← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Keeping Score
00:59:41
Host Meg Wolitzer presents three stories in that look at some of the ways we “keep score” in life even though we know it’s not a game. Simon Rich explores the game as intergenerational competition in “The Tribal Rite of the Strombergs,” read by John Hodgman. In Dylan Marron’s “Some News,” a man carefully tracks an old friend on social media, while eyeing his own accomplishments. Marron is the reader. And Joanne Harris’ “Fule’s Gold,” a teacher tries to put himself on the board—by stealing points from an unwitting student. The reader is Gildart Jackson.
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Transcript15 lines
- [00:08]
Meg Wolitzer
Life doesn't have a scoreboard. Or does it? I'm Meg Wolitzer, and on this selected shorts fiction about people who can't help themselves from keeping score. Some will win, some lose, and others will probably be awarded the ribbon for participation. You. You get a gold star just for joining us. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Stay with. You're listening to selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Life doesn't offer one way to measure success. Sure, there are obvious things like becoming a billionaire or a CEO or winning a Pulitzer Prize, but these are not some objective measure of what it means to win. After all, what are all these things to an avowed Marxist or some spiritual guru who let go of material possessions? Then there are those who measure their success by their ability to fulfill the biological imperative with each child marking a new achievement. And believe it or not, there are those who measure their fulfillment in moments with family and friends. Weirdos. In short, there's no perfect system for tracking a life's wins or losses, unless we just decide to start keeping score. Heck, why not give it a shot if there are people out there who think that life is just a game? For the next hour, let's give life a point system. Watch the scoreboard and see what happens. Our first story explores the shocking subtext of one intergenerational Scrabble game. In a second story, a man carefully tracks an old friend on social media while eyeing his own accomplishments. And in a third, a teacher tries to put himself on the board by stealing points from an unwitting student. Our first story in this show about keeping score is by Simon Rich. He's contributed a lot of very funny stories to the New Yorker, many of which have been collected in volumes including the Last Girlfriend on Earth and Glory Days. He's also had his works adapted into TV series, such as Miracle Workers. This piece about games with truly staggering house rules is read by writer performer John Hodgman. He's known as Judge John Hodgman both on his podcast and in the New York Times Magazine, and has written titles including Medallion Status and Now John Hodgman Performs the Tribal Rite of the Strombergs by Simon Rich.
- [02:51]
John Hodgman
The Tribal Rite of the Strombergs. Hmm. What? Not sure about qat? Jeremy looked up from the board with shock. His father had never questioned any of his words before. The old man's lead was usually so big that he let him put down anything he wanted. Proper nouns, abbreviations, even the occasional swear word. It's a type of plant, jeremy said. I learned it on Words With Friends. What's that? It's an app. Hmm, his father said. Hmm. Jeremy folded his arms and smirked. You're welcome to challenge it. His father picked at a loose wooden button on his cardigan. That's all right, he said, flicking his wrist. I'll let you have it. Jeremy grinned. His dad had only five tiles left, and they were obviously doozies. He couldn't remember a game ever being this close. He'd come within 10 points once during college, but his father had just come out of thyroid surgery then and was woozy from a host of strong narcotics. Are we allowing foreign words? His father asked. Jeremy raised his eyebrows. Foreign words were never allowed. His dad was the one who taught him that rule. Of course not, jeremy said. Hmm, his father said. Then I guess I'll pass. They both glanced at the scoring pad. Dad was still ahead, 252 to 239, but Jerem was about to end the game. Ta, he said proudly. What? Ta, Jeremy said. Ta like goodbye. He slid his final tile into place, a T before the A in qat. Cat. He'd set it up and things had played out perfectly. Challenge, his father mumbled. Jeremy laughed. Seriously. Challenge, his father repeated, his voice gruff with frustration. Jeremy shook his head in disbelief. They'd both been using ta for years. Okay, fine. He creaked open the Scrabble dictionary and showed his father ta. Here's cat, too, he said, flipping back a few pages. His father scratched his scalp. He was still up 11 points, but they hadn't yet accounted for the remaining letters. Come on, jeremy said. Let's see him. His father reluctantly flicked over his rack. He had mostly vowels, predictably three A's and an E, but But one tile leaped out like a clump of gold in gravel, a jagged 10 point Z.
- [05:58]
Dylan Marin
Yes.
