← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Laughing in the Face of Danger
00:58:36
Meg Wolitzer presents four works that consider various forms of risk, and risk taking. In “Clicking on Heaven’s Door,” by Anand Giridharadas, performed by Negin Farsad, the pearly gates require an online account, a password, a security question…you get the idea. “The Stand-In,” by Gerald Jones and Jean Marple, imagines a unique job. It’s read by Tony Hale. David Sedaris creates the ultimate in well-meant interference in other people’s lives—oh, and there’s a parrot. “Farnsworth” is read by Jessica Keenan Wynn. And—dining at the end of the world. Where’s the waiter? Robin Hemley’s “The Last Customer,” is read by Jane Curtin and Mike Doyle.
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- [00:00]
T-Mobile Representative
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- [00:32]
DSW Sales Representative
DSW's Semi Annual Sale is back take 40% off all clearance shoes in stores for a limited time. Literally every single clearance item at your DSW store is on sale right now. Sneakers, sandals, any style. If they're on the clearance racks, they're 40% off.
- [00:49]
Narrator
So what are you waiting for?
- [00:51]
DSW Sales Representative
Don't sleep on these savings. Get to DSW asap. It's all or nothing, people. Shop the DSW Semi annual sale today.
- [01:10]
Meg Wolitzer
Don't go anywhere because Coming up on Selected Shorts, a world premiere short story by David Sedaris about all kinds of pets, birds, moths, dogs and one long suffering husband. Join me Meg Wolitzer, alongside Tony Hale, Jane Curtin and more funny friends. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. When confronting new things outside of your comfort zone, it's easy to feel intimidated. Especially if the stakes are high. It's a job interview, a date with someone you really like, or a pickleball match with the bruisers who live in the cul de sac. And that's to say nothing of the challenges that await us in the larger world. Just behind the headlines in the daily newspaper, Fight or Flight. These are the two tried and true biologically indisputable options when faced with something scary. But what if I told you there was yet one more option? A way of taking on risky circumstances that doesn't get quite as much attention? A way of not only standing up to a person, place or thing, but letting them know you are not intimidated? Yes, there is another way, friends. And to illustrate, I will simply say you can't be afraid of something you can laugh at. This week on Selected Shorts, we offer fiction about not only facing a challenge, but but finding a way to laugh in the face of danger. And while the show isn't itself dangerous, we think you'll laugh anyway, as all the stories are pretty funny. In one story, a very exclusive club presents an impossible bar to entry in another, a man takes risks on behalf of others and finds trouble of his own. In a third story by David Sedaris, a young woman fights for her truly unusual brand of justice, and in a fourth, a couple orders lunch in the face of harrowing circumstances. The first piece we'll hear is by Anand Girdedas. He is a journalist and pundit who's written books including Winners Take all and the Persuaders and who regularly appears on msnbc. But also he finds time to write brief comedic sketches, including this one about the most high pressure admission process in one's life a or afterlife. Reading the story is Nagin Farsad. She's a multi talented performer who hosts the Fake the Nation podcast and is a regular on Wait wait, don't tell me. She's also written a book, how to Make White People Laugh. Now here's Negin Farsad reading Clicking on Heaven's Door by Anand Girdedas.
- [04:10]
Narrator
Hey hey everybody.
- [04:13]
Jessica Keenan Wynn
Clicking on heaven's Door welcome to st. Peter's Heavens EQ. You are presently 1,524,589th in line. Kindly fill out the requested information on this courtesy iPad and you will be admitted shortly. Please log into the portal by entering your heavenly username and password. If you haven't yet created an account, you should have thought of that before dying, shouldn't you? The heavenly username that you entered isn't in our system. Click Forgot my Heavenly username and enter the email address associated with the account and we will send you your username. We do have that email address on file, but the associated account appears to have been compromised in a hack perpetrated by a previous applicant, Satan. Please create a new account using a different email address by clicking here. Choose a password A secure password should contain a mix of lowercase letters, uppercase letters, varsity letters, symbols, a phrase from Wittgenstein in the original German, the number of people you've slept with, the secret ingredient in your mother's most closely held recipe, and an excerpt from the nuclear code of a foreign country. The password you chose is not secure. Wittgenstein never said that. Would you like the Heaven EQ system to suggest a password that is strong, secure and self possessed, yet not arrogant? Your username and password have been created. Return to the original login screen and start over using this new account information. You left the password field blank. I know you didn't choose the new password yourself. I know I suggested it for you. You're still supposed to memorize it. Yes, it was 489 characters long, but this is Heaven. Very secure. No worries. Click Forgot password you just forced on me. We will email you a login link. You are provisionally logged into our system. You are now required to set up two step verification so that no one else can steal your place in heaven. Every time that you log into the system, we will call your Aunt Louisa in Minnesota and ask her to call your sister to tell her to text you a six digit code. You will divide this code in half, always rounding up, and enter it here. Louisa didn't answer. Would you like us to try an alternate form of verification? Okay. Please enter one of the special recovery codes that we mailed to your house when you were 12 and that we very clearly told you to bury in your backyard or a park. If you cannot locate your special recovery codes, you click here. You are very naughty, aren't you? That's okay. We get all kinds, even here. As a last resort for verifying your identity, please enter your mother's maiden name and in 500 words or less, your analysis of how her childhood traumas in turn shaped yours. Thank you for verifying your identity. However, as a final step, we need to confirm that you're an actual human being. Please identify all the pictures below of boats that a Russian oligarch would purchase and want to be seen in. You included a 35 foot yacht in your selection. No Russian oligarch would be caught dead in a 35 foot yacht. Even with the sanctions, please try again. This time, select all images featuring outfits from the French historical period known as La Belle Epoque. All the images that you selected were correct, but you didn't select all the correct images. You failed to notice that as you were selecting images, they were disappearing and being replaced with new images, some of which contain additional instances of Belle Epoque clothing. You neglected to select some of these replacement images. For your final attempt. We'll go easy on you. Please select all images of Meghan and Harry that make you feel exhausted by them. Congratulations, you are now fully logged into the Heaven eq. Would you like to sign up for face ID so that you can bypass this login when you want to check on your application status? To sign up for face id, please enter your Apple username and password. You don't know your Apple password? Go to hell. Thank you.
