Intervention

Summary

Podcast Summary: Selected Shorts — "Intervention"

Date: December 4, 2025
Host: Meg Wolitzer
Stories by: Simon Rich, Langston Hughes, Miranda July
Read by: Ophira Eisenberg, Pauletta Washington, Parker Posey

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Overview

This episode of Selected Shorts is themed around "Intervention"—not of the dire, life-or-death variety, but of friends, family, and strangers edging into each other's well-worn habits, nudging (or pushing) each other toward new possibilities or hard truths. Meg Wolitzer guides the listener through three short stories, each exploring some flavor of stepping in, whether to rescue, to rescue from oneself, or to create community from loneliness.

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Introduction (01:07–04:00)

• Host Meg Wolitzer prompts reflection on the small interventions we consider in everyday life, like asking a friend to be more present, and frames the stories ahead as explorations of "interventions of a sort."
• The three literary selections by Simon Rich, Langston Hughes, and Miranda July are introduced, each bringing a distinct genre: satire, classic literature, and whimsical modern fiction.

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Story One: "Relapse" by Simon Rich, read by Ophira Eisenberg

(Begins 04:00)

Summary

• Premise: Zoe, a once-somewhat-famous musician, has settled into suburban family life and suppressed her artistic side. A new song and a pull toward music triggers concern from her family and friends, culminating in a tongue-in-cheek "intervention" to keep her from relapsing into her old dreams.
• Tone: Satirical, sharp, yet compassionate.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

• Zoe’s Past Life and Present Malaise:
  Once in a band with a single minor hit, Zoe now plays the role of mother and partner, sidelining her musical aspirations ([04:00–10:42]).
• The Ghost of Artistic Ambition:
  Even among fellow “retired” artists, Zoe finds herself drawn back to songwriting, realizing that the creative urge isn’t as dead as she thought ([10:42–13:25]).
• The "Intervention":
  Co-conspirators, including her friends, husband Tom, and fellow musician Rusty, surprise Zoe under the pretense of meeting a manager, revealing instead a staged intervention against her making art ([16:44–18:41]).
• Addiction as Metaphor:
  Rich equates the pursuit of art with addiction—complete with a rehab center for artists, prescribed "wine to control the cravings," and an earnest but absurd Dr. Jensen, a former poet ([21:26–25:12]).
• Guilt, Resentment, and Family:
  Family claims Zoe’s creativity risks neglecting her daughter ("We used to play balloons. Now we don’t have time to do balloons" [22:28]), and Zoe’s attempts at bargaining are rebuffed ([23:25]).
• Bleak Resolution:
  Zoe submits, entering "treatment," her individuality and passion dulled but her family delighted with her new "grocery list journaling" ([26:43–28:47]).

Notable Quotes & Moments

• On fan encounters:
  • "Her fans were too old for selfies, she would shoot Tom an eye roll to conceal the thrill these encounters secretly gave her." ([04:00])
• The Interveners' Logic:
  • Dr. Jensen: "The people in this room love you like crazy, but they’re scared to death of losing you. And that’s why we’re here. This is an intervention. We know you’ve been making art again." ([17:49])
  • Tom: "We just don’t want you to get hurt." ([18:41])
• The Satirical Sting:
  • Dr. Jensen: "I spent 10 years writing poetry…. I was $95,000 in debt. I was mailing submissions to Ploughshares once a month… But by the end it got so bad I was doing open mics and sometimes the guy before me would be a stand-up comedian. So when I came out and read my poems, people would laugh, thinking I was making some kind of weird joke, and I’d have to be like, 'No. Stop laughing. This poem I wrote, it’s supposed to be serious.'" ([23:41–24:24])
• The Parodic "Recovery":
  • "She was significantly calmer, way less inclined to have creative thoughts…. She still had a Misfits tattoo on her ankle that would never go away, but for the first time in her life, she looked less like a rock star than a mom." ([26:43–28:33])
• Dark Hilarity:
  • Dr. Jensen: "There’s things you can do to dull the urges. For example, I do drugs. Every day. I take like a ton of painkillers." ([25:12])

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Story Two: "Thank You Ma'am" by Langston Hughes, read by Pauletta Washington

(Begins 30:55)

Summary

• Premise: A young would-be thief, Roger, tries to snatch Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones’s purse, but she surprises him with strength, candor, and unexpected generosity.
• Tone: Warm, wise, laced with tough love.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

• Immediate Accountability:
  Mrs. Jones is unflinching, physically overpowering Roger then dragging him to her home to literally and figuratively clean him up ([30:58–35:07]).
• Empathy Over Punishment:
  Instead of turning him over to police, she shares her own hardship, provides a meal, and listens to him ([36:07–38:48]).
• Lesson Beyond Lecture:
  Mrs. Jones understands the desire for something unattainable; she resists moralizing but makes an impression through kindness ([36:07–36:59]).
• Dignity Restored:
  Before letting Roger go, she gives him money for the shoes he coveted, charging him to behave better without any righteousness ([39:06]).