- [05:59]
John Hodgman
Jeremy shouted, banging his fist against the table. Holy shit. I can't believe it. He subtracted his dad's tile from his score, added the amount to his own, and scribbled down the final tally. Dad 238. Jerem 255. He tore off the sheet and pocketed it. He couldn't wait to show it to his fiance. She had read his dad's textbook in college and considered him a genius. Her mind was about to be blown. He was posting a picture on the board to Instagram when he noticed that his father was undressing. Dad, he said. What are you doing? I knew this day would come, he said. He stripped off his shirt and knelt on the ground. His naked, flabby arms stretched out in supplication. Club me to death and eat my body, dad. Eat my weakened body, his father said, for I have become too old to live. Dad. Come on, jeremy said. It's just one game. It doesn't have to be like this. But he knew there were no other alternatives. The Stromberg family had been practicing the rite for generations. He himself had witnessed his mother shove his grandmother onto an ice floe. They were on a ski trip in Vermont, and his grandmother had forgotten the name of the actor who played Frasier. It's not a big deal, his mother said through sobs. Everybody forgets things sometimes. The old woman shook her head stoically. Bathe me in sacred oils, she commanded, and cast me out to burden you no more. They'd fed Aunt Susan to a horse in Central park when she was only 50. She'd promised to get her niece a summer internship at Bravo, but when she called up the producer that she used to date, he told her he was no longer with the network. Layoffs were looming, and he'd taken a buyout. Susan was shocked. She'd had inns at NBC for as long as she could remember. She dated assistants in her 20s, editors in her 30s, and producers in her 40s. Now she didn't even know anyone who worked there. It's okay, her niece insisted, as little tears formed in her eyes. I don't even care about tv. I just wanted an excuse to live in New York this summer. Feed me to the beasts, susan interrupted, for I have outlived my purpose. Grandma Edith had walked off a cliff on Thanksgiving after accidentally calling her granddaughter's black boyfriend Barack. It's okay, said the boyfriend, whose name was John. I'm not offended. But it was too late. Edith had already put on her New Balances and headed for the rocks. Uncle Mort had taken the right just two weeks ago. He was making some coffee for his daughter when a fuzzy voice blared from his dusty Dell computer. You've got mail. Oh, my God, his daughter said. You still have an AOL account. Mort's wrinkled face flushed with shame. You've got mail, the voice repeated. File's done. Mort nodded once at his daughter who? And she knew without asking what he wanted her to do. She led him quietly out of his house and drove him through Boca toward the ocean. He kissed her on the forehead and then marched into the surf, his chin held high, proud to be leaving the earth with dignity. Jeremy didn't think that his father, though, was anywhere near that stage. He wasn't young, of course, but he was still pretty vibrant. Just last year he'd published his ninth book. Sure, it wasn't his most original work. The Journal of Anthropology had called it A Retread of Tribes, his 1 bestseller now out of print. Still, it was a real book, with footnotes and a cover and everything. So what if nobody wanted to buy it? Or read it? I know you're upset, jeremy's father said. But you have no choice. The time has come for you to perform your sacred duty. He rooted around in the living room closet. Where is that thing? He muttered, rifling through a stack of old squash rackets.
- [11:00]
Dylan Marin
Ah.
- [11:01]
John Hodgman
He handed his son an oblong slab of wood. The club had been in the Stromberg family for years. It was by far their most ancient possession, even older than the George Foreman Grill. Jeremy held the club up to the light. The bulbous side was stained with horrible reddish streaks. He looked back at his father and saw that he was kneeling on the rug, his balding head bowed before him. Congratulations on beating me in Scrabble. I'm sorry, jeremy said, his eyes already glossy. I didn't want to. Yes, you did. It's only human. Jeremy clenched his fist with anger. Why didn't you use your Z earlier? You had arrow that could have been zero. What's done is done. I'm sorry, jeremy murmured. I didn't know what I was doing. Yes, you did. Jeremy let out a sob as he raised the club over his head. Thank you.
- [12:25]
Meg Wolitzer
That was John Hodgman with Simon Rich's story the Tribal Rite of the Strombergs. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Now. I don't believe my family is quite so bloodthirsty. Still, I will never have to find out, as I will simply never lose a game of Scrabble. Next, a story by Dylan Marron. Marron is a writer and performer who created the podcast Conversations with People who Hate Me, which he also adapted into a book he also wrote for the final season of Ted Lasso. This piece, which Selected Shorts commissioned from Marin, is about keeping score over the course of a lifetime. And as Marin is a performer as well as a writer, he read the story for us himself. And now, some news, written and performed by Dylan Marin.
