← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Meet the Neighbors
00:56:14
Meg Wolitzer presents two stories about neighbors and the unexpected relationships that can develop between people who live adjacent to one another. In Tess Gallagher’s “Mr. Woodriff’s Neckties,” a famous novelist lets his neighbor in on a secret. The reader is Dion Graham. In “Hoodie in Xanadu,” by Ann Beattie, a woman discovers that her shy neighbor possesses creative genius. The story is performed by Kirsten Vangsness.
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- [00:00]
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Walmart Wellness Event Promoter
Honey, do not make plans. Saturday, September 13th, okay?
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Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Why?
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Meg Wolitzer (Host of Selected Shorts)
What's happening?
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Walmart Wellness Event Promoter
The Walmart Wellness Event. Flu shots, health screenings, free samples from.
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US Cellular Prepaid Announcer
Those brands you like.
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Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
All that at Walmart.
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Walmart Wellness Event Promoter
We can just walk right in, no appointment needed. Who knew we could cover our health and wellness needs at Walmart?
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Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Check the calendar.
- [00:36]
Walmart Wellness Event Promoter
Saturday, September 13th Walmart wellness event. You knew?
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Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I knew.
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Monday.com Advertiser
Check in on your health at the same place you already shop. Visit Walmart, Saturday, September 13th for our semi annual wellness event Flu shot. Subject to availability and applicable state law, age restrictions apply. Free samples while supplies last.
- [00:58]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Night. Knock, knock.
- [00:59]
Meg Wolitzer (Host of Selected Shorts)
It's me, Meg Wallitzer, the novelist who lives next door. Listen, I just came by to borrow a cup of sugar because neighbors still do that, right? Also, neighbors might know more about you than you think. Stay with me for selected shorts as we delve into the minds of those strangers who are the closest people to us, geographically speaking. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. What do we really know about our neighbors? I mean, sure, we could just as soon level that question at our best friends, family or partners. But neighbors are unique among these other intimate connections in that they have access to our lives simply due to their proximity. By and large, we don't choose them. And we're not related. They're just strangers on the other side of the fence or wall who found themselves living in our neighborhood. Or maybe we found ourselves in theirs. But neighbors can pick up on a lot with only a little effort. They might know what hours we keep, who we invite over late at night, or how many times a week we're having pizza delivered. And yes, last week was tough, so we did require six large pies on three separate occasions. If we don't find ways to forge a trusting relationship with these proximate strangers, or at least observe a kind of mutual, silent respect, things could get very tricky very quickly. So on today's show, fiction about neighbors, the unpredictable lives of people who know very little about you and. And somehow also a whole lot. And listen, this is selected shorts, and we're talking about short story writers here. So trust me when I say Today's show is not about sowing division or discord. One story is about what it means to live next to a famous person as they get older. The other is about a secret world that was hiding in plain sight. Our first story is by Tess Gallagher. She is the author of many volumes of poetry and short fiction, including Is Is not and the man from Kinvara. She also received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the foundation of Rome in 2023. Also, trivia that just might inform this particular short story. She was married to the short story writer Raymond Carver. Reading this story is Dionne Graham. Graham has appeared in series from the Wire to Madame Secretary and has a wide range of theatrical productions under his belt, including the Broadway production of Mackinaw. And now Dionne Graham performs Mr. Woodruff's Neckties by Tess Gallagher.