Notable Quotes & Moments

• On accountability and nurture:
  • Mrs. Jones: "When I get through with you, sir, you are going to remember Mrs. Louella Bates Washington Jones." ([33:44])
  • "I have done things too, which I would not tell you, son—neither tell God if he didn’t already know." ([36:07])
• The Final Emotional Beat:
  • “The boy wanted to say something else other than 'Thank you, Ma’am' to Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, but he couldn’t do so… and he never saw her again.” ([39:35–39:56])

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Story Three: "The Swim Team" by Miranda July, read by Parker Posey

(Begins 44:10)

Summary

• Premise: The narrator recalls a lonely year in a tiny, nondescript town—where, to ease isolation, she invents a swim team for three elderly locals, conducted entirely on her kitchen floor with bowls of salt water.
• Tone: Offbeat, bittersweet, deeply human.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

• Invented Identities and Small Communities:
  The narrator lets the townspeople believe her name is Maria; small errors grow into accepted narratives ([46:07–46:42]).
• Creative Intervention for Connection:
  By offering "swimming lessons" without water, she forges meaningful ritual and community for herself and her elderly students ([47:16–53:46]).
• Absurdity Anchored by Need:
  The sessions are playful yet poignant. The narrator lies that Olympic swimmers sometimes train like this, highlighting how far people will go for belonging ([50:36]).
• Change and Loss:
  The story is recounted in hindsight, colored by loss and nostalgia as the narrator reflects on her breakup and the certainty that her "swim team" members must now be gone ([56:46–56:59]).

Notable Quotes & Moments

• "I can teach you how to swim, and we don’t need a pool." ([49:36])
• "We were four people lying on the kitchen floor kicking it loudly, as if angry, as if furious, as if disappointed and frustrated and not afraid to show it." ([50:36])
• "If I can say this without being immodest, I was insistent. Instead of the water. I kept everything going. I was talking constantly, like an aerobics instructor, and I blew the whistle in exact intervals, marking off the sides of the pool." ([52:59])
• "I was the coach of a swim team… If I thought this would be at all interesting to you, I would have told you earlier and maybe we would still be going out." ([55:52–56:05])
• "You seem incredibly far away to me, like someone on the other side of a lake. ... Who I miss now tonight is Elizabeth, Calda, and Jack Jack. They are dead. Of this I can be sure. What a tremendously sad feeling. I must be the saddest swim coach in all of." ([56:28–56:59])

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Memorable Moments & Quotes

• Host Meg Wolitzer on Interventions:
  • "These stories are about people who have fallen into a certain pattern of behavior, and about others in their immediate orbit who recognize the pitfalls of those ingrained habits." ([03:43])
• On Empathy in Intervention
  • "Love, not punitive jail time, conquers all." — Meg Wolitzer, reflecting on Hughes’s story ([40:06])
• On Small, Eccentric Connections:
  • "A bowl of water and a little imagination create a new community." ([42:14])

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Timestamps for Key Segments

• 01:07 — Meg Wolitzer introduces the theme and stories.
• 04:00 — "Relapse" by Simon Rich begins (read by Ophira Eisenberg)
• 30:55 — "Thank You Ma’am" by Langston Hughes begins (read by Pauletta Washington)
• 44:10 — "The Swim Team" by Miranda July begins (read by Parker Posey)
• 57:28 — "The Swim Team" ends; Parker Posey closes
• 58:46 — Meg Wolitzer’s closing reflections

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Concluding Insights

• Theme Threading:
  Each story in this episode approaches "intervention" differently: satirical resistance to second chances, loving but tough caretaking, and self-created community as an intervention against loneliness.
• Final Words:
  Meg Wolitzer underscores the importance of "leading with love and a little bit of whimsy," closing with, "maybe consider asking your friend to tuck their phone somewhere way out of sight." ([58:46])

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Overall Tone and Takeaway

By blending humor with heartbreak and earnestness with absurdity, the episode reminds listeners that sometimes the best interventions come from unexpected places: a spouse, a stranger with a generous heart, or even a made-up swim coach in a kitchen. The stories celebrate small acts of care and the complicated beauty of change, leaving us with laughter, a little lump in the throat, and the feeling that reaching out—however clumsily—can matter deeply.

Transcript

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[Meg Wolitzer]

It can be hard to help friends in need, so let's get some inspiration from authors Langston Hughes, Simon Rich and Miranda July. Coming up on Selected Shorts, fresh ideas about accountability, advice and learning to swim without a pool. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Stay right where you are.

You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time.

When was the last time you were out to eat, just you and a friend? And whenever there was a little pause in the conversation, your friend picked up their phone to answer a text or check email? The first time you didn't mind. But then it happened again. And again and again. Your friend occupied by the glow of the screen and you stranded in silence with your Caesar salad. Weird, you thought, until it happened again the next time you went out to dinner. And the next. So you wondered what would happen if, during her big monologue about her passive aggressive sister in law, you whipped out a book and just started reading? You love your friend. You want to continue to love your friend. So when is it time to craft your complaint? Take a deep breath and speak up. While I don't have a definitive answer for you, or for any of us coping with the scourge of phone snubbing? We all might find one in this episode of Selected Shorts. Today's stories are about people who have fallen into a certain pattern of behavior and about others in their immediate orbit who recognize the pitfalls of those ingrained habits while the stakes aren't life and death as they can be in the real world. These funny tales by Simon Rich, Langston Hughes and Miranda July involve interventions of a sort, an attempt to help friends, loved ones, even strangers see the benefit of new types of behavior. Let's begin with a satire from Simon Rich. He's a really funny writer and a selected shorts favorite. He's written story collections including the Last Girlfriend on Earth and and New Teeth. He also created programs for television, including Miracle Workers. This piece Relapse is a tart look at what happens to people in middle age still looking to pursue their artistic dreams. Reading it the comic and writer Ophira Eisenberg. She was the longtime host of NPR game show Ask Me Another and currently hosts a funny podcast called Parenting Is a Joke. So yes, jokes are a way of life for Eisenberg, as you'll hear in this performance of Relapse by Simon Rich.