- [13:19]
Gildart Jackson
Some news, the Post began. It was Jamila Johnson's post. Of course it was. She always had news. Been holding onto this for a minute, but finally got the green light to share. Peter hadn't seen Jameela in six years. No, eight. Eight years. But their hangs were already becoming abbreviated. Even then, meals had graduated into drinks. Drinks eventually became coffees, and coffees turned into something came up. Text messages. The morning of their planned hang. He had tried to get together with her around the time the vaccines came out, but she kept canceling at the last minute. An errand she had to run, a last minute trip, an emergency meeting with the heads of global intelligence agencies. Her reasons were always legit, but always infuriating. He missed his friend. There was a time when they saw each other every single day at Muffins, the midtown one in Grand Central. They were just two junior baristas who made the most out of their opening shift. It was Jameela, whose idea it had been to devise codenames for every single one of their regular customers. It was Jameela who'd prank Peter by covertly tickling the back of his neck when he least expected it. It was Jameela who felt like the first real life friend he ever had. The first person he'd gotten close with after college when she was short on rent. Once he gave her $200. And when he needed to stay in the closet for one more Thanksgiving, it was Jamila who played the role of his girlfriend. Peter braced himself for what news Jamila might have to share. Lately he'd been getting the distinct sense that he was being left behind. Not just by Jameela, but everyone in his age group. Everyone seemed to be getting married, having kids, cutting bangs. All right, Jameela's post concluded. No more beating around the bush. I'm gonna be God. Surprise face emoji. Oh, he re read the post to see if maybe he missed some context. If perhaps Jameela would be playing the role of God in a movie. A few years back, she had turned down a three picture deal with Paramount. Or maybe it was a business term that he didn't know. He still didn't really understand what High Yield Savings Account meant. But that was all the post offered. Judging from the response, it seemed that she indeed was going to be Capital G God in the alpha and omega sense. Her post had 5,612,329,434 likes. Peter had developed a bad habit of comparing her metrics to his. It was an exercise that invariably made him feel awful. But he could never stop himself. So he clicked over to his profile, opened his most recent post, a still shot of his photography studio announcing a discount on family portraits, and he saw the measly 141 likes beneath it. She won this game without exception. Yet he kept playing it over and over again, he clicked back to her post and read some of the comments. What? Wrote their old manager from Muffins. It was Clark, the one with the coke problem. Can I get an amen? That was Peter's own mother. Big congrats, wrote international movie star Dwayne the Rock Johnson. There were about 68 million additional comments, but Peter didn't have the stomach to read any further. With a few moves of his thumb, he was on Jameela's LinkedIn page. He did this every time she posted about a new promotion, as if retracing her career trajectory might offer guidance on his own path. As always, he started at the beginning of her profile. Vassar09 now, for the record, Peter had also gotten into Vassar, but he bravely chose to go to Bates instead. After Vassar, on Jameela's, LinkedIn was muffins, then a two year stint with the Peace Corps, then a string of grad programs, seminary, rabbinical school, a doctorate at Oxford. Peter had tried convincing Jamila that grad school wasn't worth it. Then things just kind of took off. She went from interfaith intern at United nations to conflict mediator at North Korea to author at Self. There was a little star next to that last one. Peter clicked it and an alt text box popped up. Pulitzer Prize. Oh, right. He had forgotten that she won this prestigious award for a Medium article she wrote one night. On a whim, he clicked over to his own LinkedIn page, where he found only two entries. Bates 09 and and portrait photographer at Peter Keller Studios 2011 to present back to Instagram. As a small form of protest, Peter didn't like Jameela's post. It's important to distinguish between jealousy and envy, Dr. Amy said calmly from her box on the zoom screen. Peter had requested an emergency therapy session, even though his wife weekly appointment was only two days away. It's just not fair, he said, near tears. They were silent for a moment. Dr. Amy called this Embracing the Void. What does this make you want, Peter? Do you want her to fail? He shook his head. No. Do you want to be God? He shook his head again, then silence. Dr. Amy embraced the void. I guess, peter began. I guess I don't want to be forgotten. Hmm, Dr. Amy said disapprovingly, as if there were a correct answer and this wasn't it. Or maybe. Maybe I want my $200 back. He had no idea where this came from, but he would try anything to get the right answer. Say more, Dr. Amy commanded with a head tilt. Peter then launched into a longer than necessary account of that time. Jameela was short on rent and he gave her $200 without question. Dr. Amy nodded along with vigorous approval. Now, as he relived it, he wondered if maybe this was indeed it, the reason he felt so crushed by Jamila's success. Very good, Peter. Let's. Let's pick up here next time. Before he could say goodbye, Dr. Amy had ended the session and he was left staring at the Zoom logo. It