← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
McSweeney’s 25th Anniversary Extravaganza
00:58:15
Meg Wolitzer presents stories celebrating a quarter century of clever, funny, playful, weird, and literary writing, in print and online, showcased by the powerhouse indie publisher McSweeney’s. These include a comic fantasy, “Poor Little Egg-Boy Hatched in a Shul, by Nathan Englander, performed by Ophira Eisenberg; an unusual mother/son story, “Crumb Cake,” by Etgar Keret, performed by Andy Richter; and unlikely heroism at the amusement park in “Stay Brave, My Hercules,” by Ernie Wang, performed by BD Wong.
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Transcript33 lines
- [00:01]
Narrator/Reader
When work gets crazy, I like to.
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Commercial Announcer
Stop by the bar after have a few cold ones.
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Narrator/Reader
I don't drink at all until 4 o'.
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Commercial Announcer
Clock. We limit ourselves to one bottle of wine a night.
- [00:12]
Narrator/Reader
Excessive drinking has a way of sneaking up on us. A few drinks, a few nights a week, it can add up and suddenly we're at greater risk for long term problems like heart disease, cancer and depression. Reason enough to rethink the drink. More more@rethinktodrink.com no HA initiative.
- [00:30]
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- [01:07]
Meg Wolitzer
Smart, hilarious, groundbreaking, and absolutely in love with the power of stories that is the indie publisher McSweeney's all over. They turned 25 recently and we at Selected Shorts threw them a party stick around. There's cake and hard boiled eggs and a Disney vacation. Seriously. 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. Since its founding in 1998, the indie publisher McSweeney's has had an incredibly clear sensibility. Led by the writer Dave Eggers, McSweeney's meant clever, funny, playful, weird and literary writing that was more than a little biting. Even during its earliest days in the late 90s with regular contributors like Michael Chabin and Zadie Smith, and it always felt like the sort of club that would be fun to be a part of. In the intervening years, McSweeney's has produced an incredible body of literary journals that are art objects as much as they are story collections. McSweeney's has published works by authors from James Hanaham to Lydia Davis, made nonfiction magazines including the Believer and Lucky Peach and their sister organization. 826national is a non profit that assists kids with their writing skills and online, the McSweeney's Internet Tendency has released on a daily basis hilarious satire and absurd rants that we often can't air on the radio. If you're curious, Google decorative gourd season and all will become clear to you in 2023, McSweeney's turned 25 years old, and we at Selected Shorts thought it was more than fitting to celebrate. We collected a number of stories we love from the 70 plus issues of their journals and invited a cast of McSweeney's admirers to read them live at Symphony Space in New York. In the next hour, you'll hear performances from that night from some writers you probably know and others you might not the host of our live show, the actor and writer John Hodgman, has been a part of McSweeney since very early in its existence. Hodgman is the author of books including Vacationland and Medallion Status, the host of the Judge John Hodgman podcast, and has appeared in series such as Poker Face. But in the early aughts he was a columnist for McSweeney's online portal under the guise of a deranged former professional literary agent. It all began when Hodgman was accidentally forwarded an email from Dave Eggers looking for submissions.
- [03:57]
John Hodgman
He was calling for fiction, yes, but also reportage humor magazine stories that had been rejected elsewhere, short stories that had never been finished. I had a lot of those, so I sent him one of those and Dave responded almost immediately saying, how did you get this email address? But Dave and his colleagues encouraged me, and so many right from the start, to not just do the jobs that we could manage to get, but to create the work that we had to do for some unknown impulse such as whatever. My job is, whatever I happen to do, and I'm proud to do it here tonight on the occasion of McSweeney's 25th anniversary.
- [04:48]
Meg Wolitzer
That was a friend of McSweeney's John Hodgman on stage at Symphony Space. Our first story is by Nathan Englander. He's an author, translator, playwright and teacher whose titles include what We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank and his latest novel, Kaddish.com this piece was commissioned for an issue of the McSweeney's Journal comprising modern day fables. This one touches on motherhood, fibs, and that one little thing you just can't resist performing. This story is comic storyteller and writer Ophira Eisenberg. Her most recent album of stand up is titled Plant Based Jokes. But radio fans may know her best as the former host of NPR's game show Ask Me Another. And now Ophira Eisenberg reads Poor Little Egg Boy Hatched in a Shool By Nathan England.