- [09:04]
Meg Wolitzer
That was clicking on Heaven's Door by Anand Girdedas, read by Nagin Farsad. I know, I know you never thought Heaven would cave to earthly tech fads, but even St. Peter has to keep with the times I hear even the angelic choirs get autotuned. These days I spend way too much time in any given week clicking on links that say help. I forgot my password. Because of this, I bought a subscription to one of those password management services, but they make such a big deal out of how you absolutely cannot forget the one password that gets you into the electronic vault where all your passwords are stored that I now spend way too much time worrying about forgetting it. These days we're in danger not only from online scammers and cyber criminals, but also from our own overworked and fallible brains, which are awash in uppercase and lowercase letters, plus numbers and so called special characters, though who knew that when all else failed, our favorite teachers and our childhood pets would come to the rescue? Next, a piece by Gerald Jonas and Jean Marple. It was published in the Paris Review in 1969 by two authors you wouldn't expect to write comedy. Jonas was a staff writer at the New Yorker for 30 years, and he's the author of many nonfiction works including the Circuit, Rockefeller Money, and the Rise of Modern Science. Gene Marple is an alias of the journalist and novelist Renate Adler, author of one of a kind books, including Speedboat. This piece about a kind of emotional stuntman was read by the very funny Tony Hale. He's beloved for series including Arrested Development and animated movies such as Toy Story 4. He also played a big part in the recent satirical Netflix series the Decameron. And now here's Tony Hale performing the Stand in by Gerald Jonas and Gene Marple.
- [11:07]
Tony Hale
The Stand In My client is feeling very insecure this week, stebbins said, swinging his feet up onto the leather couch, leaning his head back against the paper in a masquerade and lighting up a large cigar. Yes, the doctor said in a deep baritone rumble from somewhere behind Stebbins. And what has he been thinking? And. And what has he been feeling? Frankly, he's worried about his mother's visit, stebbins said, glancing at the little blue notebook he had propped against his rising and falling waistline. His mother's visits always remind him of his sister in law, who came to stay with the family when he was three. She was always put up in his room, and he had to sleep under the front stairs with the brooms. Brooms? The rumble noted. Any associations. Dirt, stebbins said quietly, and then he paused, as if reluctant to go on. Ah, you're quite right, Doctor, he said, turning to flip an ash from a cigar into a saucer placed on the floor beside him with the life he's been leading lately, he feels that somehow he has been snuffing the candle at both ends. On the one hand he wants his mother to stay with him, but on his other hand he feels that every time she comes he has to take her to a Broadway musical. And that costs. Stebbins continued consulting his notebook. His father, as we know, used to beat him with a silk scarf whenever he spent his allowance too fast. Money is still a big problem. The rumble broke into a deep cough. I've been meaning to ask you, it said with just a trace of its Venezuelan accent. That is, I mean to ask your client, Mr. L. My patient. Naturally, I was wondering about his strong resistance to my fees, this whole problem with money. Perhaps as a start, you could tell me how much he pays you for your services. Stebbins sat bolt upright on the couch. Please, Doctor, he said, there is one thing that I will not have. My financial arrangements with my client are a matter of strictest confidence. There will be no discussion of these matters. None. I'm sure you understand. As a professional man yourself, Jack Stebbins had been, in one capacity or another, a professional stand in since he was six years old, when his parents had rented him out to childless couples for visits to the children's zoo. At eight he had been a backstop babysitter for older children too busy to care for their charges on Saturday nights. At 9 he had walked dogs for other people, and at 10 he had served as a delivery boy for a diaper service during the Christmas rush. Throughout his high school years he had willingly loaned his civics papers and chemistry laboratory reports to younger students, and on one occasion he helped his sister pass home economics by knitting her mid semester argyles and baking an A minus Linzer tort final. At college he often stood in for his roommate on blind dates arranged by the roommate's myopic great aunt in Detroit, and twice he put on dark glasses and makeup to sit in at language examinations for his friends. It was at this point that his fees began to constitute a modest livelihood. Upon graduation, Stebbins managed to avoid the draft by borrowing a portfolio of X rays from an uncle with flat feet, and the following summer he sublet a bachelor apartment in New York, where he picked up spare cash in the evenings by holding a place in line for hungry standees outside the Metropolitan Opera House. His big break came when one of the regular standees confessed that someone had given him tickets to that evening's recital by the Electric Moog in Bryant park and asked Stebbins not only to hold his usual place in line, but also for an additional sum to attend the opera for him. I've been waiting all year to hear Stagmuntz and die Trams Izson, he said. And even if I can't go in person, I'd hate to feel I'd missed the performance entirely. Stebbins accepted the assignment, reported that Stigmuntz was getting a bit reachy in the upper register, deplored the ballet sequence, and found that he had begun a new phase of his career. Within a few weeks