occurred to him that Dr. Amy had explained that there was a difference between jealousy and envy, but never actually explained what that difference was. He clicked over to Google and was halfway through typing jealousy vs envy diff when he looked just above the search bar and noticed that within the two O's of the Google logo were I's and that the O's themselves had been reshaped to evoke Jameela's signature glasses. All of the letters had been adjusted to be the exact color of her skin tone. Peter shut his laptop, threw his phone on his bed, and grabbed his coat. The cold air whipped his face as he walked east on Canal Street. Why hadn't Jamila paid him back the $200? It was one of those questions that he just got more agitated by the more he thought about it. Was he not worth reimbursing? Had she even remembered this kindness? Also, didn't helping her out with rent mean that actually, in a sense, he was actually partially responsible for her career? He turned right on Lafayette street and came face to face with what used to be Santos Party house. Back in 2011, he and Jameela would have sleepovers at her apartment whenever they shared the 5am opening shift at Muffins. On one such night, Jameela had declared, eyes full of mischief, that they were going to go dancing. She made this declaration when they were both tucked into her full size Ikea bed, face masks still on. We open tomorrow, peter reminded her. You don't have to wake up if we don't go to sleep. He glared at her through the eye holes in his moisturizing mask. Please, she commanded, and when it was clear he wasn't going to budge, she unsheathed her left hand from beneath the covers, revealing her index finger in the shape of a hook. Peter squealed with a giggle. She twisted her jaw into a cartoonish underbite and began to wiggle the hook finger. Despite Peter's escalating protests, she jerked her arm across his body and began to tickle the back of his neck, just as she would at Muffins he had no choice but to surrender. They arrived at Santos to find beams of light cutting through the theatrical haze as a remix of Steve Winwood's Higher Love blasted through the speakers. She took his hand and pulled him to the center of the floor. As they danced, Peter noticed a circle of men staring at them. He didn't consider himself unattractive per se, but he never got this kind of attention. And tonight he liked it. When the song ended, Jameela shook two invisible cups in her hands to signal that she was on drink duty. Peter didn't follow her. Instead, feeling himself, he remained dancing on his own. One of the gawkers broke from the circle and approached.
- [23:39]
John Hodgman
Hey.
- [23:40]
Gildart Jackson
Yelled the hot stranger who holy shit, was even hotter up close. Hi. Peter yelled back. Can I help you? He was never good at flirting. Who's your friend? Sorry? Your friend. Who is she? Peter pulled back to appraise the guy. Was he straight? No, he had frosted tips. That's my best friend. Wow. The hot stranger yelled over the music.
- [24:11]
Dylan Marin
Wow.
- [24:12]
Gildart Jackson
And with that, he danced away. Customers were often transfixed by Jameela at Muffins, but Peter had attributed that to the overwhelmingly heterosexual and male finance bro clientele they served. That logic didn't hold here in what should have been his domain, a queer night at a dance club. While Whitney Houston was playing, he was second fiddle. When she returned with their vodka Diet Cokes, she mouthed, who was that? That? But Peter didn't have the heart to tell her that the Inquirer had actually inquired about her. Just some guy, peter said. But I didn't come here to be with him. Yes, bitch, Jamila declared as she raised her plastic cup. Sluts before butts, Peter toasted, raising his cups to hers. It was a phrase he had been trying out that never really caught on though. So rhyming and sex positive, weren't they? The sluts in question also in possession of butts. The logic didn't work out, nor did it matter. Jamila repeated the phrase with a laugh. They gulped their drinks and as they did, Peter opened his eyes and saw that the circle of gawkers had grown larger. He grabbed her hand and led them in a scream along to how will I know? Like. Like it was just the two of them and they had no one to impress but themselves. Now, over a decade later, Santos was an axe throwing bar. Jamila was God, and God owed him $200. As he looked at the facade of what used to be Santos, he noticed movement in the sky. Some drones were doing a synchronized dance. He walked Back to Canal street for a wider view, and it was only then that he noticed that it wasn't drones, but stars moving into formation. They spelled out Congrats, jj. Back home, finally reunited with his phone, he was greeted with a waterfall of messages, all asking different versions of the same question. Didn't you know that girl? Who's God now? He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his coat as he opened Jameela's profile. 