- [03:58]
Walmart Wellness Event Promoter
Every now and then one of her visitors carries an item of clothing out to their car and hangs it with their own. Sometimes they're clutching a paper bag and I can't see what she has given away. Shirts and books and even his toiletries, though I'm just guessing here. I'm probably mistaken about the toiletries, but things have been trickling out of the house ever since she began to get a grip on herself. About a year ago she told me over the fence that she might not be able to keep her house, legal matters including Mr. Woodruff's royalties given over to pay off a publisher for books he'd never write. It's been a hard time for each of us in our own way. Mr. Woodruff only managed to live 10 months, and the house next door is my neighbor. I'm a good neighbor and would have enjoyed living next to him into old age, maybe even seeing myself depicted as a minor character walking a dog or passing by, just as his main character needed to clarify something by speaking with a stranger. Even though our time as neighbors was short, I had some good influence on things next door. Mr. Woodruff used to ask me about my roses. I guess you could tell I'm a fanatic about them. He told me his literary agent in New York City had sent him and his wife three rose plants. Love, hope, and cherish. The next thing I knew, he and his wife were making a small rose garden over there with about 10 bushes. She would dig a hole with a mattock, then she would haul a gallon bucket of water over next to the planting bed. He would tip the water into the hole, then wait for it to seep into the soil. Finally, he would get down on his knees and set each plant into place on Sundays I see her gathering these same roses now that they've bloomed to to take to the cemetery. It makes me wonder if they both knew while they were planning them that this was out there in the future. Or maybe they were so involved with earth and root balls and whether the holes were deep enough that they didn't trouble to think ahead, except that eventually there would be roses. Maybe their minds were mercifully clear of the future. That's what I hope, anyway. I own signed copies of all of Mr. Woodruff's books except this last one he was writing next door to me and which didn't get published until after his death. I called out to him one day when he was sitting at the teak bench in his yard, musing. Even before I saw it, I could smell he was smoking one of those small stinky cigars. I stood at the fence and asked if I could please get his signature on a few books. I was afraid he might be working, puzzling over a character in his head. I hated to disturb him. I've tried my hand at writing and I know how it goes. Courting the imagination, putting words down until a new world builds up, mixing a little of the real with some of the made up until it starts things you couldn't expect. I also know I'm never so happy as when I'm reading. In fact, well, I'd never imagined that a real and famous writer, in fact a pair of them, since the missus is also a writer, will move in next door to me. When I asked Mr. Woodruff to sign the books, he appeared almost boyish. He seemed eager to do it for me, so I climbed to the rail fence and went over to him, and I think he was not supposed to be smoking because he acted like I had caught him at something. He puffed a rancid swirl of smoke onto some red peonies at one end of the bench and ground the cigar into the grass with the heel of his bedroom slipper. I noticed his heel stayed on the cigar. Sit down, sit down, he said to me, because he could see it was going to be a while, as I had brought about six books over the first time. I sat down at the far end of the bench and put that stack of books between us, then handed him my pen. My wife was still living at the time, and Mr. Woodruff very kindly inquired after her. I said she was now in remission and we were hoping, God willing, she would stay that way. I felt a little emboldened by actually being in his yard. I told him I lit a candle for him at Mass every time I lit one for my wife. He didn't seem embarrassed at all about this. In fact, he just very quietly said, thank you. Maybe I should have let it go at that. But I added that I hoped his treatments were going okay. There was no use pretending I didn't know he was traveling back and forth every week for radiation. I'm doing just fine, he said. Nothing to it. It's over in 60 seconds and I don't feel a thing. Before they left for Seattle one day, I'd asked if I could do anything to help out, and his wife allowed me to water her sweet peas, which are on a trellis up against my fence. That's when she told me about the brain radiation. The brain. Well, it gave me a pause, I can tell you, to think what might be going through Mr. Woodruff's mind and his wife's too, knowing there was a tumor where he worked and imagined. Still, I learned later he was going to his desk over there every day, writing those last things, and she was helping him. After my wife's death, when I finally came to myself again, I noticed my neighbor's yard needed mowing, and I asked her would she mind if I ran my mower over it. She said her brother had been mowing it while he'd been out of work, but he'd recently found a real job. She would have to hire somebody, all right, she said. I told the widow it was no trouble, and it would give me pleasure to mow her lawn, as by now I had read her stories and poems, too, along with Mr. Woodruff's. I'd also read about their life together, the final portions of which I'd witnessed without quite knowing what I was seeing. There was a day, a stocking Mexican man with a pretty blonde woman and a dark haired beauty of a girl. His wife and daughter, I assume, pulled up with an unwieldy flat object strapped to the top of their avocado green station wagon. At the time, I thought it was a piece of construction material and that maybe this fellow was doing some sheetrock over there. Later, when I'd been invited