he had become a familiar figure at the New York Philharmonic, the Met, the YMHA Poetry center, testimonial barbecues for West Village Republicans, and other functions of the sort that make the original ticket holder feel that his personal attendance is optional but his opinion is mandatory. One evening a gentleman whose wife Stebbins had several times escorted to the family box at Cafe La Mama called him with a new proposal. Stubbs, he said. It's an awkward thing. Molly signed up last August for one of those charter flights. Her women's club is going on a nine day perfume appreciation tour of the major capitals of Europe. Now I persuade her to go to bog fishing with me in Western Canada instead. The problem is, unless they can get someone to sit in the 25th seat, they're going to lose the charter rate. So Molly suggested. The details were quickly arranged. Stebbins parted from the touring ladies as soon as the plane touched down in Geneva, having observed that the ladies were occupied during the entire flight in writing postcards home. Stebbins was struck with a plan which subsequently took shape as the Agency. That evening he placed an ad in the Paris edition of the World Journal Tribune. Correspondence undertaken letters to relatives, friends, business associates. Let the agency write them for you. You supply names, addresses, degree of intimacy, desired mailing drops. We provide everything from travel cliches. Oh, wish you were here. Send more money to sensitive Auppergu. The Croats have lost their sculpted profiles and valiant devotion to the soil. The agency 13 Rue Scribe Stebbins another breakthrough. Within a short time, Stebbins clientele included functionally illiterate businessmen from small towns who felt obliged to write to the entire membership of their Lions Clubs, brilliant engineering students on travel grants who felt obliged to express great longings for their fiancees back home, and even a girl actually living in Cornwall with a Prussian Aubrecoutier who felt obliged to post dutiful letters from a Lausanne boarding school to her parents in Providence. Stebbins soon turned over the agency to qualified assistants and went home to begin his new and even more challenging assignment. My client would like to say that he's furious this week, stebbins said, waving a lighted cigar above his face in great agitation. Yes, said the doctor, coughing sotto voce. Stebbins drew in his cigar, exhaled a blue cloud of smoke, and said nothing. Yes, said the doctor again, more gently. Frankly, Stebbins said, tapping the fingers of his cigar hand on the wall beside him, he feels that lately you haven't been paying attention. Last Wednesday, for instance, you hardly seem to be listening. He finds that nervous coughing of yours. Yes, the doctor said, particularly distracting. Well, the doctor cleared his throat. Actually, I've been meaning to bring this up for some time. You must realize that a cigar in an enclosed space often stimulates a coughing reflex in the non smoker. Frankly, Doctor, said Stebbins, half turning around to look at the doctor's now florid face, that sounds like a rationalization. Any opera buff knows that a coughing audience is a bored audience. I only meant to suggest, the doctor said said that perhaps we could dispense with that particular prop for our 50 minutes together. I'm sorry, that's out of the question, said Stebbins, staring up at the ceiling and flicking off another half inch of ash. I rarely smoke myself, but my client finds it impossible to talk freely without a cigar. Yes, said the doctor with a renewed interest. Perhaps we should investigate that further. I don't think we have the time, Stebbins said, consulting his watch for the moment. I've been instructed to respond to your last week's apparent rejection with a two minute sulk. You are aware, of course, the doctor said, that what you are doing at this moment is what we call acting out. Stebbins stared at his watch and said nothing. The session ended 10 seconds before the sulk was over, but the doctor chose not to interrupt. When Stebbins had sat up again and extinguished his cigar, the doctor clapped his notebook shut, opened his eyes, and said, I have another patient waiting in the outer office, Mr. Stebbins, but I wonder if I might talk to you personally for just a moment. Yes, Stebman said. Frankly, the doctor said, I should like to consult you about a problem of my own. I shall find it impossible to attend any of my regular sessions. I have been asked to deliver a paper, my own, at a meeting of the American Sonic Article association in Tampa, and I wonder whether you might, in a professional capacity, as it were, stand in for me. Um, I don't see why not, Stebman said after a moment's reflection. My client is returning to the city on Saturday morning, and that should leave me free the fee. Of course, the doctor began. Of course, stebbins said. Experience always tells. Stebbins found that standing in for a lie doctor was no more difficult than the escorting, delivering, sitting, knitting, baking, taking, dating, writing, and free associating which had marked the earlier stages of his career. His only problem was, as he conceived in an ethical one, what to do about transference phenomena. If his patients transferred their transference to him, they might have trouble retransferring their reference when the unsuspect expecting Doc to return from his conference. But Stebbins felt that he could handle it. You know, his confidence had increased to such a degree that he was not even disturbed when on Wednesday morning he received the following telegram in Barcelona Monastery Stop. Flat broke. Stop Suffering dos coronados. Stop. High fever. Stop. Cannot return before Monday. Stop. Stebbins immediately recognized the economical cable style of the cattle and bureau of his