7.3 billion followers. He clicked over to his page 206. Jameela's profile picture was surrounded by a ring indicating that she had recently updated her stories. He clicked on it and found various well wishes from around the world reposted with Jameela's commentary. A limited edition of the Bible was coming out with a new forward Cry face emoji. Cry face emoji. Cry face emoji. Jameela had added in her reshare. Artists were being commissioned to repaint Michelangelo's creation of Adam. Toyota was renaming its annual sale jameelathon. This wasn't helping and Peter knew it. So he went back to her profile and clicked message. Hey Jameela, he began. Long time no talk. He deleted no talk Send. Seems like you're doing great. Congrats on the whole God thing. He went back and changed the lowercase g to uppercase, then back to lowercase send. His thumbs hovered over his cracked iPhone screen as he considered the most tactful way to ask for a repayment of the money he had lent her years earlier. Then. Then her typing bubbles appeared. They disappeared. Then they appeared again. After 10 seconds, a message came through. Going away drinks at McManus, 10pm to 11:59pm reserved the whole place. No friends please. Trying to keep this small. It was an obvious copy paste. Peter briefly sulked about this, but his fingers were already opening. The Uber app PDP. A voice bellowed from the back of McManus. Over here. It was Clark, their old manager from Muffins, dressed in a three piece suit. Check you out, peter offered once he finally reached him through the dense crowd. Well, what are you supposed to wear to meet God? Peter gestured at his own knit sweater and shrugged. He spent the next few minutes catching up with Clark, who no fewer than three times offered him a bump. Peter politely declined. But as Clark launched into a monologue about how fossil fuels are actually more sustainable for the planet, Peter took in the other attendees. These must have been Jameela's more recent work friends, Malala was whispering into Angela Merkel's ear. Michelle Obama was showing something on her phone to Greta Thunberg. And then, as Clark was midway through summarizing a YouTube documentary about how wind turbines are secretly toxic, Peter saw heads begin to turn. There at the entrance to McManus stood Jamila Johnson. She wore a cream colored wool coat that fell past her knees. Buttoned to the top across her chest was the diagonal line of a purse strap that didn't look like it could hold more than a phone. Her locks were pulled up into an elegant bunch. She had always worn her hair this way, but now it was as if each lock had been embalmed in an invisible gold Taking in the crowd. Her eyes smiled before her mouth did. Her dimples were craters that said Nice to meet you. Her skin shimmered in the way that successful people shine a few watts brighter, and you never know if it's some innate confidence or their newfound ability to afford skill that aren't sold at Walgreens. Involuntarily, Peter lifted his hand to his own cheek to make sure that he had moisturized that day. Jameela made her way through the crowd, touching shoulders, nodding meaningfully, and wordlessly lifting her eyebrows as she got closer, Peter began to panic. He hadn't thought through what he was actually going to say. Clark, she cooed, putting her arm around him. Oh my. You, Clark shot back. He had clearly rehearsed that line and Peter cringed on his behalf. Jamila laughed politely and Clark excused himself to the bathroom. Hi Peter, she said finally turning her attention to him. Her voice was honey, it's so good to see you. Sluts before buts, he said, raising an invisible glass. Jamila's face twisted in confusion. Remember from she continued to look at him blankly. Every muscle in Peter's body clenched in humiliation. Aren't you supposed to be like, all knowing or something? Peter blurted out more rudely than intended. Soon, she said with a resigned exhale. Midnight, right? So you excited? You nervous? Kind of both. But the orientation was pretty comprehensive, so I should be good. Peter had committed the cardinal sin of asking a successful person about work. It was one of life's great conundrums that people who are famous for their job never like to talk about the job that made them famous. But there were so many questions Peter wanted to ask her, questions that had nothing to do with her new gig. What happened to them? Why did she stop making plans? Why did she stop inviting him out? Why did she stop sending him memes? Was he holding her back? Was he not successful enough? Was his own stunted ambition a contagion she didn't want to catch, but instead the only question that came out was, are those veneers? He was staring directly at her teeth. No, she replied in mild shock. It's just whitening strips. Oh, nice, he replied. He was about to apologize for the question, but he noticed her eyes darting to greet someone else, and she quickly passed him off to a nearby guest. Peter, this is Frances, she said, facilitating the introduction. Excuse me one moment. And with that, she was gone. And what do you do? Frances asked with an accent Peter couldn't quite place. Portrait photography. And what about you? I lead the Catholic Church. Their conversation fizzled out soon afterwards. They found little in common between the Vatican and the East Village. Clark was still in the bathroom, so Peter made his way for the door. He thought about saying goodbye to Jamila, but that would mean interrupting her conversation with a Dalai Lama. Peter slunk out into the cold night, humiliated by the way he acted around his old friend. The train home was 17 minutes away, so he decided to walk. What happened? Peter asked out loud to no1. @ 12:01am Just as he neared his house, his phone pinged with a notification. He looked down to see a Venmo deposit for $200. It wasn't attributed to a user. The debt was repaid, but he felt nothing. Dr. Amy was wrong. Peter didn't care about the money. He just wanted his old friend back. The one who pretended to be his girlfriend on Thanksgiving. The one who forced them to pull an all nighter just so they could go dancing. The one who was his first real friend in adulthood. And just then, a gust of wind blew past him, tickling the back of his neck. Thank you.