- [05:48]
Ophira Eisenberg
Poor Little Egg Boy Hatched in a Shool Meryl Gillearnter was peeling eggs at the kitchen sink of the Hemplebrew synagogue. When she peeled an egg that was her son, she peeled off the shell to reveal a face sticking out from the white, two arms sticking out from the sides, and two legs poking out from the place where legs go. She turned off the water and set the boy down on the floor. On the floor, Merrill's son was suddenly kid sized. Kid kid sized, but a perfect egg boy. Meryl thought in admiring her son and then admiring his white, that this would be a perfect hard boiled egg costume, Just the way you'd want to make it if it weren't in fact real perfect, except for the part of the white that was torn. She'd have been more careful in cracking the shell and peeling it back if she'd known her son was inside. As for the very noticeable, very exceptional change from egg sized boy to boy sized egg, she'd have thought it strange if not for what preceded it, if she hadn't just peeled an egg that was her son. And of course, if there had been a rash of such happenings in Hempelbrew of late. There was peach girl and banana boy and a lobster, not really human, though it screamed upon boiling in french. Meryl crossed her arms and said, an egg boy. Well, I'll be. And then she locked up the synagogue and took her son home. Now, Meryl hadn't planned for this. She had an urgent errand to run. But egg or no, a mother cannot leave a little boy unattended. It's irresponsible. Which is why Merrill gillernter fetched her other child, her older child, from the neighbors across the way. Meryl left her egg son in her daughter's care. All she said to her daughter was, watch him. Then she turned back and added, don't eat them. The problem for the egg boy was this, like many little boys, he really loved egg whites. He had no feeling for yolks. But the white, there was nothing better. While he was waiting with his sister, he just couldn't resist. It looked so tasty. He was already torn. He reached up and taking hold of the broken part, pulled off a perfect strip, like a egg slicer slice a single round. And he ate it. The egg boy ate himself, which he kind of felt, even in the moment must be wrong. When his mother returned and saw the missing strip, she was very mad at her daughter for eating her son. She expressly told her not to. The daughter protested her innocence, but her mother wouldn't hear it. What kind of little boy would eat himself? She wanted to know. Little brothers, the daughter said, do worse. The egg boy didn't say a word. He said nothing then, and went on saying nothing even when his father got home. It was to his father that the egg boy's mother declared, look what she's done. She's half eaten our son. We can't trust our daughter anymore. The egg boy's father thought she should sleep in the basement behind a locked door. His mother said no. His father thought they could maybe, just for that evening, keep her in their closet and nail the whole thing shut again. Meryl said no, it was not safe to have a daughter who doesn't listen under the same roof as their son. Meryl Galernter took her daughter across the street and gave her to the neighbors to raise. The poor little egg boy did not open his mouth at dinner that night for fear the truth would escape. He said nothing at breakfast the next morning when his father let out a terrible sigh. The egg boy soldiered on that way for a number of days, always telling himself that not saying was different than lying when his closed mouth hunger became too great and his sister base guilt too strong. When finally the egg boy wanted to set the record straight, he assembled his family, waving his sister over to the window, ready to tell them the truth. And the egg boy was proud to be doing what was right. But what's right and when it's right can be two different things. The egg boy opened his mouth and discovered he'd waited too long, ready to talk. There were no words left. His tongue had turned to B.
- [10:36]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Ophira Eisenberg with Nathan Englander's modern day fable Poor Little Egg Boy Hatched in a shool. Right now you're probably saying to yourself, oh no, not another story in which a character's tongue turns into bacon. Didn't that happen recently in a George Saunders story and also in something by Alice Munro? Why no, it certainly did not. Nathan Englander has a monopoly on tempting breakfast food Related Body Parts in Fiction Next up, a selected shorts favorite who has, unsurprisingly been in demand at McSweeney's, too. Israeli writer Edgar Kerritt is the imaginative mind behind short story collections, including Fly Already and Suddenly A Knock on the Door, as well as the memoir the Seven Good Years. Most of Kerritt's stories have a wild conceit to them, though this one is fairly naturalistic, it's no less rich in character or comic detail. Performing it is Andy Richter, an actor and comedian who is known for his many years on Conan and Late Night with Conan o' Brien as well as films such as Semi Pro and Now Richter reads.
- [11:39]
Narrator/Reader
Crumb Cake by Edgar Kerritt Crumb cake for my 50th birthday, mom takes me to Fat Charlie's Diner for lunch. I want to order a pancake towel with maple syrup and whipped cream, but mom asked me to order something healthier. It's my birthday, I insist. My 50th birthday. Let me order the pancakes just this once, instead of cake. But I already baked you a cake, mom grumbles. A crumb cake, your favorite. If you let me eat the pancakes, I won't even taste the cake. I promise. After thinking for a minute, she says grudgingly, I'll let you eat pancakes and cake too, just this once. Only because today's your birthday. Fat Charlie brings me the pancake tower with a lit sparkler on top. He sings Happy Birthday in a hoarse voice, waiting for mom to join in, but all she does is shoot the pancake tower an angry glance, so I sing with him instead. How old are you? Charlie asks. 50, I say. 50 years old and still celebrating with your mom? He gives an appreciative whistle and goes on. I envy you, Mrs. Pykoff. My daughter is half his age, and she hasn't wanted to celebrate her birthday with us for ages. We're too old for her. What does your daughter do? Mom asked without taking her eyes off the pile of pancakes on my plate. I don't exactly know, charlie admits, something in high tech. My son is fat and unemployed, mom says in a half whisper, so don't be so quick to envy me. He's not fat, charlie mumbles, trying to smile. Compared to Charlie, I'm really not fat. And I'm not