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Relapse Zoe still got recognized Sometimes she'd be walking with Tom through the farmer's market, pushing Alice in the stroller and a tattooed person. They were usually tattooed. People would point at her and say, are you who I think you are? Maybe, was Zoe's standard response. I used to be in a band, yes, the fan would say, and they would recite her band's name in a proud tone of voice, like a confident contestant on Jeopardy. That's the one, zoe would say, and at this point the fan would almost always walk away. Sometimes, though, they would make Zoe's day by complimenting one of her songs. It was usually her only hit, the single from her first album that somehow made it onto mtv. Occasionally, though, they brought up an obscure track, something she hadn't thought about in years, and all at once the song would come to her, the lyrics, chords, the harmonies, and her eyes would glaze over and her mind would flash back to the place that she had been when she wrote it, a squeaky bed in Amsterdam on exotic hotel stationery next to a smelly but sexy foreign club promoter, or on a tour bus somewhere in Nebraska, squinting at her notepad in the moonlight, her body still tingling from the rush of a solid sold out gig. Then Tom would make his joke about how the fan should buy the song on itunes so they could get 8 cents, and then Alice would flail in her stroller as if aware of how offended her mother had been thinking about the past, about the era that predated her birth, and Zoe would snap back to the present. It was nice meeting you, she would say, and after a handshake, her fans were Too old for selfies, she would shoot Tom and Eye Roll to conceal the thrill these encounters secretly gave her. And they would walk in silence to the parking lot and load all of their shit into their Prius.

Quitting music had been a gradual thing. So gradual that Zoe barely realized that she was doing it. When she first met Tom, they were both professional artists. It was at a New Year's party in the hills thrown by some movie producer. She was there because the producer had used her MTV song in a soundtrack. Tom was there because the producer had optioned the film rights to one of his short stories. She remembered how he had looked at the party, his bangs flopping over his mischievous eyes, his boyish cheeks reddened by booze. When she asked him about his film deal, he spoke about it with convincing ambivalence. He was sure the movie would be bad, but he needed the money to pay the rent while he finished his first novel. They had sex upstairs in some kind of storage room, surrounded by bubble wrapped art prints that had come back from the framers but still hadn't been mounted on the walls. The producer never adapted Tom's story and his novel was rejected by his publisher. He started writing press releases for a PR firm, ironically at first, but then, after a pay raise in earnest.

Zoe hung onto her passion a bit longer, releasing a politely received second record and then a poorly received third. Band members quit and CDs became an obsolete technology. Still, Zoe kept at it, tramping through Europe, doing solo acoustic sets, opening for people half her age. One day she called Tom with a phone card from a soggy field in Leipzig after playing an outdoor show for seven teenagers, one of whom who had been so drunk on vodka that she was worried from was going to die. It was 5am in California and she didn't expect Tom to pick up the phone. But he did, on the very first ring, and the crackly sound of his voice brought her to tears.

Within a year of that rock bottom moment, Alice was born. Named after Alice Cooper, but also Tom's maternal grandmother, Alice Fishbin, Zoe threw herself into parenting, secretly relieved at having an excuse to not write songs for a while, or give morning FM radio interviews or play humiliating barely attended concerts. And then when Alice turned two, Zoe's friend Rusty invited her to open for him on a 12 city tour. And although she was tempted, fact was, she couldn't justify the cost. I mean, between gas and hotels, she would barely break even. And then there was the added cost of childcare. The trip became downright decadent. They were living entirely off of Tom's salary at this point, and Zoe was too ashamed to ask him to fund what amounted to rock and roll fantasy camp, so she turned down Rusty over email, too sad to say the truth out loud that she was done. Like really done with all of it. When Alice turned three, they bought a house in Silver Lake so they could be in the Ivanhoe school district. Their friends were all recovered artists of some kind, former aspiring actors or directors who had quit their selfish dreams to embrace the realities of adulthood. Their closest confidants were Andy and Jeff, two singers turned realtors who lived down the street and had adopted a Korean girl exactly Alice's age. Sometimes at dinner, after a few bottles of Pinot, they would talk about people like Rusty, you know, people who were still out there. There was Tom's old roommate Vincent, an experimental filmmaker whose last four shorts had combined 1,000 views on YouTube, and Andy's sister Melissa, who'd gone from minor roles in major films to minor roles in minor films to actual full on pornography.

Zoe pitied these people, and when she looked around her home at her balding but still handsome husband and her generic but tasteful West Elm couch, she thanked the universe that she had been spared such a fate. She was absorbed in these sorts of thoughts one night when she began to hum a melody, a taut loop of notes that felt both familiar and strange, and she knew it was something she had written, but somehow she couldn't remember the name of the song, and it took her a while to figure out why it was a new one. Zoe was rummaging through the closet when she felt a forceful tap on her thigh. She turned and saw her five year old daughter, Alice, glaring up at her, her tiny arms folded across her tutu. We were playing balloons, alice said. We're still playing balloons, zoe assured her. But how about this? Instead of throwing the deflated balloon back and forth to each other like we've been doing for the last six several hours, why don't you take the balloon into the living room by yourself and see how many times you can throw it in the air and catch it? Alice squinted at her mother, considering the rule change. I bet you can do 100, can you? Zoe said. No one has ever done 100 before. If you do 100, that means you're the best.

Alice grinned, taking the bait. Zoe sighed with relief as her daughter picked up the balloon and ran into the living room, screaming with moronic determination. One toss, two tosses. Zoe turned her attention back to the closet. It wasn't easy, but eventually under a hideous Moana blanket. She found it. The piano. It wasn't a real piano, of course, just a Fisher Price toy an uncle had given Alice for Christmas. Still, it had 12 keys, a full octave of notes, and thanks to Alice's apathy towards music, it was in excellent condition.