agency. He knew that his client, Elle was not in Barcelona at all, but was actually conducting a torrid romance on the ski slopes of the Stabanien Ford. There was the problem of El's 6 o' clock session with the doctor, but Stevins thought about it for a moment and decided there was no real reason for concern. The regular janitor in the syndrome building, having gone to a matinee at 2, had asked his brother in law, Charlie, to take his place for the afternoon. At six o' clock Charlie was polishing the leaves of a split philodendron in the deserted hallway on the seventh floor when he noticed a light shining through the transom above the door to the doctor's waiting room. The room itself was empty. Charlie turned off the light and stretched out for a little nap. When he thought he had heard mumbling coming from the inner office, he opened the door a crack and peered in. Settled comfortably in a chair with his feet up on the leather couch was a gentleman with a cigar in one hand, a pencil in the other, and two notebooks propped against his rising and falling waistline. He was talking to himself. Charlie backed away from the door, tiptoed through the waiting room, and raced down the hallway to the telephone. Hello? Hello, operator? He said. I want to report a nut. When the police arrived, Stebbins rose graciously to his feet. Yes? He said. Yeah, you better come with us, fella, the larger of the two policemen said. Which one of us do you want? Stebbins asked, waving the cigar and the pencil. My client is in a Catalonian monastery and the doctor is in Tampa. But in either case, officer, I hardly think that's all right, fella, that's all right, the policeman said. I'm just afraid you better come along right now. Where are we going? Stebbins asked. Where would you like to go? The officer, who had majored in psychology at the police academy, said kindly. To Surrogate's Court, stebbins suggested, and giggled. The policeman exchanged a glance, lunged forward, and seized Stebbins by a wrist and an ankle. Okay, there'll be no violence, fella, the smaller of the two policemen said, tightening his grip on Stebbins ankle. Where you're going, you can talk to yourself as much as you want. Stebbins nodded slowly and straightened his tie with his free hand. Experience always tells. Get me a mouthpiece, he said.
- [25:10]
Meg Wolitzer
That was the Stand in by Gerald Jonas and Gene Marple, read by Tony Hale hi, I'm Meg Wolitzer. It would be really great to have a stand in in our daily lives, wouldn't it? Some things we're asked to do just bring out difficult feelings. For instance, this morning Meg Wolitzer really felt that it would call too much attention to herself to host this show. She was feeling more like the shy writer she really is, and so that's why she hired me. If you're a regular listener of Selected Shorts, you probably didn't even notice the difference in our voices. I'm billing her not only for this hour that you're listening to, but also for my preparation, which involves studying past episodes of Selected Shorts, as well as getting a handle on what she considers her so called sense of humor. I've also been asked to write some of the more emotional portions of her novels, to be on panels at literary festivals, and once to sit at a table at a benefit dinner for a writer's organization. Though I almost gave myself away when I started eating the entree when which was steak au poivre, when in fact she herself does not eat meat. Anyway, I do all kinds of stand in work and if anyone out there needs my services, let me know. When we return, David Sedaris and ordering lunch at the End of the World. 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.
- [26:28]
T-Mobile Representative
Introducing Family Freedom from T Mobile, we'll pay off four phones up to $3200 and give you four free phones, all on America's largest 5G network. Visit t mobile.com up to $800 per line via virtual prepaid card typically takes 15 days. Free phone via 24 monthly bill credits with finance agreement. Example Apple iPhone 16128 gigs $829.99 eligible trade in example iPhone 11 Pro for well qualified credits end in balance due if you pay off early or cancel contact us.
- [26:59]
DSW Sales Representative
DSW's semi annual sale is back. Take 40% off all clearance shoes in stores for a limited time. Literally every single clearance item at your DSW store is on sale right now. Sneakers, sandals, any style. If they're in the clearance racks, they're 40% off.
- [27:17]
Narrator
So what are you waiting for?
- [27:19]
DSW Sales Representative
Don't sleep on these savings. Get to DSW asap. It's all or nothing people. Shop the DSW Semi annual sale today.
- [27:49]
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. This week on Shorts, our fiction laughs in the face of danger. Of course, no one needs an excuse to laugh. If you want one, a laugh that is not an excuse, search for our little sister podcast Too Hot for Radio. On your favorite podcast platform, you'll get performances of stories a little too racy for our public radio audience. Even when the story isn't haha funny. Our host, Aparna Noncherla is. She's a charming stand up comic and writer and not at all dangerous. Or is she? This brings us to our next author on selected shorts, David Sedaris. His many, many collections include Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day as well as recent works including Carnival of Snackery. This story is one we at Shorts commissioned from Sedaris, and it is fiction which makes it easier to hear without Sedaris very distinctive delivery. Reading it is Jessica Keenan Wynn. She's a performer whose chops were apparent in the ABBA musical sequel Mamma Mia. Here We Go Again. And on Broadway in Beautiful the Carole King musical. And now Jessica Keenan Wynne performs Farnsworth by David Sedaris.
