered the implications of this, he heard a familiar voice. Are you the tap dancer Arnold hired? He looked up from where he abandoned his cup, and there she was. Anna. Either 40 years from now or a few moments ago, he'd seen her in his hospital room. He'd woken from a nap and she'd been dozing in the chair next to his bed, one hand resting on his arm. But now she was standing in front of him with her hair dark again and that youthful roundness back in her cheeks. She was wearing her prized purple wool coat tied at the waist. It already had a hole starting in the seam at one shoulder, but it would be another four years before she'd agreed to get rid of it. He'd forgotten how cheerful and glamorous she'd been, even in those lean years when neither of them could afford to take the other to a restaurant. She looked wonderful in that ratty coat, like a movie star after an apocalypse. But what struck him most in that moment was how little she'd changed over the years. He was even trying to reconcile what she asked just now with the conversation they had earlier that morning in the hospital. A plan to take a vacation, somewhere calm once he was feeling better. Maybe the Irish countryside. Then he caught himself and recalled what it was she'd just said, which was in fact quite memorable, in that it was the first thing she'd ever said to him. The last time he'd been at this party, he'd been lingering in the same corner, drinking alone. He'd apparently caught her attention, and she came over asking him whether or not he was the hired tap dancer. The question had been an early indication of her sense of humor. She intended to tease him for being so withdrawn at a party when she'd asked it the first time. He'd been flustered. His strategy back then had been to get at least two drinks in to settle his nerves before attempting a conversation. But she caught him in the middle of the first, and so he'd answered her by saying, perhaps too earnestly, no. Will there be tap dancing? This had caused her to laugh hard and sidle up to him for the rest of the evening. She'd been amused by his haplessness, smiling at him with her lips parted and her eyebrows raised as if she was watching a statue come to life. They'd become acquaintances that night, though his ego had been bruised, and it was another two parties before he had the courage to ask her out. Without knowing they'd one day be married, he'd assumed he'd merely humiliated himself in front of a beautiful woman. He spent days after their first meeting trying to come up with the response that in a kinder world he would have been able to deliver in the freak of a moment back then. He eventually managed to come up with a line that satisfied him, though it was of no real use, since the opportunity had passed. But like with the whiskey, this was another chance. He could do it better. Well, not just this. Everything. Any instance in which he'd accidentally hurt or disappointed her was now no longer a dimension of his personal history. Any misunderstanding that could have been avoided now would be. And it all started with this retort, which he'd crafted painstakingly so long ago. It's funny you should mention it, he said to his not then yet wife. Here he paused, savoring the moment before he delivered his joke, hardly believing his luck that this could all be possible. Arnold, pay me $40 not to tap dance. Anna tilted her head to one side, the way she did when she was unsure what to make of something. Oh, no, he'd been certain this was a good joke. I mean, to him the funniness had been in the implication that his stillness at the edge of the party had not been the result of his obvious shyness but rather an act of restraint. The joke suggested that he wanted more than anything to tap dance at a party. I mean, so much so that he gained a reputation. And Arnie had called him beforehand, saying something to the effect of, felix, we can't have you tap dancing again. So how does $40 sound to lie low for the night? Now that he heard his joke out loud, though, he realized that he had failed to convey the necessary context. Through Anna's puzzled expression, he understood that his comment had been unpleasantly random, and that now his unassuming demeanor might seem almost ominous to a young woman in the city. He thought of the short biographical sketches you tended to get about serial killers from their former neighbors. He was a little awkward, but we never expected anything like this. Anna was smiling at him the way he'd seen her greet their more eccentric neighbors after two of them had moved out to the suburbs. In his mind he saw her waving to Mr. Trembly, the retiree who had a habit of wearing a cape whenever he mowed the lawn. It was clear he approached his return this night too frivolously. The way his wife was looking at him made it apparent that their life together, which he'd spent decades relying on as an incontrovertible fact, had in reality been little more than a play of luck. Now that their love existed only in the future. It was infinitely vulnerable to deviation. Already he had jeopardized it with a single joke. Anna, his only source of happiness amidst the unending humiliations and hardships of adulthood, had been reduced to mere potential by one dumb line that he thought might make her laugh. Are you all right? She said, since