Just the Thing

Summary

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Selected Shorts – “Just the Thing”

Date: November 20, 2025
Host: Meg Wolitzer
Episode Theme: Fictional Solutions — Stories where something or someone offers just the thing to solve life’s troubles, big and small, from salesmen hawking gadgets, to angels with healing powers, to time travelers who promise a better future.

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Episode Overview

In this episode titled “Just the Thing”, Meg Wolitzer presents a trio of short stories in which protagonists, grappling with vexing problems, are confronted with tantalizing solutions. Through the lens of speculative fiction, magical realism, and classic sci-fi, the episode explores whether these “solutions” truly resolve life’s challenges—or only offer momentary solace. The episode’s stories are:

1. “Shoulder-Top Secretary” by Shinichi Hoshi – A satirical look at technology and human communication, read by Tom Sesma.
2. “It Had Wings” by Allan Gurganus – A touching magical realism tale about an aging widow visited by an angel, read by Marian Seldes.
3. “The Toynbee Convector” by Ray Bradbury – A speculative classic about hope, deception, and the future of humankind, performed by Mike Doyle.

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1. Introduction: The Allure of Solutions

[03:37]

• Meg Wolitzer sets up the episode’s theme: the irresistible prospect of someone declaring “I’ve got just the thing” when we face a problem, big or small.
• Describes the three stories: encounters with a futuristic salesman, a celestial visitor with mysterious powers, and a time traveler bringing messages from the future.
• Emphasizes how these fictions address the longing for easy fixes—sometimes plausible, sometimes costly—yet always providing hope, if only briefly.

  “Whether we’re dealing with life’s little annoyances... or those troubles of larger proportion, it’s a relief to know that someone, somewhere, has a plan.” – Meg Wolitzer [03:39]

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2. “Shoulder-Top Secretary” by Shinichi Hoshi

[04:20–11:45]
Read by Tom Sesma

Story Summary

• Setting: A future society where everyone has a robotic parrot on their shoulder—part personal assistant, part conversational interpreter.
• Plot: Zameh, a weary door-to-door salesman, tries unsuccessfully to sell an “electric spider” (an automatic backscratcher) to a homemaker. Both salesman and customer speak only in mutters; their parrots expand, translate, and adorn their speech with elaborate politeness.
• The parrots also summarize the true intentions behind polite words, comically exposing social subtext (“She says: don’t want it.”).
• Zameh’s efforts are fruitless; his boss’s parrot scolds him for low performance, while at the bar, he finds solace in flirtatious banter—again, parrot-mediated.

Key Moments & Quotes

• The Sales Pitch

  “It is none other than this magnificent electric spider.... When, for example, your back becomes itchy, you slip this under your clothes. Then the spider automatically finds its way… and gives it a delightful little scratching.” – Zameh’s parrot [06:00]

• Practical Futility

  “She says, get lost.” – Zameh’s parrot, bluntly summarizing the customer’s refusal [07:35]

• Corporate Pressures

  “You need to buckle down… sell more.” – Boss’s parrot [09:15]

• Bar Relief

  The landlady’s parrot greets Zameh “in a sexy voice,” giving him momentary pleasure in an otherwise bleak routine [11:14]

Insights

• Satirizes both technological dependence and the awkwardness of social rituals—robots do the heavy lifting of politeness and translation, yet real human needs remain unmet.
• The story eerily parallels contemporary reliance on digital assistants and the quest to “optimize” communication.
• Wolitzer remarks after the reading:

  “There’s something alluring about the idea of someone who shows up at our door and corrects what we say and makes it more palatable…. Maybe we all need a shoulder-top email secretary.” – Meg Wolitzer [11:45]

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3. “It Had Wings” by Allan Gurganus

[13:30–25:42]
Read by Marian Seldes

Story Summary

• Protagonist: An older widow, arthritic and lonely, tending to her dishes and burdens.
• Inciting Event: She witnesses something crash-land in her backyard—a wounded, shivering angel.
• She cares for the angel, touching its skin and finding her age-old pains vanish. Her emotional burdens—regrets about her sons, minor grievances—are absorbed by the angel as well.
• The angel, restored by her touch and confessions, regains strength and eventually staggers skyward, departing.
• The widow, rejuvenated but already sensing her pain will inevitably return, is left musing about the brevity of miracles and the quiet heroism of unnoticed lives.

Key Moments & Quotes

• Miraculous Healing

  “She gets a mild electric shock and then, odd. Her tickled finger joints stop aching—–they’ve hurt so long.” – Narrator [15:55]

• Intimate Confession

  “Bold, she presses her worst hip deep into crackling feathers.... Her griefs seem to fatten him like vitamins.” [18:10]

• Epiphany & Humility

  “I’m not just somebody in a house. I’m not just somebody alone in a house. I’m not just somebody else alone in a house.” [24:52]

• Final Image

  “She is guarding the world. Only nobody knows.” [25:26]

Insights

• The story gently knits together themes of aging, faith, loss, and everyday dignity.
• The supernatural event is almost less important than the protagonist’s rediscovered sense of agency and hope.
• Memorable moment: The widow, after this miraculous encounter, turns back to the dishes—the world persists, everyday life resumes, and yet she has been changed.
• Wolitzer reflects:

  “Whether or not you believe in angels, Gurganis hints at how difficult it can be to prolong the positive effects of even our most transformational moments.” – Meg Wolitzer [25:42]

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4. “The Toynbee Convector” by Ray Bradbury

[28:31–55:51]
Read by Mike Doyle

Story Summary

• Setup: Reporter Roger Shumway is granted a rare interview with legendary inventor Craig Bennett Stiles, purportedly the only successful time traveler, now 130 years old.
• Backdrop: A century ago, Stiles claimed to have visited a glorious, utopian future, bringing back photos, artifacts, and a message that inspired the world to right its course—solving environmental crises, ending war, curing diseases.
• Climax: As they await the supposed anniversary “return” of Stiles’s time-traveling self (a televised spectacle for a waiting world), Stiles privately confesses to Shumway:

  “I lied. I never went anywhere. I stayed, but made it seem I went. There is no time machine, only something that looks like one.” – Stiles [43:22]

• Stiles explains his actions sprung from a desperate, era-wide lack of hope; he faked his trip to the future to give humanity something to aspire to, catalyzing real change through “promise” rather than proof.
• As the world waits for a miracle, Stiles dies, leaving the legacy—and burden—of his hopeful lie to Shumway, who destroys the evidence and commits to carrying forth the myth.
• The story ends with the reporter rising back to the world—both burdened and buoyed by having witnessed the weight of dreams.