- [29:18]
Narrator
Farnsworth. Is there anything better than a dog? The right kind of dog. What's more rewarding than opening your door and finding 18 to 25 pounds of panting, short haired love waiting for you on the other side of it? Normally I'd restrict this to panting, short haired rescue love. But when my husband Scott presented me with Misty, our tawny Alapagus, what could I do? Did Misty automatically get along with Ladybug, who's part beagle, part dachshund, and part holy terror? No, ma', am, she did not. Their truce is, as we like to say in the Cantwell Meisenheimer household a work in progress. The one thing both dogs have in common, aside from their insane devotion to myself and to a lesser degree, Scott, is their hatred of Farnsworth, the sulfur crested cockatoo we inherited after my mother in law, Irene, died a few weeks back. Now, I am not a bird person, never was. They're fine outdoors, except for eagles, which have been known to snatch small dogs in our area and are always just so angry and judgmental looking. I often wonder how on earth they came to be our national symbol. Eagles eat carrion. Technically, they're dinosaurs. What kind of message does that send when you are fighting tooth and nail to become a more progressive country? Now, there had been talk back in the day of making the turkey our national symbol, but I'm not sure that would have been a wise decision either. Especially come Thanksgiving. I said to Scott. That would be like Canadians eating maple leaves or the Australians eating kangaroos, which I suppose they do. The bald eagle was likely chosen because it's found only in North America, as is, interestingly enough, the Gila monster. Yikes. Plus it has the word monster in it. And the alligator only founded Red State. So again, no thank you. Bison and pronghorns aren't horrible candidates, but I think it's the luna moth, also a native, that gets my vote. I remember my younger brother Pete capturing one for a school report on insects back when we were teenagers. I gasped when he presented it to me. It was the size of a greeting card, the wings a luminous shade of pale green I had never seen before or since. Oh, I remember whispering, my voice soft and wondrous, the way it might be had he revealed a crown jewel. Pete had done some research and learned that in their adult lives, luna moths eat nothing. They can't because they have no digestive systems. Their mouths are totally useless. They might as well be decals, so they rely on energy they'd amassed when they were caterpillars. When he told me that in their flying stage they only live from seven to 10 days, I demanded that he release it immediately. Well, that proved to be a total waste of breath, so I went straight to my parents. Every moment is precious to that beautiful creature, I told them. Do you think it wants to spend what little time it has in a dank bedroom that smells like you know what? I didn't have to spell anything out. Pete was 15. I said. That moth is currently clinging to a poster in Pete's room that has half a dozen barely dressed women on it. A poster I have asked you on more than one occasion to remove. We didn't use the word unsafe back in the 90s, but that was how this poster, it was of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders made me feel. My parents said that Pete's room was his own own domain, just as mine was mine and Mandy's was Mandy's. Would you say that if he was holding a human being hostage? I said. They told me that was different, and I said, well, not to me. And with that, I phoned the police and told them my brother was keeping a very rare Luna moth in his bedroom. The dispatcher asked to speak to Pete, who said that in fact the Acteus Luna was not at all rare, that he was observing it for a science project and that he would release it the following day after school. My brother was a man, albeit a young one, but naturally the police took his word over mine. I then went next door and called from the Latham's phone. Disguising my voice, I again dialed 911, this time to say that my brother was holding a female prisoner and that he had a gun. Well, that got their attention all right. I didn't say it was a pellet pistol, but if you were to point it at someone in, for example, a dark parking lot and say, give me your keys, would they know the difference? No. I'd been back home for all of five minutes when in stormed the police, a whole squad of them. The front door was battered down and we were ordered, all of us, to lay face down on the floor. In the noise and the commotion that followed, the Luna moth darted out of my brother's room and was almost to the front door freedom. When one of the officers freaked out and shot him. Well, you know what cops are like. I'm not telling you anything you haven't heard before. The fact that the trigger happy one was a woman, and a woman of color no less, causes me nothing but shame. Good shot, Hernandez, the other said to her, so patronizing. Was that by chance the female being held captive? The most savage of the eight police officers asked, but before I could answer, my brother stuck his orin. Turned out that technically this Luna moth was a he, so that was also used against me. No female prisoner and no gun. I wanted the ACLU to get involved, or at least PETA, but instead my father hired one of his lawyer friends from the club and the false report charge was reduced to criminal mischief. Thank God I was still a minor. I did community service with the housing insecure for two weekends in a row and was planning to return For a third, just as a volunteer. But it rained. My brother was never quite the same. After the police killed his moth, he withdrew. Not from the rest of the family, but just from me. That's Pete's tragic flaw. Pride. The inability to say, you were right and I was wrong. I am sorry. Sorry, Doreen. I still had Mandy. She's three years younger than I am and had always been like a sister to me, even though she's adopted. I remember when my parents brought her home. I can recall so clearly what I was wearing. A T shirt with a llama on it. Even then, I wanted her to feel seen and not just otherized. When, at age 14, she came out to me, I was shocked, but also honored. Just don't tell mom and Dad, I said. Don't tell Pete, either. Actually, don't tell anyone. This needs to be our secret. My mother's oldest friend from college was lesbian, as was. We'd later learn the girl that Pete was currently dating. But they weren't family members, and I knew from the LGBT grapevine how easily this could turn ugly. You could be sent back to Peru, I told my beautiful gay sister. And I'm pretty sure they would torture you. Later that week, I rifled through my brother's closets and snuck Mandy a couple of Playboy magazines. I know that dates me, but so be it. My sister's sexuality was like a beautiful egg. So precious, but also so fragile. Anytime you want to talk, I