an employee either, I add, my mouth full of pancakes. Sweetie, mom says. Organizing my pills in a box for $2 a day does not qualify as a job. Congratulations, charlie says to me. Hearty appetite and congratulations, and backs slowly away from our table as if he were retreating from a growling dog. When mom goes to the restroom, Charlie comes back. I want you to know that you're doing a really good deed by living with your mom and everything. After my father died, my mother lived alone. You should have seen her. She burned out faster than the sparkler on your pancakes. Your mother can gripe till tomorrow, but you're keeping her alive, and that is a good deed right out of the Good Book. Honor thy father and thy mother. How are the pancakes? Fantastic, I say. It's too bad I can't come here more often. If you're in the neighborhood, you're always welcome to drop in, charlie says and winks at me. I'll be glad to give you more, free of charge. I don't know what to say, so I just smile and nod. Really? Charlie says. It would make me happy. My daughter hasn't eaten my pancakes for years. She's always on a diet. I'll come, I tell Charlie. I promise. Great, charlie says, nodding. And I promise not to say a word about it to your mother. Scout's honor. On the way home we stop at 7:11 and mom says that because it's my birthday I can choose one thing as a present. I want a bubble gum flavored energy drink, but mom says I'd had enough sugar for the day, so I ask her to buy me a lottery ticket, but she says that on principle. She's against gambling because it teaches people to be passive and instead of doing something to change destiny, all they do is sit on their fat behinds and wait for luck to save them. You know what the chances are of winning the lottery? She asks. One in a million? Even less. Just think about it. We have a better chance of being killed in a car accident on the way home than you do of winning. After a brief silence, she adds, but if you insist, I'll buy it for you. I insist, and she buys it for me. I fold the lottery ticket twice, once along the width and once along the length, and I shove it into the small front pocket of my jeans. My dad died in a car accident on the way home, a long time ago when I was still in my mother's womb. So go figure. At night I want to watch the basketball game. The warriors are really good this year. That curry is so hot on the three point shots I never saw anything like it. He shoots without even looking at the basket and the balls drop into the hoop one after the other. Mom won't let me. She says she read in TV Guide that there's a special about the poorest places in the world on National Geographic. Can't you skip it for me? I ask. After all, today's my birthday, but mom insists that my birthday started yesterday and ended at sunset, so now it's just a regular day. While mom watches the program, I go into the kitchen and organize her pills in the box. She takes more than 30 pills a day, 10 in the morning and 20 something at night. Pills for blood pressure, cholesterol, her heart, thyroid. So many pills that just swallowing them makes you full. Really, I don't think there's a disease in the world that she doesn't have except for aids, maybe lupus. After I finish organizing the pills in the box, I sit down next to her on the couch and watch the program with her. They're showing a humpback kid who lives in the poorest neighborhood in Calcutta. At night, before he goes to sleep, his parents tie him with a rope so he'll sleep bent over. That way, the narrator explains, his hump will get bigger and when he grows up it'll make people feel really sorry for him and give him a strong advantage in the tough competition with other beggars in the city. I'm not someone who cries a lot, but that kid's story is really sad. You want me to switch to basketball? Mom asks in a soft voice and ruffles my hair. No, I say, wiping my tears with my sleeve and smiling at her. This is an interesting program. It really is an interesting program. I'm sorry I said mean things about you in the diner, she says. You're a good boy. It's okay, I say and kiss her on the cheek. You didn't bother me at all. The next morning I go to the eye doctor with Mom. He shows her a chart with letters on it and asks her to read them out loud. She shouts the letters she can see and insists on guessing the ones that she doesn't, as if a lucky guess will help cure her. The doctor adds another pill to her collection to be taken once a day for the glaucoma. After the doctor, we go to Walgreens to buy the new pill and so I won't forget, I add it to the box in the compartment for the night pills as soon as we get home. Then I change into my tracksuit, take my basketball and go out to the children's court. I'm not a great player, but if the kids there are young enough, they're sure I'm a God. A few years ago I had a run in with a red headed mother with tattoos who got stressed because I was playing with her son. The minute she saw me on the court with him, she told me in a really loud voice that I shouldn't dare touch him. I explained to her I according to the rules of basketball, you're allowed to touch your opponent when you're guarding him and she had nothing to worry about. I knew I was bigger and stronger than her cute little son and anyway, even when I'm guarding, I do it carefully. But she, instead of listening, just got even angrier. And don't you dare call my son cute, you pervert. She screamed and threw her paper cup of coffee right in my face. Luckily the coffee was lukewarm, but still it stained my clothes. After that incident, I didn't go back there for a few months. But then the playoff started and when you see good games, it makes you want to play too. I didn't want to go back there because I was afraid the redhead with the tattoos would still be there and start screaming again. So instead I asked mom if we could buy a basket of our own and hang it in the yard. That was the first time I told mom about what happened on the basketball court and she got very quiet, the way she always does when she's really mad, and she told me to put on my tracksuit and take my basketball and we left the house. On the way to the court, she told me that all the parents of the children who play with me there should thank me because there aren't many grown ups in the world who still have an gentleness and goodness in them to play like I do with children and teach them things. Sweetie, she said, her voice cracking when we get to the court, if you see that stupid tattooed monkey again, would you tell me?
- [20:19]
Ophira Eisenberg
Okay?