Zoe placed the toy on the rug and tenderly stroked the row of plastic keys. Her Les Paul was somewhere in the basement behind Tom's abandoned cardio machines, but she didn't need a guitar. Every melody on earth was composed of the same 12 notes. With 12 notes you can make anything you wanted. 63 tosses, 64 tosses. There wasn't a lot of time.

Zoe hummed the first note of her melody and flicked her way up the piano, tapping on each key until she found the corresponding tone. E. From there it was simple to map out the rest of the line, a descending streak of notes winding down the A major scale. 81, 82. She could hear the rest of the song now, a minor key bridge and some grungy power chordy sort of outro. She sang out the melody, throwing in some I's, and use the embryonic kernels of what might become lyrics. It was a confrontational song, aggressive but triumphant. An anthem. What are you doing? Zoe turned around and swallowed. At some point Tom had just entered the room. Oh, just playing with Alice, she said, casually flicking her wrist. She wanted to try the piano. No I didn't, alice said, emerging from behind her father's legs. Her deflated balloon had lost even more air during her tosses. She cradled the limp sack in her arm like a wounded animal. We were playing balloons, alice said. And then you sent me away so you could do piano alone. Zoe forced a laugh. She's just joking, she said. Right, munchkin? No, alice said. There was a long pause. Zoe forced a tight smile. I've got to go pick up the groceries, she said. Zoe drove past the Whole Foods and kept going until she was deep in Echo Park. Rusty was waiting for her in his junk strewn yard, acoustic guitar in hand. Got your text, he said. Let's hear it. She grabbed his Yamaha by the neck and launched right into it. Holy shit, said Rusty after Zoe finished up the intro. His face lit up. You like it? I fucking love it, he said. Zoe laughed and threw her arms around her bony stoner friend. It had been a couple years since she'd last seen him, but it wasn't until now that she realized how much she missed his company. Who's your manager? Rusty asked her. Zoe shrugged. He quit the industry like 20 million years ago. Well, shit, you're going to need someone to rep you, rusty said. You've got a hit on your hands. Zoe could feel her heart pounding in her chest. I know someone, rusty said. He grabbed a pizza delivery menu off of the ground, took out a Sharpie, and scrawled down an address. I'll set the whole thing up, he said. How's it 1pm Friday? Zoe searched her brain for prior commitments. Alice had some kind of bullshit on Friday, but she had some kind of bullshit every day. If she waited for a day when Alice didn't have some kind of bullshit, she'd be waiting for the rest of her life.

I'll be there, she said. She was pulling into her driveway when she realized she hadn't picked up any groceries. Fuck it, she thought. Fuck it all.

The manager lived in Hollywood, in the shadow of the Capitol Records building. She double checked the address and knocked on the door. Is that Zoe? Asked an older man's voice. Yeah, it's open. Come on in. Zoe took a deep breath and entered the house. She put some thought into her outfit, settling on a blue velvet blazer and a Dinosaur junior T shirt. She also brought along a rough demo she made of her song. She was making sure her name was spelled correctly on the jewel case when she heard her husband's voice. Hi, honey. Zoe looked up and swallowed. The living room was full of familiar faces. Tom and the neighbors, Andy and Jeff and Rusty.

What is this? She said. What's going on? A tanned man in a sweater stepped out from the shadows. My name is Dr. Jensen, he said gently.

It's great to finally meet you. He thrust out his hand. Zoe shook it awkwardly. Are you the manager? He smiled sympathetically at her. I'm sorry we misled you, he said. It was the only way we could get you here. Zoe looked around in a panic. What the hell is going on? I know this all must be very confusing, Dr. Jensen said. But it's actually very simple. The people in this room love you like crazy, but they're scared to death of losing you. And that's why we're here. Zoe felt her knees grow weak. This is an intervention. We know you've been making art again, tom said.

We know about the song, okay? We know everything.

Zoe glared at Rusty. He stared down at his lap, too ashamed to make eye contact. I'm sorry, he muttered. I had to tell them. This is crazy, zoe said. Why do you care if I start writing music again? We just don't want you to get hurt, tom said. Is it that? Zoe said. Or is it that you're fucking jealous? Dr. Jensen smiled patiently. Why would they be jealous? He asked. The because they're fucking failures. Zoe, said Tom, your novel sucked ass, okay? It made no sense. She turned to Jeff and Andy and you guys. I looked up that show you said you met in, and it wasn't even a real show. It was a Broadway themed restaurant. Yeah, you weren't singers. You were waiters. She slammed her demo down on the table. I've got something going here, and I'm not gonna let you drag me down. You've been down this road before, said Dr. Jensen. Tom told me about the dark days playing in a field somewhere miles away from your family. That was different, zoe said. It won't end that way this time. It always ends that way, said Dr. Jensen.

Look, Andy said, everyone dabbles with art in their twenties. You write, you act, you direct, you try it all, but. But it's not sustainable. What about Jeff? Zoe snapped. He still sings. Jeff can control it, andy said. He does karaoke once a week and he's satisfied. Okay? Some people are like that. You're not.

Zoe turned to Rusty. Dude, come on, she begged. You know your heart is not in this bullshit. So let's get out of here. You can open for me on tour. I'll let you do a folk set. Rusty shook his head stiffly. I can't. Why not? Zoe demanded. Dr. Jensen placed a palm on Rusty's shoulder. Do you want to tell Zoe your news?