he had not said anything else for quite some time. I should apologize, he said. That was meant to be a joke. It was this admission, or maybe his seriousness as he said it, that finally did make her laugh all out, Head back, one hand on her hip, she put her other hand on his shoulder. Oh, she said. You poor thing. She took a step toward him and told him about a job interview she tanked earlier that week by making an obscure joke of her own. When the interviewers asked her about her five year plan, she told them that once the outer boroughs were under her control, she planned to declare war on New Jersey. One of them was from Montclair, she said. Right away he recognized there was no other word for it her gallantry. This was the same woman who, either 30 years ago or 10 years from now, had witnessed him bite into a kitchen sponge he'd mistaken for a piece of toast while he was doing the Sunday crossword. When he noticed the difference in texture, he took the sponge out of his mouth and regarded it before looking across the kitchen table to see his wife watching him. There was no judgment in her eyes. She simply reached across the table, slid his plate of toast closer to him. So when he examined his relief in this new moment with her, he found that his surprise was not at her graciousness, which was as familiar to him as the sound of her voice. Instead, it was the realization that this story was one he had never heard before. By trying to improve their first conversation, he created a new one which required his attention as well as some unrehearsed responses. As disastrous as his attempted joke had been, this new path he'd set them on meant that if he were to earn his life with her again, it could not be through some recitation of their previous time together. It would have to be an improvisation drawn from identical themes. Thoughts of the past or future could only result in behavior defined by anxiety and some sort of frantic detachment. Whereas all Anna had ever asked of him was himself. Unvarnished, spontaneous mistakes would need to be embraced. He would have to face the world stammering and uncertain and say, you must be mistaken. I'm not the tap dancer they hired. I'm not funny, he said to Anna. I hope that's all right. She laughed and told him not to be so certain. They talked the rest of the night. When he told her he didn't drink, she gave him a warm can of ginger ale from her purse so he'd have something to hold. As the party thinned out, he felt confident enough to ask if he could call her, perhaps because he was so clear headed without his usual four glasses of whiskey. She smiled and shook her head, taking out her phone and asking for his number. I'll call you, she said. Forty years later and they were in the Irish countryside, him cursing nervously under his breath as she navigated their rental car down a single lane road along a cliff with a thousand foot drop. Above them were hills of bare stone with rams looking down on them like warning spirits. Water flowed down the mountain, forming little streams in their path. He took the name of every God in vain as she forwarded them, but behind his cartoonish fear he was in awe. By then his last life was all but forgotten, whiffs of it only occasionally creeping up in him like parts of a dream. As Anna laughed and slowed the car so they could gaze out at the fields below, dappled with sun and rain, he grew quiet. In that moment he was surprised by a regret he didn't understand, a sweet sadness at the notion that there was a time before this time, before their arrival in this small automobile, its engines struggling some other time when this treacherous road had existed without them.
- [57:49]
Meg Wolitzer
Amy Ryan performed you'd Again By Seth Fried the subtext of Seth Fried's adroit love story is a familiar idiom. You never get a second chance to make a first impression you wouldn't accept. Expect a story that begins with someone's death to be so playful, hopeful, and relatable. But that's Fried's trademark Anna Sales Guiding Themes Death, sex, and money can become the basis for emotionally complex narratives, and in the case of these two stories, they shape questions of identity. Can we remake ourselves with a different life and a different image? And what if we got what we want, but not the way we wanted it? In the Sacrament of Confession, Toby has shed an outdated Persona but doesn't seem to be living up to his potential in his new life. Felix wants to make a better first impression but seems not to know what version of himself to present, even though he has already stood the test of time. It's fair to say that we gave you hints of sex and money in the first story, and hints of sex and then some actual death in the second. See exactly what we told you we were going to give you oh, if only death, sex and money were doled out or not to our liking in real life. 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, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. 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.
- [60:32]
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Anna Sale
Honestly, I just booked my VRBO because
- [60:52]
Meg Wolitzer
there was a sweet wine fridge.
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VRBO Announcer
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