- [20:20]
Narrator/Reader
I nodded, but in my heart I was praying that the tattooed redhead wouldn't be there because I knew that even though mom is old, she could easily smash that woman's head with her cane. When we reached the court, mom sat down on a bench and checked out all the other parents like a bodyguard trying to spot an assassin. At first I had an empty half court to myself and just dribbled and shot baskets alone. But very quickly the kids on the other half of the court asked me to join them because they were missing a player. At the end of the game when I made the winning basket, I looked over at mom who was still sitting on the bench pretending to be reading something on her cell phone, and I knew she'd seen everything and was proud. Now when I reach the court, there are no kids there and I just take some lazy shots at miss the basket. But. But after about 15 minutes I get bored. Fat Charlie's Diner is barely a five minute walk away and when I get there it's almost empty and Charlie is really glad to see me. Hey, hoop star, he says. Were you playing basketball? I shrug and tell him that there was no one on the court. It's still early, he says and winks at me. But by the time you finish the mountain of pancakes I'm going to make you, there will definitely be a few people there. Charlie's pancakes are really fantastic. When I finish eating. I thank him and ask again if he's sure it's okay for me to eat there without pain. Whenever you want, hoop star, he says. The pleasure is all mine. And you won't tell my mom about the pancakes, right? I ask him before I leave. Don't worry. Charlie laughs and pats his big stomach. Your secret is buried deep in my pot belly. The big lottery drawing takes place on Saturday nights. Mom reminds me about it right after she takes her pills. Are you in suspense? She asks. I shrug. She tells me again that my chance of winning is less than one in a million and then asks me what I would do if I happened to win. I shrug again and I say, I would definitely send some of the money to that humpback kid we saw on tv. Mom laughs and says that film was made more than 10 years ago and it's very possible that the humpback kid is now a humpback grown up, and he's begged so much that he doesn't need favors from anyone. Or maybe he died from one of those diseases those people get because they don't wash their hands. Never mind the children from the National Geographic, she says and ruffles my hair the way I like her to. What would you want for yourself? I shrug again because I really don't know. If you win, you'll probably move to a big place of your own and buy a season ticket to sit in the VIP box for all the warriors games and hire a stupid Filipina to organize my medications instead of you, mom says, giving me a not very happy smile. I actually like organizing Mom's pills for her. It relaxes me. I don't like going to games, I say. Remember when we went to visit Uncle Larry in Oakland and he took me to a game? We stood in line for almost an hour and the ushers at the entrance yelled at everyone who went inside. A no season ticket, mom says. So what do you think you'd buy? Maybe a TV from my room, I say. But a really big one. Not like the one we have in the living room, Sweetie, mom says. The first prize is $63 million. If you win, you'll have to think of something else besides a large screen tv. This is my first time ever watching a lottery draw. There's a kind of transparent machine full of ping pong balls and each ball has a number on it. The woman operating the machine is blonde and she smiles nervously the whole time. Mom says that her bust isn't real and you can see right away that she's had Botox injections because nothing on her forehead moves. Then mom says she has to go to the bathroom. This year she's developed a serious problem with her bladder, and that's why she has to go to the bathroom every half hour. Good luck, sweetie. If you see you've won while I'm peeing, give a yell and I'll run out with my underpants down, she says with a laugh and gives me a kiss before she gets up from the couch. But don't yell for no reason, you hear me? You remember what the doctor said about my heart? The blonde with the nervous smile presses a button that turns on the machine. I look at her forehead. Mom's right. Nothing moves there. The first ball that drops out of the machine has the number 46 on it, which is the number of our house. The second one has the number 30, which is the age mom was when dad died and I was born. The third ball has the number 33, which is the number of pills mom took every day before she got the prescription for the glaucoma pill. And the fourth ball has the number one, which is the number of sparklers Charlie lit on my pancake tower. It's weird how all the numbers the blonde with the frozen forehead chooses are connected to my life and Mom's, and how all those numbers are written on my ticket. I don't even check the last two numbers. I just keep thinking about what would make a woman inject herself with stuff that paralyzes her forehead, and how sad it would be if mom and I had to live in separate houses instead of together. When mom comes back to the couch, I'm already watching the sports channel, but she insists that we switch to Fox because it's time for the evening news broadcast. The newscasters talk about a suicide bombing in Pakistan that killed 67 people. They don't mention the name of the city where the bombing happened, and I just hope it isn't Calcutta. Mom explains to me that Calcutta is in India, and Pakistan is a different country even worse than India. The things that people do to each other, she says as she gets up and starts walking slowly toward the kitchen. Terror attacks on TV always make her hungry. Mom asked if I want her to make us some scrambled eggs, and I tell her I'm hungry but not for eggs. Want the last slice of crumb cake I baked for your birthday? She calls from the kitchen. You'll let me eat something sweet even though it's nighttime already? I ask. Usually she's very strict about things like that. Today is a special day, she says. Today is the day that you didn't win the lottery. You deserve a consolation prize for that. Why are you so sure I didn't win? I asked because I didn't hear you yell like you promised. She laughs. Well, even if I screamed, you wouldn't have heard. You're half deaf, I say, smiling back at her. Half deaf and half dead, mom says with a nod as she puts the last slice of cake on the table before me. But tell me the truth, sweetie. Do you know anyone else in the whole wide world who can make a crumb cake as delicious as mine?