Rusty reluctantly looked up at Zoe. His eyes were damp with tears. I'm getting help, he murmured. What? Zoe whispered. I can't do it anymore, he said. The shitty tour buses, the sad motels.

I'm going to New Horizons in Tampa.

He handed Zoe a brochure and she shakily flipped through the pages. It's a treatment center for artists.

Dr. Jensen explained. One of the best in the world. They make it easy for you to quit. They'll prescribe wine so you can control the cravings. After 90 days, you'll come back here and you'll be yourself again. A friend, a wife, a mother. I can be all of those things and make art at the same time. Dr. Jensen nodded at Tom. He exited the room and returned moments later, holding Alice in his arms. Zoe shook her head bitterly as Tom cajoled their daughter into speaking. Go ahead, munchkin, he said in a saccharine tone. Tell your mommy what you wanted to say. Alice looked into her mother's eyes. Her voice was unusually loud and sounded well rehearsed. We used to play balloons.

Now that you're doing art again, we don't have time to do balloons. Good job, tom said. That was very brave. Alice flashed her mother a smug look as her father covered her with kisses. That's it, zoe said. I have to quit making art because she misses her goddamn balloons? It's not just that, tom said. One time you were so busy writing a song you left her alone with a balloon. What if she would have choked on it? Huh? What then? Zoe's skin burned with guilt. Okay, how about this, she said. I'll self release one ep, see what Pitchfork says, and then I'll quit. Honey, we're past the point of bargaining, tom said. If you don't take the help being offered today, it's over.

Zoe's face turned pale. She felt like she was going to throw up. Look, Dr. Jensen said. I know what you're going through. How could you possibly know? Zoe said. Because I spent 10 years writing poetry.

Zoe raised her eyebrows. Poetry was the nastiest addiction of them all. She couldn't help but being a little impressed. I got an MFA and everything, he continues. I was $95,000 in debt. I was mailing submissions to Plowshares once a month. He shuddered slightly at the memory. But by the end it got so bad I was doing open mics and sometimes the guy before me would be a stand up comedian. So when I came out and read my poems, people would laugh, thinking I was making some kind of weird joke, and I'd have to be like, no.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Stand.

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Stop laughing. This poem I wrote, it's supposed to be serious.

Holy shit, said Zoe. I thought I was going to die, said Dr. Jensen. But then one day I made the decision to change. I threw out all of my journals unsubscribed to granta. And now 10 years later, I've got it all. A house in Silver Lake. He thought for a beat. A house in Silver Lake, he repeated. You don't miss it? Zoe asked. Writing poems? Dr. Jensen smiled. Every day, he said. But there's things you can do to dull the urges. For example, I do drugs.

Every day. I take like a ton of painkillers. He took a white pill out of his pocket and ate it. That was a painkiller, he told the group. A big one.

Tom took his wife's hand. Think about how nice it will be, he said, to not have to always be jonesing for hits and applause. To give up the search and just be. Zoe felt her mouth go dry. She loved the highs of making music, but could she handle the lows? What if she made a record and it flopped as badly as her last two? She imagined herself in a silent bar in Phoenix, manning a merch table heaped with ugly posters of her face. She pictured herself in New York City, peeking through a crack in the curtains, trying to work up the courage to play to a giant, empty room. She'd crashed before and lived to tell the tale, but that was years ago. At this age, she might not survive it. Zoe flipped through the brochure again. She noticed this time that the place had a pool.

How would it work? She asked softly. Would I have to quit all at once? No, tom said. They'll taper you off the first week. They'll let you play covers as long as you don't do anything creative, like add a solo or. Or whatever.

It does kind of look nice, zoe admitted. Is that a yes? Asked Dr. Jensen. Yes, Zoe murmured. You know what that means, Dr. Jensen told the group. Time for hugs. Tom and Alice shared a quick, victorious look and then ran up to Zoe and tightly wrapped their arms around her neck. Tom and alice visited Tampa 60 days in and were amazed at Zoe's progress. She was significantly calmer, way less inclined to have creative thoughts. She'd also undergone a dramatic physical transformation. The doctors had prescribed her, and the sugary wine had helped her to gain 15 pounds of fat. The extra small dinosaur junior shirt was gone, and in its place she wore a tasteful cardigan. She still had a Misfits tattoo on her ankle that would never go away, but for the first time in her life, she looked less like a rock star than a mom. Zoe led her family through the grounds to the modest room she shared with her recovering photographer. This is where Mommy sleeps, she said to Alice. There's my bureau where I keep my cardigans. There is my phone where I call you to say good night. And this is where I journal. Tom and Alice shared a look. They let you journal? Tom asked. It's not creative, zoe assured him. Sit down. I'll read you some. Tom and Alice sat on the bed and watched skeptically as Zoe cracked open her notebook. Okay, she said. This entry is from earlier this week. She drank some and read it out loud for them.

Whole Foods grocery list. Pasta pesto, arugula, balsamic vinegar, and that olive spread they have. Tomatoes, Rose.