Key Moments & Quotes

• The Lie That Saved the World

  “Life has always been lying to ourselves... to gently lie and prove the lie true, to weave dreams and put brains and ideas and flesh of the truly real beneath the dreams. Everything, finally, is a promise.” – Stiles [52:13]

• Despair of the Past

  “Everywhere was professional despair, intellectual ennui, political cynicism. And what wasn’t ennui and cynicism was rampant skepticism and incipient nihilism.” [43:58]

• Sacrifice for Hope

  "You see the point, don’t you, son? [...] Life has always been lying to ourselves as boys, young men, old men..." – Stiles [52:02]

• Passing the Torch

  “I nominate you, as son, to explain.” – Stiles to Shumway [53:38]

• Humanity’s Need for Uplift

  “So yes, as today’s stories illustrate, a miracle cure can be nice to entertain for a moment. After that brief escape, it’s probably best to rely on ourselves to make any changes we want to see in the world.” – Meg Wolitzer [57:39]

Insights

• Bradbury’s story is a meditation on optimism, collective imagination, and the necessary fictions that drive humanity to strive for better.
• The episode ends poignantly, the magical solution revealed as a benevolent fabrication—a recognition that miracles may not arrive from outside, but are often sparked by the stories we choose to believe and act on.

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5. Behind the Curtain: Mike Doyle on Storytelling

[56:42–57:39]

• Mike Doyle (actor for “The Toynbee Convector”) describes his preparation for reading short fiction:

  “I read it several times silently, and then every morning for like the 10 days prior, I read it out loud… to, you know, annotate and figure out where pauses are, what the important words are, what the sense of the piece are… and try to honor that.” [56:46]

• Expresses the show’s value as a haven for getting lost in stories, and the arts’ power to let us “live vicariously, explore, dream, wish through other people’s words and other people’s art.” [57:16]

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6. Conclusion & Reflections

[57:39]

• Wolitzer draws the episode together:
  • “A miracle cure can be nice to entertain for a moment. After that brief escape, it’s probably best to rely on ourselves to make any changes we want to see in the world.”
  • Invites listeners: “But of course, if you run into a winged celestial being that offers to fix everything, by all means, let us know. We might even consider bringing them on as an intern.” [57:39]

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Notable Quotes & Timestamps

• “There’s something alluring about the idea of someone who shows up at our door and corrects what we say…”
  – Meg Wolitzer [11:45]
• “She is guarding the world. Only nobody knows.”
  – Gurganus (narrator) [25:26]
• “Life has always been lying to ourselves... to gently lie and prove the lie true... Everything, finally, is a promise.”
  – Ray Bradbury (Stiles), [52:13]

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Key Segments & Timestamps

• Intro & Theme Overview: [03:37–04:20]
• “Shoulder-Top Secretary”: [04:20–11:45]
• Wolitzer’s Reflection: [11:45–13:30]
• “It Had Wings”: [13:30–25:42]
• Wolitzer on Gurganus: [25:42–26:34]
• “The Toynbee Convector”: [28:31–55:51]
• Mike Doyle on Storytelling: [56:42–57:39]
• Episode Wrap-up: [57:39–end]

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Tone & Style

The stories blend satire, gentle melancholy, and uplift. Wolitzer’s hosting is warm, introspective, and lightly humorous, emphasizing the connection between fiction and our shared hopes for resolution and meaning.

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For listeners and readers alike, “Just the Thing” is a meditation on our endless quest for solutions, the humanizing value of small miracles—real or imagined—and the power of stories to offer both comfort and challenge in the face of the everyday.

Transcript

[T-Mobile Employee]

Oh, hey, welcome to gift wrapping.

[Customer]

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[T-Mobile Employee]

So is Saldana.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Hey, can you wrap these please?

[T-Mobile Employee]

Wow, iPhone 17s. You splurged.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

At T Mobile. You can get four iPhone 17s on them. The new center stage front camera is amazing for group selfies. It's the perfect gift for everyone.

[Customer]

I'm the worst.

[T-Mobile Employee]

I only got my mom a robe.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Well, it's better than socks.

[T-Mobile Employee]

So I have to trade in my old phone, right?

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

No AT T Mobile. There's no trade ins needed when you switch. Keep your old phone or give it as a gift.

[T-Mobile Employee]

Incredible.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

In fact, wrap up my old phone too for my aunt Rosa.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Forget that.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Aunt Liz will be jealous.

[T-Mobile Employee]

Sounds like my family drama.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Oh, I got it. I'll give it to my abuela. I'll take reindeer paper with. Hey, where are you going?

[Customer]

To T Mobile.

[T-Mobile Employee]

The holidays are better. AT T Mobile get four iPhone 17s on us. No traded needed when you switch, plus four lines for just 25 bucks a line. And now T Mobile is available in US cellular stores with 24 monthly bill credits and four eligible board ends on essentials for well qualified customers. Auto Pay plus taxes, fees and $35 device connection chart credits ended with due. If you pay off early or cancel, contact us. Finance agreement. 256 gigabytes. $830 required.