- [27:04]
Commercial Announcer
Thank you.
- [27:08]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Andy Richter with Etgar Kerritt's story Crumb Cake so just keep in mind, if you think that $63 million is going to improve your life, your mother's crumb cake is something that cannot be improved upon. When we return, the world's best advice from the world's strongest man. 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.
- [27:34]
James Gunn
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- [28:05]
Narrator/Reader
One sausage McMuffin with egg, please.
- [28:07]
Commercial Announcer
Okay, your total is.
- [28:08]
Narrator/Reader
Wait, let's negotiate. How's about you throw in hash browns for a dollar?
- [28:13]
Commercial Announcer
Well, yes sir. That price is already a do.
- [28:16]
Narrator/Reader
Take it or leave it.
- [28:17]
Meg Wolitzer
T take it, I guess.
- [28:21]
Commercial Announcer
Buy one, add one for a dollar on sausage McMuffin with egg, hash browns and more. Most locations open 5am or earlier. Price and participation may vary.
- [28:29]
Meg Wolitzer
Limited time only.
- [28:30]
Commercial Announcer
Valid for item of equal or lesser value.
- [28:51]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction with one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. In this hour, we're going down a literary rabbit hole with the indie publisher McSweeneys. Every hour of Shorts is its own kind of literary rabbit hole. Really tumble down every week@pledshorts.org or wherever you like to get podcasts. You've just heard some great short fiction and now we want you Submissions are now open for the 2026 story prize, judged by writer Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in spring 2026 and published on Electric Literature. And the winning writer will receive a cool $1,000 and a free 10 week course with Gotham Writers Workshop. We know if you're listening to Selected Shorts. You love a great story, so why not tell us yours? Go to selectedshorts.org to find out more. The final story of our McSweeney celebration is by Ernie Wong. The Wong story was chosen as one of PEN America's best short stories of 2018. Performing it is BD Wong, a selected Shorts regular who won a Tony for his iconic performance in M. Butterfly and appears in series including Aquafina is Nora from Queens. Here's BD Wong with Stay Brave, My Hercules by Ernie Wong.
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Commercial Announcer
Stay Brave, My Hercules. There's a tug on my skirt. I look down. Hi there, young fellow, I say. Hercules? He says. I nod. I have a question, he says. Go on then, young man. Hercules, he says. How do I become strong like you? I look at his parents. They beam at their son and smile like they already know. We're at the corner of Frontierland and Fantasyland. From a distance, I hear screams at the top of Splash Mountain and calliope music from the riverboat making its way downstream. The smells of buttered popcorn and fried churros wafting through the muggy afternoon air remind me that I'm hungry and that I'll be done with this shift soon. In the far corner, I see Buzz and Woody ham it up for a large Chinese tour group. Cameras click and the tourists point and shout furiously at the men. Chinese Buzz and Woody take it in stride and swivel randomly and wave enthusiastically and do this jiggy kind of dance. Today Zach is Buzz. He's a good dude. He sees me and without turning from the tourists, he lowers his arm and flips me the middle finger. I kneel down and clasp the kid's hands. He stands straight and puffs out his chest. I no longer have to think back to the script. I got this shit on lock. All of Disney's 18 Herculeses have nicknames for each other. Mine is Baby Face Hercules. There's also Douchebag Hercules, NASCAR Hercules, the high school twins, Juice Head Hercules and Jail Bait Hercules, Born Again Hercules and everybody's favorite Grandpa Hercules. Grandpa Hercules is literally a grandpa, and between shifts he brings out photos of his granddaughters in the break room and we tell them they're beautiful because we love him. Then one of the jasmines or snow whites helps him reapply his makeup because he needs a shit ton. I've been Hercules ever since I dropped out of college to be with Jay. I would have come back even if he wasn't sick. But the night he called and matter of factly explained that it had spread to his lymph nodes and his testicles and brain, I immediately packed a backpack and left the Michigan snow and drove straight to Florida. Jay is 30 years older than me. He had warned me when we first met that something like this might happen. Bodies break down over time, he had said. On the drive back, I replayed his last words on the phone. I am statistically unlikely to make it to the end of the year, but these standard deviations are large, as you might expect. Jeremy Jay always talks like that. He's an actuary, which surprises nobody. When I pulled into his driveway that morning in yet another torrential Orlando rainstorm, my fellow fuel tank empty and my eyes bleary and my breath reeking of gas station coffee, he walked out onto the driveway, his glasses fogged and dripping, his robe pressing into his gaunt frame as it absorbed the rain. He looked at me as if he was struggling for words, and then he said, you just drove a little over 1200 miles, which by my calculations puts your average speed at I flung myself onto him and kissed him. Not fast enough, I said as I pulled him back into the house. I'm starving. Let's grub, I said later as we lay in his bed. And I'm done with this long distance shit, I said, and I told my parents I'm moving in with you and that you're not doing well. He just kind of shook his head and looked sad. The first thing I did after I moved in with Jay was look for a job. Aladdin and a Gaston and Donald Duck train at my gym. And one day we were all talking by the water fountain and they said they might be able to help. Things kind of snowballed and the next thing I knew I was at Disney employment headquarters