am here. I told her. I am not just Doreen now. I'm your ally. A year and a half later, I graduated from high school, the top of my class. Then came college, and I felt totally betrayed when my mother called two days into my freshman year at Chesterton. Well, your sister finally came out. She told me I wanted to tell her a thousand times that her father and I already knew. All she wears are those soccer jerseys. But we figured it was her news to share when she saw fit. It's sad how frightened she was. I mean, what do we care? Pete's already set her up with his ex girlfriend. Their first date's tomorrow at a Cougars game. I was furious, and I called Mandy the moment after I hung up on my mother. How dare you. I said. We were supposed to tell mom and dad together. Me by your side to support you. She said she was tired of waiting. Oh, but that's Mandy for you. It's all about her. That really changed our relationship, weakened it. I'd been my sister's rock, and here she just tossed me aside. After all my encouragement and nurturing. I haven't posted this on my Facebook page yet, but I've often wished that I were gay myself, and I feel that in spirit I am when applying for a job. A few weeks back, I actually wrote that I identify as queer. Thank you. Where does that leave me? Scott asked. I love my husband, I really do. But that doesn't mean I can't be my own person. I told him he had no reason to feel threatened. If and when I ever decide to be attracted to women, it will be after he's dead. He almost seemed disappointed. How long after he asked, we settled on five years, because that's what marriage is. Compromise. For instance, when we met, he wanted children and I didn't. So we got a dog. That was when Ladybug entered the picture, and we'd had her for almost five years. When Scott once again raised the baby question, my objection was that the responsibility it always falls on the woman. First she has to carry the infant in her womb. All that wear and tear on the body, plus the very real possibility that she she might die in childbirth, especially if, like me, she's technically underweight for her size. Scott said that we could always adopt, and I argued that while an adopted child might legally be ours, it wouldn't really be a true Cantwell Meisenheimer. One of us would need to be a part of the conception. Ironically, this was right when Mandy, now 35, and her wife, Sugar, decided that they wanted a baby. Problem meet solution. I suggested Scott as a sperm donor and proposed that he and I take the child from time to time, say one weekend a month at first and have equal say when it came to.
- [41:30]
Jessica Keenan Wynn
Raising.
- [41:34]
Narrator
Was a lot, I know, so I gave Mandy and Sugar a few days to mull it over. In the meantime, I wondered what I might name the baby and whether or not I'd allow it to be vaccinated. I wasn't against it, but had learned from hitting the Mommy blogs that a lot more research needs to be done. Then there'd be the question of its education. It used to be only religious kooks who home schooled, but that world was changing and fast. We'd need to hire a nanny, of course, but first I'd have to turn Scott's office into a nursery. I had a lot on my plate and I was going at it full force when I had the proverbial rug pulled out from under me. My so called sister had rejected Scott's in my offer and had decided instead to get her semen from Ryan Fletcher. I hit the roof. Well, what's wrong with him? My mother asked. In case you'd forgotten, I told her Mr. Fletcher was Mandy's 12th grade English teacher and could very easily have been my teacher as well if I hadn't been advanced placement. So her teacher is the father of her baby. Well, that was almost 20 years ago, my mother said. That's called grooming, I shouted. Mr. Fletcher was grooming her. There was no physical contact between them, my mother said. Said as if it were nothing like borrowing a cup of sugar. According to your sister, it was all done very professionally at the doctor's office. It's already done. I was apoplectic. She told me Mandy had chosen Mr. Fletcher over my husband because Scott has hair on his back and she didn't want her child, if it was a boy, to inherit it. Plus, she wanted the baby to be hers and Sugar's alone with no outside interference. A condition Ryan, that's what she was calling him now agreed to. He's gay, too, my mother said. Mandy and Sugar know him and his husband from their soccer league. I don't know why. I have a stronger sense of justice than, frankly, anyone I have ever met met. I just do. And when something feels wrong, I have to act on it, whatever the consequences. Was it right for a man of 50, a trusted and to all appearances, respected teacher, to get one of his students pregnant? Former teacher Scott interjected when I broke the news to him that we would not, in fact be co parenting our baby. That's just a technicality, I said, and I believe the school board will back me up on it. The fact is that our school board had been overrun by far right nut jobs, removing books from the library, shutting down the drama department. They temporarily suspended chemistry classes at Wilson High after a trans student attempted to make a love potion. I hated adding fuel to their particular fire, but does it matter which weapon you reach for when the battle you're fighting is this urgent? The good news is that Ryan Fletcher was fired and is in no longer a position to groom his female students. The bad news is that the school board member who I initially contacted and who fought with me so hard to protect our children, use the publicity to run for governor and win. Marcia Tucker Black rode in on a conservative wave, and the first thing she did was close our state's abortion clinics. There were only four left, but still. Well, look on the bright side, scott said. If you ever change your mind about adoption now we'll have a bigger pool to choose from. But how can I think of children when I'VE got these dogs to take care of. And then, of course, there's Farnsworth, who stands on that perch in our kitchen all day, monitoring my every move. Scott's late mother never taught him to speak. Rather, he just picked things up on his own. The hiss of a beer can opening is one of his specialties, as is the sound of ice hitting the bottom of a glass. All Irene did was sit around her house all day and night, drinking and watching the sorts of cable news stations our new governor seem to stay off of. Fake news, Farnsworth cries, and all lives matter. I have tried to teach him diversity is our strength, but he won't budge. Scott had sworn to take him in, not knowing that in captivity a crested cockatoo can live to be a hundred, which leaves him another 86 years. I'd pass Farnsworth on to my parents, or to my sister or my stupid brother, even, but none of them are talking to me anymore. Damn bird. It'd be a shame if anything happened to him.