[Narrator/Reader]

Visit t mobile.com I'm a high note.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Hitting songbird, but I'm also a bird watching backpacker.

[T-Mobile Employee]

Wood thrush, three o'.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Clock.

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Walmart has a wellness side too, with tons of things I need to feel good. From electrolytes to help keep me hydrated, to soothing cough drops for after every show.

[Customer]

Oh man.

How about waterproof boots, size 10?

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

They've got half a billion things online, on the app and in store.

[T-Mobile Employee]

Really?

[Customer]

Who knew?

[T-Mobile Employee]

Okay, was that you or the birds?

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Check out the wellness side of Walmart today.

[Meg Wolitzer]

When you've got a problem, what you desperately want to hear from someone is I've got just the thing. And this week on selected shorts, fiction about solutions. Salesmen, angels and time travelers offer up their best fiction fixes to problems of all kinds. Who knows, maybe one will fix what ails you. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Stay with us. You're listening to selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. No matter how self sufficient we are, we can't always cure what ails us. And whether we're dealing with life's little annoyances like your basic leaky faucet, or those troubles of larger proportion, it's a relief to know that someone, somewhere, has a plan to deal with it. Maybe that plan feels a bit implausible or requires a significant financial commitment, but at least for a moment, a solution really feels within reach. In today's selected shorts, stories about characters coping with pre existing difficulties, large and small, before they happen upon someone or something ready to change everything. In one story, a door to door salesman unveils the must have technology of the future. In a second, a celestial being offers up a possible remedy for the aches and pains of life. And stick around for our final story, a Ray Bradbury classic in which a time machine delivers a hero to our tumultuous present. Let's begin with a story by Shinichi Hoshi. Hoshi is one of Japan's most famous speculative fiction writers, and while he died in 1997, this story about AI feels as though it could have been written yesterday. His short story collections include the Whimsical Robot, A well Kept Life, and the Other side of the Swing. This story was published in the Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories and was translated by J. Rubin Performing his story Shoulder Top Secretary is Tom Sesma, an actor who has appeared in series including Gotham and On Broadway and such shows as man of La Mancha and now Sesma performs Shoulder Top Secretary by Shinichi Hoshi.

[Customer]

Shoulder Top Secretary Gliding down the plastic paved street on his automatic roller skates, Zameh glances at his watch. 4:30. Hmm, maybe I'll try one more place before I go back to the office. Zame slows his skates and stops in front of a house. Zameh is a salesman. In his left hand he carries a big case full of merchandise. Perched on his right shoulder is a parrot with beautiful wings. Such parrots ride atop the shoulders of everyone in this era. He presses the doorbell and waits. Eventually the door opens and the woman of the house appears. Hi, zame mumbles, and immediately the parrot on his shoulder begins to declaim. Madam, please be so kind as to forgive me for intruding on you at this busy time. The parrot is a robot. It is equipped with a precise electronic brain, a recorder, and a speaker, and is designed to elaborate on the mutterings of its owner in conversations. After a brief pause, the parrot on the woman's shoulder replies, oh, thank you. Thank you very much for coming today. Please forgive me, though my memory is so bad I can't quite recall your name. Zame's parrot leans close to his ear and whispers. Who are you? She's asking. These robotic parrots also function to summarize and report the speech of the other person. I'm from the New Electro Company. Zame mutters, buy this electric spider. The parrot then interprets with the utmost politeness, actually, madam, I'm a sales representative of the New Electro Company. I believe you probably know that we as a company pride ourselves on our long tradition and reliability. I am here today to show you a new product that our research division has finally managed to perfect after many years of experimentation. It is none other than this magnificent electric spider. At this point, Zameh opens his case and pulls out a small metal device that looks like a shiny golden spider. His parrot continues, and here it is. When, for example, your back becomes itchy, you slip this under your clothes. Then the spider automatically finds its way to the itchy spot and gives it a delightful little scratching. With these little legs, I'm sure you will agree that it is a marvelously convenient invention. I have made a special point of bringing it with me today because I am sure that an elegant household such as yours should be equipped with one. When Zame's parrot stops speaking, the parrot on the housewife's shoulder whispers into her ear. Too quietly for Zame to hear, he says, buy this automatic backscratcher. She mutters back to the parrot, I don't want it. Which her parrot expands for her as follows. Oh, how marvelous. Your company makes wonderful new product after another. Unfortunately, however, we simply do not have the means to outfit our home with such a superb mechanism. Zame's parrot reports to him. She says, don't want it. Zame mutters, aw, come on. His parrot proclaims with increased warmth, but you see, madam, what a marvelously convenient product this is. It enables you to scratch where your hand is unable to reach, and it can be used in the presence of giant guests without their ever suspecting, not to mention the drudgery it saves. We have outdone ourselves in setting the price as low as possible. He says, please buy it. What a pain. After this exchange with its owner, the woman's parrot answers, to tell you the truth, I never buy anything without consulting my husband. Unfortunately, he hasn't come home from work yet, and so I can't possibly make such an important decision. Perhaps I can discuss it with him tonight, and then possibly the next time you're in the area, you might be so good as to stop by again. I would love to buy it, but it really is out of the question. I'm terribly sorry. Zame's parrot summarizes this for him. She says, get lost. Zame resigns himself, and as he is returning the electric spider to his case, he mutters, so long, babe. The parrot on his shoulder announces his departure with the utmost politeness. Oh, well, it truly is a shame. All right then, if you don't mind, I will call on you again at some point in the near future. I am sorry for having taken up so much of your valuable time. Please give my regards to your husband. Zame steps outside with the parrot still clinging to his shoulder. He revs up his roller skates again and goes back to the office. He is seated at his desk, adding up the day's receipts on his calculator, when the parrot on the department chief's shoulder calls out to him, hey, Zame. Oh, great. Another lecture. Zame mutters to himself, whereupon his parrot responds, right away, sir. Just let me finish straightening up here. Soon Zame is standing before the chief's desk. The chief releases a cloud of tobacco smoke from the depths of which the parrot on his shoulder says with authority, now see here, Zame. These are critical times for the company. We are being called upon to make a great leap forward, and I believe you know this as well as anyone. And yet, when I look at your results, I can't help feeling that you could do better. This is a deplorable situation. I want you to understand what I'm saying here. You need to buckle down. Xame's parrot whispers to him. He says, sell more. Yeah, Xame mutters back, like it's so easy. His parrot meekly responds, yes, sir, I understand completely. And I am determined to increase my sales volume yet again. Our competitors, however, are using all kinds of new techniques. Selling is not as easy as it used to be. I will, of course, increase my efforts, but I would be most grateful, sir, if you would ask Research and Development to create more and more new products. The bell sounds at the end of the workday at New Electro. Over at last. It's exhausting to run around all day like that. Gotta have a drink. Zame pushes open the door of the Galaxy, a bar he often visits on his way home. Spotting him, the landlady's parrot calls out to him in a sexy voice.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Oh.