- [34:14]
Meg Wolitzer
That was some news by Dylan Marin, read by Marin himself. I always envy those writers who perform their work so well. But hey, who's keeping score? Even as the absurdities pile up in this story, one thing remains. Envy is just the worst feeling, isn't it? The audience's laughter came from Dylan Marin's wonderful reading of his own material, but also, I suspect, from how much they related to the story. Maybe we haven't met the Pope at Our Friends Get Together, but we've probably experienced our own version of success imbalance with someone we know well. When we return, those who can't do, teach and those who can't teach, steal. 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. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of Fiction One short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This show is all about scorekeeping. Life isn't all wins and losses, but if you want to earn a few points on the COSMC scoreboard, consider recommending selected shorts to a friend, colleague, or family member. Word of mouth helps keep our show alive and thriving, and we really appreciate it when our listeners help spread the word. Our final story is by Joanne Harris. While most well known for her novel Chocolat, she is the author of 18 novels, including her most recent, Broken Light, from 2023. This story, about a tired teacher and a sudden opportunity to change the game, was published back in 2004. The actor reading this story is Gildart Jackson. He appeared in the bold type and charmed and created an Instagram series that fans of selected shorts may enjoy, titled Fireside Reading. And now Gildart Jackson reads Fool's Gold by Joanne Harris.
- [36:47]
Dylan Marin
Fool's Gold by Joanne Harris the last story in the world was written between 7:55 and 8:30 on Friday, December 1, 2002, most of it over breakfast at a guess, but in the last two paragraphs the handwriting betrayed a telltale shakiness, an unseemly lack of attention to capital letters and full stops, which suggested the school bus. It came 19th on a pile of 22, which meant that it was almost five o'clock before Mr. Fisher got round to marking it at all. Mr. Fisher lived alone in a small terraced house in the center of town. He did not own a car and therefore preferred to do as much as he could could of his weekend marking in the form room after school. Even so, there were usually two or three stacks of books and papers to take home on the bus, and Mr. Fisher had used the same old leather briefcase for over 40 years, and it was still good, though battered and stretched at the seams from the weight of 10,000 100,000 English essays. But today he had found a hole in one corner through which pens, rulers and other small, sly objects might finger their way out and be lost. Outside it was already dark and a thin, wet, unromantic snow was beginning to fall. But it was to save his briefcase any further abuse, at least until the whole could be mended, that Mr. Fisher decided to stay a little longer, make himself a last cup of tea, and finish his marking. It had been a disappointing term at St. Oswald's for most of the boys in 3F. Creative writing was on a par with country dancing and food technology on the cosmic scale of things, and now With Christmas around the corner and exams looming large, creativity in general was at its lowest ebb. Oh, he tried to engage their interest, but books just didn't seem to kindle the same enthusiasm as they had in the old days. Mr. Fisher remembered a time, surely not so long ago, when books were golden, when imaginations soared, when the world was filled with stories which ran like gazelles and pounced like tigers and exploded like rockets, illuminating minds and hearts. He'd seen it happen. He'd seen whole classes swept away in the fever. In those days there were heroes, there were dragons and dinosaurs, there were space adventures and soldiers of fortune and giant apes. In Those days, thought Mr. Fisher, we dreamed in color. Though films were in black and white, good always triumphed, and only Americans spoke American now. Everything was in black and white. And though Mr. Fisher continued to teach with as much devotion to duty as he had 40 years before, he was secretly aware that his voice had begun to lack conviction. To these boys, these sullen boys with their gelled hair and perfect teeth, everything was boring. There didn't seem to be a single story left in the world that they hadn't heard before. And over the years, though he tried to stop it, a terrible lassitude had crept over Mr. Fisher, who had once dreamed so fiercely of writing stories of his own. A terrible conviction. They had come to the end of the seam, he understood. There were no more stories to be written. The magic had run out. This was an uncharacteristically gloomy train of thought. Mr. Fisher pushed it away and looked in his briefcase for a consolatory chocolate biscuit. Not all his boys lacked imagination. Alistair Tibbett, for instance, even though he had obviously done part of his homework on the bus. An amiable boy, this Tibbett, all the more pleasing for his air of indefinable grubbiness, his sense of always being partly elsewhere. Not a brilliant scholar by any means, but there was a spark in him which deserved attention. Mr. Fisher took a deep breath and looked down at Tibbett's exercise book, trying not to think of the snow outside and the 5 o'clock bus that he was almost