Tom and Alice grinned ecstatically. That was great, tom said. Really? Zoe asked earnestly. You liked it? We loved it, Mommy. They broke into applause and wouldn't stop until she bowed to them.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was relapse by Simon Rich, performed by Ophira Eisenberg. I think you can sense in her delivery that friends and loved ones have probably tried to intervene in her longtime arts career. Once or twice when people tell you they cried or laughed out loud while reading your work, I tend to think they usually just mean they felt a little sad at one point and that they noticed that something was funny at another point. Not that they literally cried or laughed out loud. However, when I read Simon Rich, I sometimes find myself suppressing an old timey comedian spit take. He's just that funny on the page. That said, he has never once made me cry. At least not yet. Our next piece is by a famed literary figure of the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes. And while Hughes is best known for poems including Mother to Son and the Weary Blues, and he was also an accomplished playwright, novelist and short story writer, his collections include the Ways of White Folks. On this show, we're sharing a much anthologized story, thank you Ma', am, which inspired a short film of the same name. It's read by a busy actor who has starred in films including Tell It Like a Woman and recent series including Reasonable Doubt. And Now Pauletta Washington performs thank you Ma' Am by Langston Hughes.

[Pauletta Washington]

Thank you Ma'.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Am.

[Pauletta Washington]

She was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails. It had a long strap and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about 11 o' clock at night and she was walking alone when a boy ran up behind her and tried to snatch her purse. The strap broke with a single tug, but the boy's weight and the weight of the purse combined caused him to lose his balance. So instead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the boy fell on his back on the sidewalk and his legs flew up. The large woman simply turned around and kicked him right square in his blue jean sitter. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by his shirt front and shook him until his teeth rattled. Pick up my pocketbook, boy, and give it here. The woman still held him, but she bent down enough to permit him to stoop and pick up her purse. Now ain't you ashamed of yourself? Firmly gripped by his shirt front, the boy said yes. The woman said. What did you do it for? The boy said. I didn't aim to, she said. You a lie. By that time, two or three people passed, stopped, turned to look, and some stood watching. If I turn you loose, will you run? Asked the woman. Yes'm, said the boy. Then I won't turn you loose? She did not release him. I'm very sorry, lady. I'm sorry, whispered the boy. Mm. And your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face for you. Ain't you got nobody home to tell you to wash your face? No, said the boy. Then it will get washed this evening, said the large woman starting up the street, dragging the frightened boy behind her. He looked as if he were 14 or 15, frail and willow wild in tennis shoes and blue jeans. The woman said, you ought to be my son. I would teach you right from wrong. The least I can do right now is to wash your face. Are you hungry? No, said the bean drag boy. I just want you to turn me loose. Was I bothering you when I turned that corner? Asked the woman. No, but you put yourself in contact with me, said the woman. Now if you think that contact is not going to last a while, you got another thought coming.

When I get through with you, sir, you are going to remember Mrs. Louella Bates Washington Jones. Sweat popped out on the boy's face as he began to struggle. Mrs. Jones stopped, jerked him around in front of her, put a half nelson about his neck, and continued to drag him up the street. When she got to her door, she dragged the boy inside, down a hall and into a large kitchenette furnished room at the rear of the house. She switched on the light and left the door open. The boy could hear other roomers laughing and talking in the large house. Some of their doors were open too, so he knew he and the woman were not alone. The woman still had him by the neck. In the middle of her room she said, what is your name? Roger, answered the boy. Then, Roger, you go over to that sink and wash your face, said the woman, whereupon she turned him loose. At last Roger looked at the door, looked at the woman, looked at the door and went to the sink. Let the water run until it gets warm, she said. Here's a clean towel.

You're gonna take me to jail? Asked the boy, bending over the sink. Not with that face. I will not take you nowhere, said the woman. Here I am trying to get home to cook me a bite to eat and you snatch my pocketbook. Maybe you ain't been to your supper either, ladies that be, have you? There's nobody home at my house, said the boy. Then we'll eat, said the woman. I believe you hungry or been hungry to try to snatch my pocketbook. I wanted a pair of blue suede shoes, said the boy. Well, you didn't have to snatch my pocketbook to get some suede shoes, said Ms. Louella Bates Washington Jones. You could have asked me, ma'. Am. The water dripping from his face. The boy looked at her. There was a long pause, a very long pause, and after he had dried his face and not knowing what else to do, dried it again. The boy turned around, wondering what next. The door was open.

He could make a dashboard down the hall. He could run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run. The woman was sitting on the daybed. After a while she said, I were young once and I wanted things I could not get. There was another long pause. The boy's mouth opened. Then he frowned, but not knowing, he frowned. The woman said, mm. You thought I was gonna say, but didn't you? You thought I was gonna say, but I didn't snatch people's pocketbooks. Well, I wasn't gonna say that. Pause. Silence. I have done things too, which I would not tell you, son. Neither tell God if he didn't already know. So you sat down while I fix us something to eat. You might run that comb through your hair so you will look presentable. In another corner of the room, behind a screen, was a gas plate and an icebox. Mrs. Jones got up and went behind the screen. The woman did not watch the boy to see if he was going to run now, nor did she watch her purse, which she had left behind her on the daybed. But the boy took care to sit on the far side of the room, where he thought she could easily see him out of the corner of her eye if she wanted to. He did not trust the woman not to trust him, and he did not want to be mistrusted. Now, do you need somebody to go to the store? Asked the boy. Maybe to get some milk or something. Don't believe I do, said the woman. But unless you just want sweet milk yourself. I was going to make some cocoa out of this canned milk I got here. That'll be fine, said the boy. She heated up some lima beans and ham she had in the icebox, made the cocoa, and set the table. The woman did not ask the boy anything about where he lived or his folks or anything else that would embarrass him. Instead, as they ate, she told him about her job in a hotel beauty shop that stayed open late, what the work was like, and how all kinds of women came in and out, blondes, redheads, and Spanish. Then she cut him a half of her 10 cent cake. Eat some more, son. When they were finished eating, she got up and said.