[Customer]

It'S you, Mr. Zame. Please come in. It's been ages since I last saw you. Without a handsome man like you here, this place can be so depressing. For Zame, this is the most enjoyable part of the day.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Shinichi Hoshi's story, Shoulder Top Secretary, read by Tom Sesma. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Now I should mention to our younger listeners in the long distant past. Sometimes a knock at the door indicated not a package being wordlessly dropped off, but an encounter with someone you actually felt obligated to talk to, and that person might have wanted to see sell you items as useless as that thing you recently bought surfing the Web in the wee hours of the morning. But when you think about it, there's something alluring about the idea of someone who shows up at our door and corrects what we say and makes it more palatable these days. Maybe we all need a shoulder top email secretary who can tweak the wording just before our email whooshes off into the ethereum, possibly about to ruin our life. I have a feeling these shoulder top, or should I call them laptop secretaries would be in great demand. Next up, a story from Alan Gerganis. He's the author of the well known novel Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells all, though he's equally adept at creating novellas and short stories. Today we'll hear It Had Wings, an intimate and playful piece about a truly unexpected visitor, which was adapted into a short film for pbs. It was read by the late Marian Seldes. She was a longtime Broadway actor famous for roles in plays such as Death Trap and Equus. She was also known for communicating the work of Edward Albee to mainstream audiences. And here is Marian Seldes with It Had Wings by Alan Gerganis.

[Narrator/Reader]

Find a little yellow side street house, put an older woman in it, dress her in that tatty favorite robe, pull her slippers up before the sink, have her doing dishes, gazing nowhere at her own backyard, gazing everywhere. Something falls outside, loud, one damp thwunk into new grass, a meteor. She herself retired from selling formal clothes at Wanamaker's. She herself a widow and the mother of three scattered sons. She herself alone at home a lot these days, goes onto tiptoe, leans across a sink full of suds, sees out near her picnic table something nude, white, overly long. It keeps shivering. Both wings seem damaged. No way, she says. It appears human. Yes, it is a male one. It's face up and you can tell it's extremely male, Uncircumcised, this old woman, pushing 80, a history of aches, uses fun, now, presses one damp hand across her eyes, blaming strain, the luster of new cataracts. She looks again. Still it rests there on a bright air mattress of its own wings, outer feathers are tough quills broad at bottom as rowboat oars. The whole left wing bends far under. It looks hurt, the widow sighing takes up her blue willow mug of heated milk. Shaking her head, muttering, she carries it out back. She moves so slow because arthritis it criticizes every step. It asks about the mug she holds. Do you really need this? She stoops, creaky beside what can only be a young angel. Unconscious. Quick. She checks overhead. Ready for what? Some TV news crew in a helicopter? She sees only a sky of the usual size, a Tuesday sky stretched between weekends. She allows herself to touch this thing's white forehead. She gets a mild electric shock and then, odd. Her tickled finger joints stop aching they've hurt so long. A practical person, she quickly cures her other hand. The angel grunts but sounds pleased. His temperature's 150 easy, but for him this seems somehow normal. Poor thing, she says and careful pulls his heavy curly head into her lap. The head hums like a phone knocked off its cradle. She scans for neighbors, hoping they'll come out, wishing they wouldn't. Both look. Will warm milk help? She pours some down him. Her wrist brushes angel skin, which pulls the way an ice tray begs for whatever touches it. A 30 year pain leaves her, enters him. Even her liver spots are lightening. He grunts with pleasure, soaking up all of it. Bold, she presses her worst hip deep into crackling feathers. The hip has been half numb since a silly fall last February. All stiffness leaves her. He goes ugh. Her griefs seem to fatten him like vitamins. Bolder, she whispers. Private woes. The Medicare cuts, the sons too casual by half, the daughters in law. Not bad, but not so great. These woes seem ended. Nobody will believe. Still tell me some of it. She tilts nearer. Both his eyes stay shut. But his voice like clicks from a million crickets, pools, goes, well, we're just another army. We all look alike. We didn't before. It's not what you expect. We miss this other don't count on the next notice things here we're just another army. Oh, she said, nodding. She feels limber now, sure as any girl of 20. Admiring his unspeckled hands, she helps him rise. Wings serve as handles. Kneeling on damp ground, she watches him go staggering towards her barbecue pit. Awkward for an athlete. Really awkward for an angel. The poor thing climbs up there, wobbly standing. He is handsome, but as a vase is handsome. When he turns this way she sees his eyes. They're silver and each reflects her a speck pink on green grain grass. She now fears he plans to take her up as thanks. She presses both palms flat to the dirt. The house is finally paid off, not just yet. And smiles. Suddenly he's infinitely, infinitely more so silvery raw, gleaming like a sunny monument, a clock. Each wing puffs independent feathers sort and shuffle like 300 packs of playing cards out flings either arm, knees dip low then up and off he shoves one solemn grunt. Machete swipes cross her backyard. Breezes cool her upturned face six feet overhead. He falters, whips in makeshift circles, manages to hold aloft then go shrub high, gutter high. He avoids a messy tangle of phone lines now rocking from the wind of him go go. The widow, grinning, points away do yeah good. He signals back at her, open mouthed and left down there first a glinting man shaped kite, next an oblong of aluminum in sun now a new moon shrunk to decent star. One flick flecks memory. Usual Tuesday sky. She kneels panting, happier and frisky. She's hungry but she must rush over and tell Lydia next door. Then she pictures Lydia's worry lines bunching. Lydia will maybe phone the missing sons come right home. Your mother's inventing company. Maybe other angels have dropped into other Elm street backyards behind fences. Did neighbors help earlier? Hurt ones? Folks keep so much of the best stuff quiet, don't they? Palms on knees, she stands wirier. This retired saleswoman was the formal gowns advisor to 10 mayors wives. She spent 60 years of nine to five on her feet, scuffing indoors. Now, staring down at terry slippers, she decides gotta wash these next week. Can a person who's just sighted her first angel already be mulling about the laundry? Yes, the world is like that. From her sink she sees her own blue willow mug out there in the grass. It rests in muddy ruts where the falling body struck so hard a neighbor's collie keeps barking. It saw. Okay, this happened. So, she says and plunges hands into dishwater. Still warm heat usually helps her achy joints feel agile, but fingers don't even hurt now. Her bad hip doesn't pinch one bit. And yet sad they all will. By suppertime they will again remind her of what usual suffering means to her nimble underwater hands. The widow staring straight ahead announces, I helped. He flew off stronger. I really egged him on like anybody would have, really. Still it was me. I'm not just somebody in a house. I'm not just somebody alone in a house. I'm not just somebody else alone in a house. Feeling more herself, she finishes the breakfast dishes in time for lunch. This old woman should be famous for all she has been through Today's angel, her years in sales, the suns and friends. She should be famous for her life. She knows things. She's seen so much. She is not famous. Still, the lady keeps gazing past her kitchen cafe curtains. She keeps studying her own small, tidy yard. An anchor fence, the picnic table, a barbecue pit, new Bermuda grass. Hands braced on her sink's cool edge, she tips nearer a bright window. She seems to be expecting something, expecting something decent. Her kitchen clock is ticking. That dog still barks to calm itself. And she keeps staring out, nowhere, everywhere. Spots on her hands are darkening again. And yet she whispers, I'm right here. Ready, Ready for more. Can you guess why this old woman's chin is lifted? Why does she breathe as if to show exactly how it's done? Why should both her shoulders, usually quite bent, brace so square just now.