getting my head measured and my chest waxed under the watchful, glowering scrutiny of the casting director. I got over myself and threw all my chips into this job. I mean, it's not awful. And at night, after Jay falls asleep, I hop online and look for other jobs like I promised him I'd do. I get to the park an hour before my shift and they tell me where I need to be at and at what time and anything I need to be aware of. And then I get in line with the other cast members for making, I go to the locker room and change into costume. The casting director sometimes examines me. She calls it quality control and checks me off on her clipboard. Then I'm out the door, squinting under the Disney sun. For the next three hours, I smile and hug and flex. Oh, and the best part is that I get to drop wisdom bombs on adoring crowd, even though my answers are limited to what's on script. Be strong and be brave, I say. Listen to your parents. They're not half bad. During orientation, the casting director handed me a thick binder filled with scripts to memorize so I'd know how to stay in character for every conceivable situation. Every catastrophe here is called a situation, and every single one is covered. If lightning strikes and fries a sixth grade class, there's a section on what Hercules would do. When a soccer mom tries to kiss me on the lips, I'm supposed to pretend to play hard to get and then try to distract her by shoving my muscles in her face. Hercules can be such a tease. Then when her husband tries to pick a fight with me, I'm supposed to pretend that we're actually play fighting. And then I'm supposed to run and get the hell out of there. Hercules can be a bitch when a kid's being a jackass and asks a dumb question. This part I actually like. I'm supposed to twist his question into one that's more family friendly, and then from there I'll give one of my stock answers. In the end, it's all about staying on script and running and evading. I'm a born natural. At that, the boy and his parents stare at me expectantly. Hercules, the boy repeats, how do I become strong like you? I'm hungry and it's my break soon and the scent of those churros is slaying me. But this kid is adorable, so I squeeze his hands and gaze into his wide eyes. Young man, what's your name? He takes a deep breath and shouts, garen. Young Garen, I want you to be strong, I want you to be brave, and I want you to listen to your parents. Do you understand? Garen swivels and looks at his parents, who look this close to combusting with pride. They reach for each other's hands and nod and mouth the words.
- [38:11]
Narrator/Reader
I understand Hercules.
- [38:14]
Commercial Announcer
At him, Garen focuses attention back toward me. He puffs his chest out again and he shouts, dad wears Mom's dresses and makeup like you do. When he sees me with my mouth agape he attempts to clarify. But only when Mom's not home, he says. I know the absolute worst thing I can do in this moment is to look at Garon's parents, but that's what I do. Their hands are clasped and their smiles remain plastered, but nothing registers in their eyes. It's like four vapid orbs gatewaying into an abyss. Then she shoves away his hand and turns to look at him, and it's like I can already see her about to say, honey, is that true? And I can already imagine him struggling to come up with some way to receive. And then I'm like, nah, this fool is so boned. And in this moment the only thing running through my mind is, I'll be damned. That binder doesn't cover everything, after all, they don't pay us enough for this shit, zach says. Zach and I are slumped in our chairs in the break room. We're still in costume. In the far corner, Annabel is having lunch with her daughter. In the past, as Ariel, Annabel was legendary for how she connected with the kids. There would be a line of children with their parents snaking around the corner, patiently waiting to hug her and tell her about school and their pets, and she would smile with delight and say, tell me more. Then Annabelle had her daughter when she returned from maternity leave. She had put on a little weight. They gave her an take a new job as a fully covered Mickey or leave her Mickey headpiece sits on the table as her daughter cries and says she doesn't like to be left in employee child care. I'm so sorry, sweetie, annabel says. She looks exhausted. Did so what did you say to that train wreck family? Zach asks. I shrug. Garen's mom had marched toward us and was about to yank Garen away when I stood and gently held her hand. Ma', am, I said quietly. She tried to shake my hand off. Her back and shoulders were as rigid as a springboard. Just let us go, she said, and her shoulders slumped and I saw tears begin to well around her squinting eyes. I nodded. Can I just say something real quick to Garen? I asked. She hesitated and then she tightly nodded. I knelt down and grabbed Garen's hands once again. He looked confused, as if he might cry too. I leaned forward and I spoke directly into his ear. Young man, I said, and he whispered a tiny yes back. Hercules wants you to know, I said, that no matter what happens, your mom and dad love you very much. Okay? He nodded. So I want you to be brave and I want you to be strong, and I want you to listen to everything they tell you, okay? He nodded again, and now I whispered, hercules wants you to go give your mom and dad a big hug. Can you do that for Hercules? He nodded one last time, and he ran to his mom and hugged her tight. And he ran to his dad, who had been standing unsurely in the background. Then they were gone and my shift was about over, so I stood and walked back to the break room. I think for a moment I guess I stayed on script, I tell Zach. He stares. I mean, the script's not half bad, I say, and he nods and loses interest. Jay looks up from his spreadsheets when I come home that night. His company lets him work from home, so most nights I find him surrounded by reams of paper. He doesn't let the cancer stop him from putting in a full workday, so he's