- [47:15]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Farnsworth. By David Sedaris Performed by Jessica Keenan Wynne I'm Meg Wolitzer I would recognize David Sedaris sensibility anywhere, the way I once could recognize my own child's face from all the way on the other side of the playground, despite the fact that all I could see was a blur of features in a red winter hat. It's hard to say what it is that makes Sedaris sensibility so immediately recognizable, but I know it has something to do with a carefully calibrated unspooling of narrative, and also with character, not to mention a deep well of wit. There's something reassuring about being around a sensibility that you know and understand. When a story by such a writer begins, you settle in and think, ooh, this is gonna be good. What's unusual, and maybe a little paradoxical about David Sedaris is that despite how recognizable his sensibility may be, the work is also still so surprising. Our final story this hour is by Robin Hemley. He's the prolific author of fiction and nonfiction titles, including the recent An After Autobiography. He's also got a talent for light, funny short stories, even when he's talking about difficult things like, say, ordering lunch. You'll see, as this piece has two voices in it. We asked two of our excellent Shorts regulars to do the honors. Mike Doyle has long been known for his role on Law and SVU and has appeared in many other series, including New Amsterdam. Jane Curtin was an original cast member of Saturday Night Live, anchored series, including Kate and Ally, and has appeared in recent films such as Queen Bees. Now Doyle and Curtin perform Robin Hemley's the Last Customer.
- [49:08]
Mike Doyle
The Last Customer the world was crumbling to pieces, and still Alison refused me. Our waiter stood by the table to collect our bill and shivered as plaster fell from the ceiling. Is there anything else I can get you? He asked, tears flowing down his cheeks. I think we're fine, I said.
- [49:31]
Jane Curtin
You didn't ask if I'd like anything, said Allison. You promised me you'd act like a gentleman.
- [49:38]
Mike Doyle
I am a gentleman, I said. But what could you possibly want now? This is the end. A plant in its clay pot toppled off a shelf and busted. A picture in a golden baroque frame slid off the wall. On the patio, the wrought iron tables clattered. Fishers appeared in the restaurant's tiles. Didn't you hear what I said, Allison? I shouted. You never listened to me.
- [50:06]
Jane Curtin
I just wanted to take another look at the menu. There's no reason to get so defensive.
- [50:13]
Mike Doyle
I watched Alison pour over the menu like a translator scrutinizing an indecipherable text. Just a week earlier we'd gone to the Paris Cafe, and when the waitress had asked if we were ready to order, Alison said, yes, she was. The waitress had taken out her notepad and stood poised with her pencil. But then Alison had started rattling off all sorts of questions. Was the tuna salad fresh? And by fresh she didn't mean was it made last night? What about the crab St. Jacques? Could it be trusted? After all, this wasn't Exactly a crab St. Jacques kind of establishment. Finally I couldn't stand her babbling any longer and told her to make up her mind. Didn't she see the waitress had other customers? Why did she always act so selfishly?
- [51:06]
Jane Curtin
There's a big difference between selfishness and thoroughness. I've learned to be more discerning since I met you, Kenneth.
- [51:17]
Mike Doyle
Take as long as you wish, mademoiselle, the waitress had told us cheerfully in a French accent. We're really not too busy this time of year, she had added. Actually, the place had been packed, and our waitress's various customers were clamoring for her attention. One man had held his coffee cup over his head and wrapped it with his knuckles. Another man had waved his wallet around like a flare, but our waitress had paid no attention to them. I marveled at how calm she stayed in the midst of this, as though we were the last customers who exist, and the fate of the world hinged on what we ordered. Neither Alison nor I would have done well in the restaurant business. Alison looked at me smugly and folded her menu.
- [52:08]
Jane Curtin
You see, waitresses are trained to wait. With you, it's always a matter of life and death.
- [52:15]
Mike Doyle
The waiter we had now was a completely different story. I could tell he was dying to escape. The guy's knees were shaking and his face was completely pale, but he stood by us anyway. He was probably waiting for his lousy tip. A ceiling fan crashed to the floor and exploded in shards of wood, followed by half the ceiling, which collapsed around us. A choking cloud of white dust rose up. The waiter held a handkerchief over his mouth and coughed. Maybe we should leave him alone, I told Allison. He might want to go to church or visit with his loved ones.
- [52:53]
Jane Curtin
All I want is some ice cream.
- [52:54]
Mike Doyle
Said Allison in an exaggerated tone.
- [52:58]
Jane Curtin
You're making it into such a big deal.
- [53:01]
Mike Doyle
The world doesn't end every day, I said, taking the menu out of her hands.
- [53:05]
Jane Curtin
Now you're being too dramatic, Kenneth.
- [53:08]
Mike Doyle
A pipe burst in one of the walls and send water streaming and gushing everywhere. We are out of ice cream, said the waiter. And I'm not particularly religious, though I was raised a Catholic. We're not interested in your personal life, I said.
- [53:26]
Jane Curtin
It seems so sad not to have ice cream when you really want it. I mean, I don't mind a little deprivation. I really don't. But ice cream is one of those things that you should always be around at times like this. It's so soothing, don't you think?