[Meg Wolitzer]

She.

[Narrator/Reader]

Is guarding the world. Only nobody knows.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was it had Wings by Alan Gerganis Performed by Marian Seldes. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Lovely and rueful, isn't it? Whether or not you believe in angels, Gerganis hints at how difficult it can be to prolong the positive effects of even our most transformational moments. I've known Alan for a long time and he is a master stylist. I love the way he takes the time here to draw us into an entire invented little world, finally exploding it into something miraculous. Now that I think about it, even without the angel, his fiction would still be pretty miraculous. When we return, Ray Bradbury and an encounter with the one man who has saved Seen the Future. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

[Narrator/Reader]

Welcome to Walgreens.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Looking for a holiday gift?

[T-Mobile Employee]

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

[T-Mobile Salesperson]

Oh, sounds like a real nice surprise.

[T-Mobile Employee]

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.

[Meg Wolitzer]

How about a keurig for 50% off.

[T-Mobile Employee]

Bingo savings all season? The holiday road is long. We're with you all the way. Walgreens offer valid November 26 through December 27. Exclusions apply.

[Customer]

Foreign.

[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. Our next piece about miracle cures for big problems, is by Ray Bradbury. Bradbury is, of course, responsible for American classics, including Something Wicked this way comes Fahrenheit 451 and the Martian Chronicles. He also wrote many speculative and fantastical short stories that never let a high concept outshine the underlying human struggles. This piece about the future and what it takes to save humankind was first published in 1984. Reading it is Mike Doyle, a performer long known for his role on Law and Order svu. He's also a writer director and has appeared in many other series including including New Amsterdam. Now here's Mike Doyle with Ray Bradbury's the Toynbee Convector.

[Customer]

The Toynbee Convector Good.

[Narrator/Reader]

Great.

[Customer]