meticulous about tracking his hours. How was your day? He asks. Total shit show, I say. This woman found out her husband is a cross dresser and their son is probably going to blame himself for the next 10 years. So just another Disney day, he says. Yep. How was yours? He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes before he reaches for a stack of papers and pointedly lifts one. Jeremy, he says. We need to talk inheritance and insurance. I've run some initial calculations and the projections indicate I tune out when he begins to use big words, but he gets more animated as he picks up steam on his findings, and he's sexy as fuck as he incessantly taps his paper with his pen. But I can't sit still, so I strip off my shirt and I straddle him. He stops talking. Ah, he says. Let's talk about your impending death some other time, I say. Later. I step out of the shower and find Jay curled up on the sofa. His glasses, off kilter, are hooked onto one ear and hanging on his forehead over wisps of his fine hair. He snores lightly. I stare at his face. You know, when he's awake, he always looks as if he's worried about something. Probably because he is worried about me. Probably. He likely has months left, and the only thing he seems to have on his mind is whether I'll be okay after he's gone. It's only when he's asleep that he looks relaxed. He snorts and traces of a thin smile begin to form. I wonder what he's dreaming about, and that makes me smile. I was back home with Jay for summer break when we first learned about the cancer. But, well, by then we had been together for two years. The prognosis was bright then, and Jay was adamant that I return to college. I'll be cured before you come back, he said. That night, meaning to get out of the house, we went to P F Chang's. Are we celebrating anything special tonight? Our server asked. Just our health, jay said gently. Oh, that's very sweet, the server said, smiling. She studied us and she said, well, you two look as healthy as it's my birthday. I cut her off. Her mouth curved into an O, and she said she'd give us a minute to look at the menu. Jay turned and gave me his look. What? Health doesn't get you free cake at P F Chang's, I said. I suppose that's true, he said. We were subdued for most of the dinner. It was toward the end, after dessert, that I could no longer hold back. What if things go wrong? I blurted out. I was reeling from too many apple martinis. Jeremy, he said, do you realize statistically how many standard deviations off we need to be to see the treatment fail? I said nothing. It's a little under three, he said. Expressed numerically, that equates to okay. Okay. He reached for my hand and nodded. I'm going to be fine, Jeremy. You have to trust me. And you have to trust in the numbers. I relented. In the darkened room, the candle flickered over his creases and reflected tiny orange flames in both lenses of his glasses. He's all lit up in fire, I thought, and I believed. But I should never have left him. Everybody's in a shitty mood in the park today. This happens sometimes. Some days with no reasonable explanation, foul moods spread and take over entire sections of the park like a contagion. By mid morning under the already wilting sun, tempers flare within families and in groups of middle school friends, tomorrow's Space Mountain dome standing glumly in the backdrop. This includes Cody, the 8 year old, bald headed Make a Wish kid who's sitting in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. He glares as his parents stand helplessly to his side and as the swath of media photographers fumble with the cameras draped around their necks and do not take photos. Cody's mom approaches him and places her hand on his frail shoulder. Honey, she says, is there anything we can do to make you happy? I want to go home, he says, and I make a wish and Disney public relations people wince in unison. But sweetie, she says, isn't. Isn't this what you wanted to do more than anything in the world? What changed? Disneyland sucks. He shouts and I see two photographers quietly pack their cameras back into their cases. Dad is starting to unravel and I see him approach Cody with his fists clenched. Before I realize what I'm doing, I find myself standing between Cody and his dad, my face lit up in smiles. I motion subtly at his dad before I kneel down and face Cody. Hi there, young man. Your name is Cody, right? Cody stares at my biceps with wide eyes. My physique generally has that effect on most boys who regularly worship Marvel superheroes, and I can imagine, tragically, that the effect is greater on a kid as sick as Cody. He nods and looks at my eyes shyly. Young man, I say, I hear you on your discomforts. It's too hot and it's too crowded and everybody's in a bad mood. He nods emphatically. So tell me, I say, if you could do anything right now, what would it be? His face brightens. Video games, he says. I nod in complete agreement. I say, hercules loves video games. What's your favorite? And he shouts, minecraft, and I silently sigh in relief. That's like the one game I have knowledge of. That's Hercules favorite game, I say, and he looks as though he might jump out of his wheelchair and hug me. What are you working on right now? I ask, and Cody smiles and closes his eyes for several moments as though he had transported himself out of Disney and into his Minecraft world. When he opens his eyes, they are shining. I found a way that I can fly forever, he says. I say Hercules wants to hear all about this. The photographers take their cameras back out of their cases, and as the cameramen begin to record from a distance. Ho. Cody explains to me in a feverish pitch and with two animated hands the mechanics and items he acquires before he sprints and dives off a cliff and launches himself higher and higher into an infinite horizon, eventually so high, in fact, he explains, that the game stops rendering his image and he disappears entirely from the screen. That is very high, I agree. But go, Cody, I say. If you fly beyond the