Now here, take this $10 and buy yourself some blue suede shoes. And the next time don't make the mistake of latching onto my pocketbook nor nobody else's, because shoes come by devilish like that will burn your feet.

I got to get my rest now, but I wish you would behave yourself some from here on in. She led him down the hall to the front door and opened it. Good night. Behave yourself, boy, she said, looking out into the street. The boy wanted to say something else other than thank you, ma' am to Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.

But he couldn't do so as he turned at the Baron Stoop and looked back at the large woman in the door. He barely managed to say thank you before she shut the door and he never saw her again.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Pauletta Washington reading thank you ma' am by Langston Hughes. And I think Hughes Humanity speaks for itself as love, not punitive jail time conquers all. As I listened to this piece, I found myself fascinated by Mrs. Jones's backstory. She mentions that she has done things she doesn't want to talk about, so of course I want to know what they are. In general, wanting to know more than a character in a story is willing to reveal is a good sign about the story itself. When we return, a bowl of water and a little imagination create a new community. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and no, I don't mean sea monkeys. So stick around. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

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[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

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[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. Meg I'm Meg Wolitzer. You too can be part of the Selected Shorts family and can see the actors and hear the gasps and laughter live in a theater near you. While most of our stories are recorded at our home theater of Symphony Space in New York City, every year we pack our bags and take the show on the road. We go coast to coast to see the current lineup of Selected Shorts dates on the road and at our home theater of Symphony space. Head to selectedshorts.org for the latest tour dates and ticket information.

This hour we're listening to stories about interventions of a sort. But hey, you're listening to Selected Shorts so we have absolutely no worries about your current habits. In fact, we'd like to encourage you to seek out our weekly podcast, which often features interviews and special segments. We don't have time to air on the radio. Just go to selectedshorts.org or search for us wherever you like to get Podcasts the third and final story in this show is by Miranda July. She's the filmmaker behind works including Fire of Love and author of books including the First Bad Man. The imaginative and quirky stories from her collection no One Belongs Here More Than youn have been a perennial hit among Shorts fans. As with almost all of her stories, the the Swim Team has its absurd elements but also genuine heart behind it all. It is read by Parker Posey, the perfect actor for the job. She's had a long film career, ranging from Dazed and Confused to the recent Beau Is Afraid. And now Parker Posey performs the Swim Team by Miranda July.

[Parker Posey]

The Swim Team this is the story I wouldn't tell you when I was your girlfriend. You kept asking and asking, and your guesses were so lurid and specific. Was I a kept woman? Was Belvedere like Nevada, where prostitution is legal? Was I naked the entire year? The reality began to seem barren, and in time I realized that if the truth felt empty, then I would probably not be your girlfriend much longer. I hadn't wanted to live in Belvedere, but I couldn't bear to ask my parents for money to move. Every morning. I was shocked to remember I lived alone in this town that wasn't even a town. It was so small. It was just houses near a gas station, and then about a mile down there was a store. And that was it. I didn't have a car. I didn't have a phone. I was 22 and I wrote my parents every week and told them stories about working for a program called Read We Read to At Risk Youth. It was a state funded pilot program. I never decided what the letters were Re A D stood for, but every time I wrote pilot program, I kind of marveled at my ability to come up with such phrases. Early intervention was another good one. This story won't be very long because the amazing thing about that year was that almost nothing happened. The citizens of Belvedere thought my name was Maria. I never said it was Maria. But somehow this got started and I was overwhelmed by the task of telling all three people my real name.

These three people were named Elizabeth, Kelda, and Jack Jack.

I don't know why Jack twice. And I'm not completely sure about the name Kelda, but that's what it sounded like and that's the sound I made when I called her name.

I knew these people because I gave them swimming lessons. This is the real meat of my story, because of course there are no bodies of water near Belvedere and no pools.

And they were talking about this in the store one day. And Jack, Jack, who must be dead by now because he was really old, said it didn't matter anyways because he and Kelda couldn't swim, so they'd be liable to drown themselves. Elizabeth was Kelda's cousin, I think, and Kelda was Jack, Jack's wife. They were all in their 80s, at least. Elizabeth said that she had swum many times, one summer as a girl while visiting a cousin. Obviously not Cousin Kelda.

The only reason I joined the conversation was that Elizabeth said you had to breathe underwater to swim.

That's not true. I yelled. These were the first words I'd spoken out loud in weeks, yet my heart was pounding like I was asking someone out on a date. You just hold your breath.

You know. Elizabeth looked angry and then said that she had been kidding.

And Kelda said she'd be too scared to hold her breath because she had an uncle who died from holding his breath too long in a hold your breath contest.

And Jack Jack asked if she actually believed this, and Kelda said yes, yes I do. And Jack Jack said, you, uncle died of a stroke. I don't know where you get these stories from Kelda.

And we all stood there for a while in silence.

I was really enjoying the companionship.

And hoped it would continue, which it did, because Jack Jack said, so you've swum.

I told them about How I'd been on a swim team in high school and even competed at the state level, but had been defeated early on by Bishop o', Dowd, a Catholic school. I hadn't even thought of it as a story before this, but now I could see that it was actually a very exciting story, full of drama and chlorine and other things that Elizabeth and Kelda and Jack Jackson I didn't have firsthand knowledge of.

It was Kelda who said she wished there was a pool in Belvedere because they were obviously very lucky to have a swim coach living in town.

I hadn't said I was a swim coach, but I knew what she meant.

It was a shame.

And then a strange thing happened. I was looking down at my shoes on the brown linoleum floor and I was thinking about how I bet this floor hadn't been washed in a million years. And I suddenly felt like I was going to die.