- [53:41]
Mike Doyle
Alison reached out and gave me a little tap on the hand with her fingernail and a searching look. It was that look that got me. Oh, how manipulative she was, always bribing me with her affection. I started to pull my hand away.
- [53:57]
Jane Curtin
But then she added, remember that gelato we shared in Capri?
- [54:03]
Mike Doyle
She gave me a wry little smile to remind me, but of course I remembered. I paid the waiter and he left, counting the money shamelessly to see if we'd left him a tip. As he rang up the bill, a tremor shook the restaurant and a section of wall collapsed on him. I laughed, relieved by the moment's diversion. But then I turned to Allison and saw she wasn't smiling. What have I done now? I asked.
- [54:32]
Jane Curtin
You promised me you'd stop creating scenes.
- [54:36]
Tony Hale
Scenes? What scene?
- [54:37]
Mike Doyle
Lower your voice, allison said quietly.
- [54:40]
Jane Curtin
You're making a scene right now.
- [54:42]
Mike Doyle
I ran my finger through the condensation on my water glass. The heat was starting to get to me. I took a sip of water and my favorite sports jacket, which was draped on the back of my chair caught fire. I doused it and threw it on the floor.
- [54:59]
Jane Curtin
It's no use, Kenneth. You're blind. No amount of explanation is going to make things better.
- [55:04]
Mike Doyle
Tell me, I said wearily, playing with my fork, why do our worst arguments always happen when we eat out? Alison looked at me sadly and said.
- [55:17]
Jane Curtin
I think they're just more noticeable then, not any worse.
- [55:22]
Mike Doyle
One by one, the folded linen napkins at the empty tables around us burst into flames and fizzled into the blackened atmosphere. We stood, and I helped Alison with her coat.
- [55:37]
Narrator
How do I look?
- [55:38]
Mike Doyle
She said, dabbing her eyes. Your hair's a bit messed up, I said. She patted her hair.
- [55:45]
Jane Curtin
What about my mascara? Is it running?
- [55:47]
Mike Doyle
Alison's face paled as a torso flew by.
- [55:53]
Narrator
How about my lipstick?
- [55:54]
Mike Doyle
For God's sake, I said, jumping around her. We're going to die. Stop worrying about appearances. What about me? You look fine, Kenneth, she said, dabbing at a smudge on my cheek with a finger.
- [56:07]
Jane Curtin
Now you promised you wouldn't create a scene.
- [56:09]
Mike Doyle
We walked outside. I looked back and saw a block of concrete sliced through the middle of our table. The remaining walls and ceilings collapsed into a smoking heap.
- [56:20]
Jane Curtin
How much did you leave him?
- [56:22]
Mike Doyle
15%, but I don't think that matters that much now.
- [56:26]
Jane Curtin
The service was good. You should always leave 20 when it's good.
- [56:29]
Mike Doyle
Forget about these social conventions.
- [56:32]
Jane Curtin
Social conventions? What do you want to replace them with? Doggy conventions? Rat manners? What about human dignity?
- [56:39]
Mike Doyle
What about it? I said, grabbing her by the shoulders.
- [56:43]
Jane Curtin
You sicken me. You promises me nothing to you.
- [56:46]
Mike Doyle
What about your promise?
- [56:47]
Jane Curtin
What promise?
- [56:48]
Mike Doyle
You said you'd marry me if I was the last man on Earth. So I'm the last man.
- [56:55]
Jane Curtin
Take a walk. Last man.
- [56:58]
Mike Doyle
And suddenly it was over. The land on which we stood ripped free from the rest of the world and floated into space. But we didn't die, because some remnants of the Earth's atmosphere still climbed, clung to our small asteroid, about the size of a city block. I held on to Alison as we floated around our personal planet. Presently I saw the rest of the world explode.
- [57:27]
Narrator
Let me go.
- [57:29]
Mike Doyle
Shouted Allison, who still did not grasp the seriousness of the situation. Hold me. I said. Instead, Allison let go. She swung her pocketbook in front of her and glared at me as she spun away, defiant even in the absence of gravity. Alison, don't leave. I shouted. But she gave me a quizzical look, put a hand to her ear, and tumbled out of sight. Later, kicking among the rubble, I found a giant sign that read Es Cafe. I looked at the sign for a long time trying to figure out what it meant. Is cafe, I said aloud. Oui, monsieur, someone said. Startled, I turned around. In the midst of the rubble, a small section of Formica counter poked out, and behind it stood a waitress. She seemed somehow familiar. She held a pot of black coffee in her hand. In back, a fancy chrome machine lay on its side, all busted up, ice cream leaking from its spout. Beside it was a blackboard with specials listed, but most had been scratched out, including the crab St. Jacques, my favorite. Dazed, I walked over to the counter. A single black and red bar stool remained standing. I gave it a spin and sat down.
- [59:08]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Jane Curtin and Mike Doyle reading the Last Customer by Robin Hemley. If we're talking about laughing in the face of danger, I'm glad we ended on that story. Nothing more important than the end of the world. Nothing less important than Crab St. Jacques. And if not, Crab St. Jacques. I hear the tuna melt isn't half bad. So just keep in mind, no matter how scary the foe or how overwhelming the circumstances, remember to laugh if at all possible. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimpkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nolsen. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
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Narrator
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