Bravo for me. Roger Shumway flung himself into the ceiling seat, buckled himself in, revved the rotor, and drifted his Dragonfly super six helicopter up to blow away on the summer sky, heading south toward La Jolla. How lucky can you get? For he was on his way to an incredible meeting. The time traveler, after 100 years of silence, had agreed to be interviewed. He was on the say, 130 years old, and this afternoon at 4:00 clock sharp, Pacific Time was the anniversary of his one and only journey in time Lord. Yes, 100 years ago, Craig Bennett Stiles had waved, stepped into his immense clock, as he called it, and vanished from the present. He was and remained the only man in history to travel in time, and Shumway was the one and only reporter after all these years, to be invited in for afternoon tea and the possible announcement of a second and final trip through time. The Traveler had hinted at such a trip. Old man, said Shenwe, Mr. Craig Bennett Stiles, here I come. The Dragonfly, obedient to fevers, seized a wind and rode it down the coast. The Old man was there, waiting for him on the roof of the Time Lamasery at the rim of the Hang Gliders cliff in La Jolla. The air swarmed with crimson, blue and lemon kites from which young men shouted while young women called to them from the land's edge. Stiles, for all of his 130 years, was not old. His face, blinking up at the helicopter, was the bright face of one of those hang gliding Apollo fools who veered off as the helicopter sank down. Shumway hovered his craft for a long moment, savoring the delay. Below him was a face that had dreamed architectures known incredible loves, blueprinted mysteries of seconds, hours, days, then dived in to swim upstream through centuries, a sunburst face celebrating its own birthday. Four on a single night. 100 years ago, Craig Bennett Stiles, freshly returned from time, had reported by Telstar around the world to billions of viewers and told them their future. We made it, he said. We did it. The future is ours. We rebuilt cities, freshened the small towns, cleaned the lakes and rivers, washed the air, saved the dolphins, increased the whales, stopped the wars, tossed solar stations across space to light the world, colonized the moon, moved on to Mars, then Alpha Centauri. We cured cancer and stopped death. We did it. Oh Lord, much thanks. We did it. Oh futures bright and beauty aspires arise. He showed them pictures. He brought them samples. He gave them tapes and LP records, films and sound cassettes of his wondrous roundabout flight. The world went mad with joy. It ran to meet and make that future, filling up the cities of promise. Save all and share with the beasts of land and sea. The old man's welcoming shout came up the wind. Shumway shouted back, and let the dragonfly simmer down in its own summer weather. Craig Bennett Stiles, 130 years old, strode forward briskly and incredibly helped the young reporter out of his craft, for Shumway was suddenly stunned and weak at this encounter. I can't believe I'm here, said Shumway. You are none too soon, laughed the time traveler. Any day now I may just fall apart and blow away. Lunch is waiting. Hike. A parade of 1stiles marched off under the fluttering rotor shadows that made him seem a flickering newsreel of a future that somehow passed Shumwei like a small dog after a great army followed. What do you want to know? Asked the old man as they crossed the roof. Double time first, gasped Shenmue, keeping up. Why have you broken silence after a hundred years? Second, why to me? Third, what's the big announcement you're going to make this afternoon at 4 o', clock, the very hour when your younger self is due to arrive from the past, when for a brief moment you will appear in two places. The paradox. The person you were, the man. You are fused in one glorious hour for us to celebrate. The old man laughed. How you do go on. Sorry. Shumway blushed. I wrote that last night. Well, those are the questions. You shall have your answers. The old man shook his elbow gently. All in good time. You must excuse my excitement, said Shumway. After all, you are a mystery. You were famous, world acclaimed. You went, saw the future, came back, told us, then went into seclusion. Oh, sure. For a few weeks you traveled the world in ticker tape parades, showed yourself on tv, wrote one book, gifted us with one magnificent two hour television film, then shut yourself away here. Yes, the time Machine is on exhibit below, and crowds are allowed in each day at noon to see and touch. But you yourself have refused fame. Not so. The old man led him along the roof. Below in the gardens, other helicopters were arriving now, bringing TV equipment from around the world to photograph the miracle in the sky. That moment when the time machine from the past would appear, shimmer, then wander off to visit other cities before it vanished into the past. I have been busy as an architect helping build that very future. I saw when, as a young man, I arrived in our golden tomorrow. They stood for a moment, watching the preparations below. Vast tables were being set up for food and drink. Dignitaries would be arriving soon from every country of the world to thank for a final time, perhaps this fabled, this almost mythic traveler of the years. Come along, said the old man. Would you like to come sit in the time machine? No one else ever has, you know. Would you like to be the first? No answer was necessary. The old man could see that the young man's eyes were bright and wet. There, there, said the old man. Oh, dear me. There, there. A glass elevator sank and took them below and let them out in a pure white basement, at the center of which stood the incredible device. There. Stiles touched a button and the plastic shell that had for 100 years encased the time machine slid aside. The old man nodded. Go sit. Shumway moved slowly toward the machine. Stiles touched another button and the machine lit up like a cavern of spider webs. It breathed in years and whispered forth remembrance. Ghosts were in its crystal veins. A great God spider had woven its tapestries in a single night. It was haunted and it was alive. Unseen tides came and went in its machinery. Suns burned and moons hid their seasons in it. Here and autumn blew away in tatters. There, winters arrived in snows that drifted in spring, blossoms to fall on summer fields. The young man sat in the center of it all, unable to speak, gripping the armrests of the padded chair. Don't be afraid, said the old man gently. I won't send you on a journey. I wouldn't mind, said Shumway. The old man studied his face. No, I can see you wouldn't. You look like me 100 years ago this day. Damn if you aren't my honorary son. The young man shut his eyes at this, and the lids glistened as the ghosts in the machine sighed all about him and promised him tomorrows. Well, what do you think of my Toynbee convector? Said the old man briskly. To break the spell, he cut the Power. The young man opened his eyes. The Toynbee convector. What more mysteries, eh? The great Toynbee, that fine historian who said any group, any race, any world that did not run to seize the future and shape it was doomed to dust away in the grave in the past. Did he say that or some such? He did. So. What better name for my machine, eh, Toynbee? Wherever you are, here's your future seizing device. He grabbed the young man's elbow and steered him out of the machine. Enough of that. It's late. Almost time for the great arrival, eh? And the earth shaking final announcement of that old time traveler. Stiles, Jump. Back on the roof they looked down on the gardens, which were now swarming with the famous and the near famous from across the world. The nearby roads were jammed. The skies were full of helicopters and hovering biplanes. The hang gliders had long since given up and now stood along the cliff rim like a mob of bright pterodactyls, wings folded, heads up, staring at the clouds, waiting. All this, the old man murmured. My God. For me? The young man checked his watch. 10 minutes to 4 and counting. Almost time for the great arrival. Sorry? That's what I called it when I wrote you up a week ago for the news. The moment of arrival and departure in the blink of an eye. When by stepping across time you changed the whole future of the world from night to day, dark to light. I've often wondered what? Shumway studied the sky. When you went ahead in time, did no one see you arrive? Did anyone at all happen to look up, do you know, and see your device hover in the middle of the air here and over Chicago a bit later? And then New York and Paris.