certain to miss. Four books to go, he told himself, and then home. Dinner, bed. The comforting small routine of a winter weekend. And so it was that Mr. Fisher took a last drink of his cold tea and began to read the last story in the world. Took him a few minutes to realize that it was the last story. But gradually, sitting there in the warm classroom with the smell of chalk and floor polish in his nostrils, Mr. Fisher began to experience a very strange sensation. It began as a tightening in his diaphragm, as if a long, unused muscle had been brought into action. His breathing quickened, stopped, quickened again. He began to sweat. And when he reached the end of the story, Mr. Fisher put down his red pen and went back to the beginning, rereading every word very slowly and with meticulous care. This must be what a prospector feels when, discouraged and bankrupt and ready to go home. He takes off his boot and shakes out a nugget the size of his fist. He read it again, critically this time, marking off the paragraphs with notes in red. A hope which at first Mr. Fisher had hardly dared to formulate, swelled in him and grew strong. He found himself beginning to smile. If anyone had asked him then what Tibbett's story was about, Mr. Fisher might have been hard put to reply. There were themes he recognized. A quest, a child, a man. But to explain Tibbett's story in these terms was as meaningless as trying to describe a loved one's face. In terms of nose, eyes, mouth. This was something new, something entirely original. In 40 years of teaching, teaching English, Mr. Fisher had come to believe that nothing was new. In literature, the same plots are repeated time and time again. The tragic lovers, the quest, the trickster, the revenge, the savior, the coming of age, the struggle between good and evil. Most of these were well used before Shakespeare got hold of them. Even the Bible contained little that was significantly new. A change of costume here, of location. Stories do not die, but are simply reincarnated every generation also into a different time and. And idiom. It was this belief that had finally put an end to Mr. Fisher's own ambitions years ago. The angry certainty that whatever he wrote would only ever be, at best a pale reflection of something else. But here was his theory. Disproved. Tibbett's story stood alone, a completely original ide, perhaps the first in a hundred years. The holy grail of literature. The last story in the world. It occurred then to Mr. Fisher how many people might have an interest in such a story. Hollywood, for instance, always at a loss for new material, now reduced to picking out fragments of plot from graphic novels and computer games, book publishers, newspapers, magazines. A new idea could start a dynasty. Generations of related stories. Whoever copyrighted such an idea could make a man more than famous, more than wealthy, could make him immortal once more. Mr. Fisher considered Alastair Tibbott, an amiable boy with apparent genius. Hair slightly too long, shirt untucked, a habitual latecomer. To class. No stylist. Certainly his spelling was atrocious and certainly in no position to make his case to the media such a waste. Tibbett was hardly likely to appreciate the magnitude of this discovery. Indeed, his handwriting alone showed that his mind had been elsewhere from the St. It seemed clear to Mr. Fisher that Tibbett's role in all this was a secondary one, that of an idiot savant, if you like, who may accidentally discover a mathematical principle but has no ability to explain its workings. No, all of this was wasted on Tibbett. Besides, who was the boy's teacher who taught him everything he knew? 40 years hard work had to count for something. And in the shape of this boy, it had finally come to fruition. In all his years of teaching, Mr. Fisher had never quite forgotten his earliest ambitions. Through the years he had come to think, wrongly as it happened, that he simply didn't have the talent or the inspiration to write. Now he realized that only fear and uncertainty had kept him back. At last he knew what he wanted to say, how to make his mark upon the world. He began to see how the story could be presented. Envisaged a treatment of about 300 pages in novel form. And the treatment was the most important part. Without it, no story, however inspired, could be anything more than wishful thinking. After all, Shakespeare took inspiration from Boccaccio. Mr. Fisher speculated that he could have a rough synopsis by Sunday, send off copies in Monday's post. Of course, he would have to take precautions. A statement deposited in his bank would ensure that his copyright remained intact. Publishing was full of unscrupulous people, the film industry doubly so. With luck, the offers might start coming in by Christmas. And Tibbett? In his excitement, Mr. Fisher had obviously almost forgotten the boy. Surely he owed him something. Obviously an acknowledgement was out of the question. In today's litigious society that would simply be asking for trouble. Mr. Fisher thought hard for a moment. Then he picked up his red pen and wrote carefully at the bottom of the essay. Good content, more care needed with presentation. B plus. It was more than fair, thought Mr. Fisher. The class average rarely went higher than a c. It was 5:25. In the corridor, Mr. Fisher could hear the cleaners packing up their buckets and mops. His next bus home left at 5:30. If he