into the house, I saw that what I thought was sheetrock was actually an oil painting this man had painted. The canvas had been wrapped for transport in a bedsheet. If it hadn't been for this, I would have seen salmon leaping up a waterfall and the faint images of a spirit fish headed the opposite direction in the painted sky, all of this bobbing down the driveway between the Mexican man and the blonde and onto the porch next door I discovered about the painting the day Mr. Woodruff motioned to me and asked would I come into the house to help him with something. Sure, you bet, I said and followed him into the entryway under a chandelier tall as one of those 30 gallon galvanized garbage cans. I thought he was going to ask me to help him move something that I was already deciding not to say anything about my sciatic nerve just to take a chance I'd be okay, but instead he opened the hall closet door and took out a necktie. He left the door open and I couldn't help noticing there were a lot of neckties looped over wire clothes hangers at one end of the closet. These neckties were already tied as if around an invisible neck, and the neck holes had been left wide to let the guy breathe or at least relax. Mr. Woodruff ushered me into the TV room, which was very comfortable. I saw he must be spending a lot of time reading. At one end of a leather couch, which faced into the room, was a stack of books on the floor. I appreciated that the natural light over the back of the couch was good for reading. When I turned back to Mr. Woodruff, he was holding this slightly metallic looking pale salmon colored necktie. There was an expression of utter helplessness on his face and the tie was limp across his outspread palms like a priest bearing the Eucharist. If we had been in church, my chin would have been up, my eyes closed, and my tongue slightly extended. Do you know how to tie one of these? Mr. Woodruff asks me. At first I'm taken aback. A grown man who doesn't know how to tie a necktie. Then I recall reading somewhere that his father carried a lunch bucket. So did mine, and he didn't own a tie for some years himself. Still, I had to wonder how Mr. Woodruff made it in the halls of academe back east when he occasionally held a lectureship or a chair at this or that Ivy League university Times. He must have had to meet a dean or two to look snappy in his tweed jacket at a banquet. Who was tying his necktie then? Somebody or several somebodies had certainly stocked his closet with a good supply of ready to slip on neckties. I am a man who was always learning things, so I assumed that finally Mr. Woodruff had decided to transcend his working class preference for an open collar. He was ready to tie his own necktie and I was to be his teacher. I felt very flattered by This I almost wish his wife were there to witness the patience I was about to expend in showing her husband how to do something which, for unknown reasons, he'd been avoiding all his life. But I'd seen her leave half an hour earlier in the car with some book sized packages I'd assumed were for the post office. It's a tie one of my friends gave me, Mr. Woodruff said, and I want to wear it at the book fair in Anaheim. Fine, I said. We'll fix you up. He stood looking at me with a kind of friendly curiosity while I draped the tie around my neck. It did not coordinate with the mostly red plaid flannel shirt I was wearing. I asked Mr. Woodruff to move parallel to me while I went through the steps. I flipped the tie this way and that as slowly as possible. Finally, when I'd asked several times, you got that? And repeated the procedure, I handed him the tie and told him to give it a shot. He looked baffled, like I just asked him to nail his eyeball to the wall while holding the hammer between his teeth. He laughed nervously. His fingers seemed ribbed together like wings. Then he made his move. He fanned one end of the tie over the other with a nice emphatic gesture that allowed me to think briefly this would come out okay after all. But then he just stood there, elbows out, and looked down at the tie, which was shooting off a cruel iridescent sheen in the mid morning sunlight. I wanted to give him a hint, but I also didn't want to insult his intelligence, which was considerable despite what I'm portraying here. When Mr. Woodruff made the first wrong move, I reached up gently and got him headed right again. Finally, though, he'd made enough wrong moves that I realized something. I'd done it. I'd tied the tie for him. He seemed very pleased, extraordinarily pleased. He shook my hand enthusiastically, I remember, just like I'd done something for him nobody else had ever done. But it was dawning on me that this must have happened many times before, and that Mr. Woodruff had no earthly intention before death and God of ever learning to tie a necktie. I mean, it was right over there on the side of his ledger with bungee jumping and ice fishing, camel rides across the Australian desert, and maybe even the Pogo Stick Olympics. This is great. This will just keep me going just fine, he said, and walked a few steps away into the bathroom so he could check my work in the mirror. The collar on his sports shirt wasn't right for a tie But I guess he was picturing himself in his dress shirt and suit jacket. He liked what he saw. Then he did something I realized I'd seen in my mind's eye a moment before it happened. He reached up and, like a sheriff who has interrupted a small town lynching, he loosened the tie from his throat and lifted over his head. My neighbor seemed suddenly more free, like any man who's nearly lost his life. How could I help but be glad for him? I knew what he was up against in more ways than one. I forgot all about being his failed teacher of the necktie. Instead, I looked around the room at the warm spruce paneling, the braided rug, the way the sun shining through the skylight illuminated the very place he was standing. I just appreciated the comfortable circumstances