horizon and disappear, won't you miss your parents? It's just a game, Hercules. Touche, Hercules. Yes, Cody? I'm dying, you know, he says. From the corner of my eyes. I sneak a peek at Cody's parents. They stare intently at their son. I know, I say. Hercules? Yes, Cody? Will you come to my home and play Minecraft with me? I say. Nothing. So we can fly forever? He says, looking to his eyes, and I can see that he is bracing for the inevitable. No, I have an even Better idea, I tell him as I begin to smile. He looks up. Peter Pan's flight is a short walk from here. Have you been on the ride? He shakes his head. Hercules promises you, I say, that riding. That ride feels just like fly. How about we take that flight together, just you and me? He considers this for a moment before he says a quiet okay. I turn to his parents for permission, but they already look like they might throttle me with gratitude, so I stand and take Cody's hand as his mom pushes his wheelchair behind us. The photographers and media and Public Relations Team Corporate quietly follow, and the crowd ahead splits to make room when they see the procession. But I have eyes and ears and heart for only Cody. Script be damned, he has me eating out of his hands as he patiently explains master level tips on how to rule over Minecraft Domain. A photo of me kneeling and clasping a smiling Cody's hands makes the front page of the local newspaper that next morning, along with the caption Local Hero Captures the hearts of Boy and Disney Community over breakfast. Jay lowers the paper and raises his eyebrows. You sure work hard for $9 an hour, he says. They should promote me to management, I say crossly. I couldn't sleep last night. Or at least a plain Gaston. Now that's a real man, jay says as he dodges the Cheerio. I flick at him. He returns to the paper and I get ready to leave for work. The Orlando roads are slick with rain this morning and the traffic is heavy. I've always wondered why they chose to build the happiest place on earth in practically the wettest city in the country. I like it when it rains, though. I stare past the windshield wipers sweeping frenetically to keep my vision unobscured. Outside is a sea of gray. With every gust of wind, sheets of rain shimmer. Trees shudder. I hear the approaching wail of sirens. I pull over and stare at the ambulance as it passes by and then turns at the intersection in the opposite direction from home. I remain parked by the curb. The sirens fade until I hear only the rain pelting the roof of the car and the furious beating of my heart. I rest my eyes and feel the heat radiate through my closed eyelids. Yesterday, on Peter Pan's Flight, while waving a very temporary goodbye to Cody's parents and the media folk, I helped Cody step on board the suspended galleon that served as our flying ship. We settled into our seats and launched high into a dark London night. We flew over Tower Bridge and Big Ben before rising to clouds of wispy white fluff swaying under giant whirring fans made invisible behind the cloaks of night sky. Sky below a sea of tiny golden lights, villages of homes shining kerosene lanterns twinkled and pulsed as if the constellations lay not above us but below. I looked at Cody. His face was spellbound as we glided and swooped over mountain peaks and into the heart of Neverland. At one point, our galleon dramatically lifted high into the sky to escape the wrath of an enormous crocodile. Cody whooped and wrapped his arms around me. I squeezed his shoulder and pointed down at the crocodile, who now held Captain Hook in the clutches of his jaws. As the galleon emerged through the exit that led to the disembarking zone and to Cody's parents welcoming us back, Cody sighed and rested his head on my shoulder. How'd that feel, Cody? I said. Was that just like flying or what? He sighed again and embraced me and said, that was way better than Minecraft. I squeezed him tight before I stood and helped him off the galleon and into his waiting wheelchair. After insisting to Cody's parents that it was not a big deal and posing for a final round of photos, I said my goodbyes and jogged back to my post in Tomorrowland. As I navigated between the throngs of people making their way to their next attraction, I imagined that it had been Jay and me flying on the galleon. J being Jay would peer over the ledge at the city below, and he'd squint and point out the placement of Big Ben. Seems off. It should be over there. I'd tell him to shut up and enjoy the ride. He would remain silent for a moment, and then he'd look up toward the ceiling and say, the engineering in this facility is really quite remarkable if you stop and consider. Shut up, I would say again. I close my eyes and shiver when the cold air blew over my ears. In the distance, I'd hear Peter Pan and Hook's swords whirl and clang in battle as the darling kids cheered and whistled. Jay would turn to me and pause and cock his head and he'd say, is everything okay, Jeremy? And I'd grip the ledge so hard that pain would shoot up my wrists, but he wouldn't see that, and I'd smile and say, yeah, just hungry. Let's get a turkey leg after this. And for the rest of the ride we would remain quiet, our galleon propelling us above a dark ocean and gliding toward the exit, where sunlight would peek in from around the corner and the cast members board would remind us to watch our steps on our way out.
- [58:28]
John Hodgman
BD Wong, everyone.
- [58:33]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Stay Brave My Hercules by Ernie Wong, performed by BD Wong. And with that, we conclude our second celebration of McSweeney's 25th year in publishing. May the playfulness, determination and spirit of community on display in McSweeney's enterprises help inspire and entertain us in the next quarter century too. 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 Mag 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 Nolson. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [60:14]
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