[Meg Wolitzer]

No one.

[Customer]

Well, said the inventor of the Toynbee convector, I don't suppose anyone was expecting this.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Me.

[Customer]

And if people saw, they surely did not know what in blazes they were looking at. I was careful anyway, not to linger too long. I needed only time to photograph the rebuilt cities, the clean seas and rivers, the fresh smog, free air, the unfortified nations, the saved and beloved whales. I moved quickly, photographed swiftly, and ran back down the years home. Today, paradoxically, is different. Millions upon millions of mobs of eyes will be looking up with great expectations. They will glance, will they not, from the young fool burning in the sky to the old fool here, still glad for his triumph. They will, said Shumway. Oh, indeed they will. A cork popped. Shumway turned from surveying the crowds on the nearby fields and and the crowds of circling objects in the sky to see that Stiles had just opened a bottle of champagne. Our own private toast. And our own private celebration. They held their glasses up, waiting for the precise and proper moment to drink. Five minutes to four and counting. Why, said the young reporter, did no one else ever travel in time? I put a stop to it myself, said the old man, leaning over the roof, looking down at the crowds. I realized how dangerous it was. I was reliable, of course. No danger. But, lord, think of it. Just anyone rolling about the bowling alley, time corridors ahead, knocking 10 pins headlong, frightening natives, shocking citizens somewhere else, fiddling with Napoleon's lifeline behind or restoring Hitler's cousins ahead. No. No. And the government, of course, agreed. No, insisted that we put the Toynbee convector under sealed lock and key today. You were the first and the last to fingerprint its machinery. The guard has been very heavy and constant for tens of thousands of days to prevent the machines being stolen. What time do you have? Shumway glanced at his watch and took in his breath. One minute and counting down. He counted. The old man counted. They raised their champagne glasses. 9. 8. 7. The crowds below were immensely silent. The sky whispered with expectation. The TV cameras swung up to scan and search.

[Narrator/Reader]

6.

[Customer]