But instead of dying, I said, I can teach you how to swim, and we don't need a pool.

We met twice a week in my apartment.

When they arrived, I had three bowls of warm tap water lined up on the floor and then a fourth bowl in front of those, the coach's bowl. I added salt to the water because it's supposed to be healthy to snort warm salt water, and I figured they'd be snorting accidentally.

I showed them how to put their noses and mouths in the water and how to take a breath to the side. And we added the legs and then the arms.

I admitted these were not perfect conditions for learning to swim.

But I pointed out this was how Olympic swimmers trained when there wasn't a pool nearby.

Yes, yes, yes. This was a lie. But we needed it because we were four people lying on the kitchen floor kicking it loudly, as if angry, as if furious, as if disappointed and frustrated and not afraid to show it. The connection to swimming had to be enforced with strong words.

It took Kelda several weeks to learn how to put her face in the water.

That's okay, that's okay, I said. We'll start you out with a kickboard.

I handed her a book.

That's totally normal. To resist the bowl. Calda.

It'S the body telling you it doesn't want to die.

It doesn't, she said.

I taught them all the strokes. I knew the butterfly was just incredible.

Like nothing you've ever seen. I thought the kitchen floor would give in and turn liquid. And away they would go with Jack. Jack in the lead. He was precocious, to say the least. He Actually moved across the floor, bowl of salt water and all.

He'd come pounding back into the kitchen from a bedroom lap covered with sweat and dust. And Kelda would look up at him, holding her book.

In both hands, and just beam.

Swim to me, he'd say.

But she was too scared.

And it actually takes a huge amount of upper body strength to swim on land.

I was the kind of coach who stands by the side of the pool instead of getting in. But I was busy every moment. If I can say this without being immodest, I was insistent. Instead of the water.

I kept everything going. I was talking constantly, like an aerobics instructor, and I blew the whistle in exact intervals, marking off the sides of the pool. They would spin around in unison and go the other way.

When Elizabeth forgot to use her arms, I'd call out, elizabeth, your feet are up, but your head is going down. And she'd madly start stroking, quickly leveling out.

With my meticulous hands on coaching method. All dives began with perfect form, poised on my desktop, and ended in a belly flop onto the bed. But that was just for safety.

It was still diving. It was still letting go of mammalian pride and embracing gravity.

Elizabeth added a rule that we all had to make a noise when we fell. This was a little creative for my taste, but I was open to innovation.

I wanted to be the kind of teacher who learned from her students.

Kelda would make the sound of a tree falling, if that tree were female.

Elizabeth would make spontaneous noises that always sounded exactly the same. And Jack. Jack would say, bombs away.

At the end of the lesson, we would all towel off, and.

Jack. Jack would shake my hand, and either Calda or Elizabeth would leave me with a warm dish, like a casserole or spaghetti.

This was the exchange, and it made it so that I didn't really have to get another job.

It was just two hours a week, but all the other hours were in support of those, too. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I'd wake up and think, swim practice. On the other mornings, I'd wake up and think, no swim practice. When I saw one of my students around town, say, at the gas station or the store, I'd say something like, have you been practicing that needle nose dive? And they would respond, I'm working on it. Coach.

I know it's hard for you to imagine me as someone called Coach. I had a very different identity in Belvedere. That's why it's so difficult to talk about it with you. I never had a boyfriend there. I didn't make art. I wasn't artistic at all. I was kind of a jock.

I was totally a jock.

I was the coach of a swim team.

If I thought this would be at all interesting to you, I would have told you earlier and maybe we would still be going out.

It's been about three hours since I ran into you at the bookstore with that woman in the white coat.

A fabulous white coat.

You are obviously completely happy and fulfilled already. Even though we only broke up two weeks ago.

I wasn't even totally sure we were broken up until I saw you with her.

You seem incredibly far away to me, like someone on the other side of a lake. A dot so small that it isn't male or female or young or old. It is just smiling.

Who I miss now tonight is Elizabeth Calda and Jack. Jack. They are dead. Of this I can be sure. What a tremendously sad feeling.

I must be the saddest swim coach in all of.

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That.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Was Parker Posey reading the Swim Team by Miranda July. While we can't ignore our narrator's heavy heart, it's nice to imagine the collective joy of her time in Belvedere and that a modest change of behavior can, for a time, help a small but lonely crowd find community. July is a hypnotic writer, and while there's a dislocating element to this story, there's also something interestingly and specifically realistic about it, and which I don't recall finding in any other writer's fiction. I mean, that sudden realization that you don't know someone's name or a detail about them. Or maybe they don't know your name or a detail about you and too much time has passed and there's nothing to do about it now. We sometimes go through life like bumper cars in an amusement park, banging into each other blindly if familiarly, and hoping for the best the next time. You can't avoid a friend's bad habits or start to trip over your own. Keep in mind the lessons of today's stories. Lead with love and a little bit of whimsy, and maybe consider asking your friend to tuck their phone somewhere way out of sight. 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 Wrobleski. The readings are recorded by Myles 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 Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Welcome to Walgreens.

[Parker Posey]

Looking for a holiday gift?

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Sort of. My cousin Freddie showed up to surprise us.

[Parker Posey]

Oh, sounds like a real nice surprise.

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Exactly. So now I have to get him a gift, but I haven't gotten my bonus yet. So if we can make it something really nice, but. But also not break the bank, that'd be perfect.

[Pauletta Washington]

How about a keurig for 50% off.

[Narrator/Characters in 'Relapse' (Simon Rich story)]

Bingo savings all season? The holiday road is long.

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