was quick, he could still catch it. Leaving the pile of third form exercise books on the corner of the desk except for tibbets, which he slipped into his briefcase next to the biscuits. He rinsed his mug in the sink, locked his desk drawer and put on his overcoat. Outside it was still snowing. Flakes tumbled chaotically from the sky like white noise. Mr. Fisher trudged towards the bus stop, briefcase in hand. It was very cold. He realized that in his haste he'd left his scarf and gloves in the desk drawer. But it was almost half past now and he decided against going back to fetch them. He didn't want to miss the bus. There were few cars on the road and a grey slush had begun to echo. Eat up the verge. The bus was late. Mr. Fisher waited in the vandalized bus shelter, blowing into his hands and thinking about his story. His heart was beating alarmingly fast, but he felt a peculiar energy. He might almost have been 13 again, with ink on his fingers and that metallic taste of youth in his mouth and the certainty that one day he would be great, that one day he too would be a hero. The lights went out in the school building one by one. It was 5:50 and there was still no sign of the bus. Mr. Fisher decided to walk Home was only a couple of miles into town, after all, and it would give him some time to think about his story. It would be a great mistake, he told himself, to jump at the first offer. Better to sit tight for a couple of months and let the publishers bid against one another. Fortunately, he already had some knowledge of the industry. His experience would serve him well. Mr. Fisher walked quickly down the road, smiling to himself, lost in the warm haze of fantasy. After a while he began to feel hungry. Remembering the biscuits in his briefcase, he stopped to take one. The biscuits were not there. Mr. Fisher frowned. Had he left them in his desk drawer? But no. He remembered taking a biscuit and replacing the packet. He looked again, moving closer to the street lamp to get a better view. The biscuits were nowhere to be found. And now in the orange light, he could see why. The hole in the corner of his briefcase had zipped open along the seam, and in his excitement over the story, he had failed to notice. Mr. Fisher was annoyed. He hated losing things. In fact, such was his annoyance that it was several seconds before he even thought to check whether Tibbets exercise book was still there. It was not. Mr. Fisher felt a sudden sharp sweat sting his eyes. The book. He checked again, running his hands, shaking a long the torn stitching. Here was his hard backed form register and his plastic file, both too bulky to escape. Here too was his pencil box. But the story, the last story, was gone. Mr. Fisher felt a jolt of panic. He must have dropped it somewhere along the road. But Where? He was over a mile from the school now, it could be anywhere along that stretch. Still it could not be helped. He would have to retrace his steps until he found it. Breathing hard, he began to walk back. But his progress was slow. The wind was in his face, stealing his breath and the snow was like chips of stone. Worse still, he found that the story itself was no longer entirely clear in his mind. That although he could retain certain elements, a quest, a man, a boy. It was Tibbett's misspellings he remembered most, and the fact that the boy had done his homework on the bus. The verge was entirely white now and the dark shape of the school was just visible behind the turmoil of the snow. Mr. Fisher followed his own footsteps until they filled in again, but found nothing. There was nothing at the bus shelter. Mr. Fisher even walked back up the drive towards the school gate, but there was no sign of the lost schoolbook. When the police eventually found him at 8:00 that evening, he was digging with his bare hands in the snow drift which lined the verge. Wild eyed, raw faced, mumbling feverishly to himself. It was lucky they found him when they did. Sergeant Merle reported to the duty officer. The poor old sod was nearly gone. Took him straight to casualty. Turned out he was looking for some kids homework he dropped on the way. Talk about devotion to duty. You ask me, these teachers aren't paid half enough. Still, you got to hand it to the old fella, he was digging like the clappers. You'd have thought there was gold under there.
- [57:32]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Gildart Jackson performing Fool's Gold by Joanne Harris. And hey, don't forget our lead character, Mr. Fisher is a bad teacher. We at Shortz believe the vast majority of teachers do deserve more money or real gold, however we decide to pay them. And our good teachers always deserve our deepest respect. So adding up wins and losses can add structure to your life. Whether it's a board game or some kind of unstructured competition between peers, tallying points can provide focus. But as today's stories indicate, if we fixate on some scoring system, real or imagined, we do so at our peril. That is, points are not always the point and scorekeeping may keep us from knowing the score. Except in Scrabble where I will always know to try and use all my letters in what's called a bingo in order to get that 50 point bonus and I hope, beat you. 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 Shimpkin, 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 mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.