5. They clinked their glasses. 4. 3. 2. They drank. 1. They drank their champagne. With a laugh. They looked to the sky, the golden air above the La Jolla coastline waited the moment for the great arrival was here. Now. Cried the young reporter, like a magician giving orders. Now, said Stiles gravely. Quiet. Nothing. Five seconds passed. The sky stood empty. Ten seconds passed. The heavens waited. Twenty seconds passed. Nothing. At last Shumway turned to stare in wonder at the old man by his side. Stiles looked at him, shrugged, and said, I lied. You what? The crowds below shifted uneasily. I lied, said the old man simply. No. Oh, but yes, said the time traveler. I never went anywhere. I stayed, but made it seem I went. There is no time machine, only something that looks like one. But why? Cried the young man, bewildered, holding to the rail at the edge of the roof. Why? I see that you have a tape recording button on your lapel. Turn it on. Yes. There. I want everyone to hear this. Now. The old man finished his champagne. Because I was born and raised in a time in the 60s, 70s, and 80s when people had stopped believing in themselves. I saw that disbelief, the reason that no longer gave itself reasons to survive and was moved, depressed, and then angered by it. Everywhere I saw and heard doubt. Everywhere I learned destruction. Everywhere was professional despair, intellectual Ennui. Political cynicism. And what wasn't ennui in cynicism was rampant skepticism and incipient nihilism. The old man stopped, having remembered something. He bent and from under a table brought forth a special bottle of red Burgundy with the label 1984 on it. This as he talked, he began to open gently, plumbing the ancient quark. You name it, we had it. The economy was a snail. The world was a cesspool. Economics remained an insolvable mystery. Melancholy was the attitude. The impossibility of change was the vogue. End of the world was the slogan. Nothing was worth doing. Go to bed at night full of bad news at 11. Wake up in the morn to worst news at 7. Trudge through the day underwater. Drown at night in a tide of plagues and pestilence. Ah, for the cork had softly popped. The now harmless 1984 vintage was ready for airing. The Time traveler sniffed it and nodded. Not only the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode the horizon to fling themselves on our cities, but a fifth horsemen, worse than all the rest, rode with them, despair wrapped in dark shrouds of defeat, crying only repetitions of past disasters, present failures, future cowardices bombarded by dark chaff and no bright seed. What sort of harvest was there for man in the latter part of the incredible 20th century? Forgotten was the moon. Forgotten the red landscapes of Mars, the great eyes of Jupiter, the stunning rings of Saturn. We refused to be comforted. We wept at the grave of our child. And the child was us. Was that how it was? Asked Shumway quietly. 100 years ago, yes. The Time traveler held up the wine bottle as if it contained proof. He poured some into a glass, eyed it, inhaled, and went on. You've seen the newsreels, read the books of that time. You know it all. Oh, of course there were a few bright moments when when Salk delivered the world's children to life. Or the night when Eagle landed. And that one great step from mankind trod the Moon. But in the minds and out of the mouths of many, the fifth Horseman was darkly cheered on with high hopes, it sometimes seemed, of his winning. So all would be gloomily satisfied that their predictions of doom were right from day one. So the self fulfilling prophecies were declared. We dug our graves and prepared to lie down in them. And you couldn't allow that, said the young reporter. You know I couldn't. And so you built the Toynbee Convector. Not all at once. It took years to brood on it. The old man paused to swirl the dark wine, gazed at it, sipped, eyes closed. Meanwhile, I drowned. I despaired, wept silently, late nights, thinking, what can I do to save us from ourselves? How to save my friends, my city, my state, my country, the entire world from this obsession with doom? Well, it was in my library late one night that my hand, searching along shelves, touched at last on an old and beloved book by H.G. wells, His Time device called Ghost. Like down the years, I heard, I understood, I truly listened. Then I blueprinted, I built, I travelled, or so it seemed. The rest, as you know, is history. The old time traveler drank his wine and opened his eyes. Good God, the young reporter whispered, shaking his head. Oh, dear God. Oh, the wonder. The wonder. There was an immense ferment in the lower gardens now and in the fields beyond and on the roads and in the air. Millions were still waiting. Where was the great arrival? Well, now, said the old man, filling another glass with wine for the young reporter, aren't I something? I made the machines, built miniature cities, lakes, ponds, seas, erected vast architectures against crystal water. Skies talked to dolphins, played with whales, faked tapes, mythologized films. Oh, it took years, years of sweating work and secret preparation before I announced my departure, left and came back with good news. They drank the rest of the vintage wine. There was a hum of voices. All of the people below were looking up at the roof. The time traveler waved at them and turned quickly. Now, it's up to you from here on. You have the tape, my voice on it, just freshly made. Here are three more tapes with fuller data. Here's a film cassette history of my whole inspired fraudulence. Here's a final manuscript. Take, take it all. Hand it on. I nominate you, as son, to explain. The father quickly hustled into the elevator once more. Shumway felt the world fall away beneath. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so gave at last a great hoot. The old man, surprised, hooted with him as they stepped out below and advanced upon the Toynbee convector. You see the point, don't you, son? Life has always been lying to ourselves as boys, young men, old men, as girls, maidens, women. To gently lie and prove the lie true, to weave dreams and put brains and ideas and flesh of the truly real beneath the dreams. Everything, finally is a promise. What seems a lie is a ramshackle need wishing to be born here thus. And so he pressed the button that raised the plastic shield, pressed another that started the time machine humming, then shuffled quickly in to thrust himself into the convector's. Seat. Throw the final switch, young man. But you're thinking here. The old man laughed. If the time machine is a fraud, it won't work. What's the use of throwing a switch? Yes, throw it anyway. This time it will work. Shumway turned, found the control switch, grabbed hold, then looked up at Craig Bennett Stiles. I don't understand. Where are you going? Why, to be one with the ages, of course. To exist now only in the deep past. How can that be? Believe me, this time it will happen. Goodbye, dear, fine, nice young man. Goodbye. Now tell me my name. What? Speak my name and throw the switch, time traveler. Yes. Now. The young man yanked the switch. The machine hummed, roared, blazed with power. Oh, said the old man, shutting his eyes. His mouth smiled gently. Yes. His head fell forward on his chest. Shumway yelled, banged the switch off and leaped forward to tear at the straps and binding the old man and his device. In the midst of so doing, he stopped. He felt the time traveler's wrist, put his fingers under the neck to test the pulse, and groaned. He began to weep. The old man had indeed gone back in time, and its name was Death. He was traveling in the past now, forever. Shumway stepped back and turned the machine on again. If the old man were to travel, let the machine, symbolically anyway, go with him. It made a sympathetic humming, the fire of it, the bright sun fire burned in all of its spider grids and armatures and lighted the cheeks and the vast brow of the ancient traveler, whose head seemed. Seemed to nod with the vibrations and whose smile, as he traveled into darkness, was the smile of a child much satisfied. The reporter stood for a long moment more, wiping his cheeks on the back of his hands. Then, leaving the machine on, he turned, crossed the room, pressed the button for the glass elevator, and while he was waiting, took the time travelers tapes and cassettes from his jacket pockets and one by one shoved them into the incinerator. Trash flue set in the wall. The elevator doors open. He stepped in. The doors shut. The elevator hummed like yet another time device, taking him up into a stunned world, a waiting world, lifting him up into a bright continent, a future land, a wondrous and surviving planet that one man with one lie had created.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Mike Doyle with the Toynbee Convector. By Ray Bradbury. I'm Meg Wolitzer. I might argue that one of the most effective elements of the Toynbee Convector is its use of disappointment. Bradbury sets up his journalist narrator, Shumway, the same way he sets up the reader. We expect bells and whistles and above all, solutions delivered via a magical piece of technology. But as Shumway learns, as we all learn, there's no wise old man in a magical chariot about to arrive with the answers to all of our burning questions. In recent years, Mike Doyle has become a Selected Shorts regular. Reading a wide range of stories, from futuristic reporter to sympathetic teacher, Doyle shared his thoughts backstage about the importance of the arts and his process.

[Customer]

All the short stories are different.

[Mike Doyle]

Sometimes they're more actively dialogue based and other times they're sort of more prose driven. So I read it several times silently, and then every morning for like the 10 days prior, I read it out loud just to, you know, annotate and figure out, you know, where pauses are, what the important words are, what the sense of the piece are, what the what the author's trying to say, and try to honor that. Selected Shorts feels like home, and I'm really lucky to be part of the family. I think we all learned firsthand the importance of the arts and what we do in allowing people to sort of take a little time off from their regular lives and live vicariously, explore, dream, wish through other people's words and other people's art.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was actor Mike Doyle. You can listen to more Mike Doyle readings on our podcast, where you can also find several Ray Bradbury classics. I think one of the reasons so many of us loved Ray Bradbury when we first encountered his work as kids is that there was always the possibility of a new reality just waiting for us, whether it was in another room of a house. Remember the very cool story the Veldt, which we've featured on past shows or on Mars or in the case of this story, in the looming future. So yes, as today's stories illustrate, a miracle cure can be nice to entertain for a moment. After that brief escape, it's probably best to rely on ourselves to make any changes we want to see in the world. But of course, if you run into a winged celestial being that offers to fix everything, by all means, let us know. We might even consider bringing them on as an intern. 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 Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nolsen. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the 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.