Mr. Woodruff had managed to find for himself. I knew from things his wife had said over the fence that it was a difficult time for him. Look at this painting our friend Alfredo gave us, Mr. Woodruff said as he pushed me eagerly along by my elbow toward the living room. But I stopped in the dining room doorway, staring into the living room at this huge painting. Salmon were leaping across it. I took in the way they were balancing there on the edges of their deaths. Some were in the river and others were leaping above a waterfall. I had to fight the impulse to touch the painting, to feel the ridges in the river current and the waterfall. Mr. Woodruff must have noticed my hands rising, hovering before the painting, because he said, go ahead, it's okay. I looked to see if my hands were clean, and they were. Then I moved them very lightly with the current across the canvas. It felt like minnows flicking across my fingertips. Still, I knew nothing was really moving except the blood in my veins. I let my fingers follow the lines of color and shape. The Mexican painter had spent a month or more pressing into his canvas with oil paint on a brush. It occurred to me that all the time he must have been painting he had to know his friend was dying. He would have had to guess that. Yet he'd also probably been glad Mr. And Mrs. Woodruff had each other. That had to strike him, and the fish, too. He must have been glad as he painted each one, that nothing was going to get in the way of their leaping along like that. It was all there in that painting, joy and sadness and destiny and friendship and farewell. I admit I was weak in the knees. When I turned back into the room, I saw Mr. Woodruff, my neighbor, still holding the necktie. He was going to slip back over his head in a few days in California, cinching it up to his Adam's apple like he'd tied it himself. I was his accomplice, and we smiled at each other that day in his living room like we just cleaned out a bank, and each of us had a pretty woman waiting for us to spend the money on her, and we did too, both of our wives still with us then, and that miracle of life itself, too. Ours for however long it lasted, we had it all. That was the most memorable encounter I had with Mr. Woodruff, when his son comes to stay a few days each summer with his stepmother, my widowed neighbor. I feel strangely like I'm back in Mr. Woodruff's young, vigorous days, shaking hands with him at full strength, his hand pressing so hard on mine that the wedding ring I've moved to my right hand smarts to the bone. So you knew my dad, the son says to me in a kind of simple wonderment, smiling. He's the spitting image of his father, only young and alive. I did, I say. I sure did, and I'm sorry I don't have more to add. Since my meetings with his father were really so incidental. I suppose I could tell him about the neckties, but somehow I think that's just between Mr. Woodruff and me. Sometimes I look over and see the son sitting alone where his father sat on the teak bench. I've noticed him helping my neighbor pick the apples when he occasionally visits her in September, and once in February they pruned and mulched the roses together. Each time he leaves, he is usually carrying a few things of his father's. He had a briefcase and a raincoat. This last time he was beaming, and he came over the fence to show me and to thank me for helping my mom asked what he calls his stepmother. I think to myself this is decent kind of him, really, to refer to her as his mom, since she has told me he is the closest to a son she will probably ever have. I tell him it's no trouble. I just do her lawn when I do my own. But mowing my neighbor's lawn has gotten to be something I actually look forward to. I admit I like to make a swirling green current the way I cut the grass so the lawn has a river, an invisible river of pattern with ridges of energy cut right where I've moved my body along behind the mower I can work up a good rhythm. There's a kind of hum running inside me so pleasurably I forget what time it is or if the darkness is falling as it often does, I'm moving with the current under the boughs of the cedar trees. When I'm finished and have shut off the mower, my neighbor comes out of the house to stand next to me. I've never told her about the dream I have repeatedly, in which she crosses to me on the freshly cut lawn and holds out one of Mr. Woodruff's already tied neckties, loosened to slip over my head. I bend my head down, but even so she still has to reach up. It's like I'm receiving a medal after performing in some amazing exhibition of human will and daring. Only I can't think what I've done to deserve this tie coming over my head. I feel ordinary and humbled as the tie slips down to my shoulders, but my neighbor seems so sure about what she's doing that I just give over. I go ahead and cinch the necktie, sliding the knot under my Adam's apple. It's then I feel an unexpected moment of satisfaction. Like the already tied necktie. This peacefulness also seems somehow to have been ready for me. In the dream. I have the sense that Mr. Woodruff is advising me, telling me it's okay to leave some things to others the way he managed his closet full of neckties. I wake up feeling greatly calmed and included, remembering how he let me help him that day. Then I realize this is the same feeling I have after I've cut my neighbor's lawn. We admire the lawn together a while, taking silent note of its rushing, a low murmur in the leaves of the big maple near the garage. After a minute or two, she thanks me, but neither of us goes anywhere. We survey the sweep and eddies of the lawn together, and for a moment a stupendous calm falls over that small corner of the world. It's then I take leave of her and go back to my own house to fix the evening meal, the same way she must be doing over there.
- [22:54]
Meg Wolitzer (Host of Selected Shorts)
That was Dionne Graham reading Tess Gallagher's story Mr. Woodruff's Neckties. And no, I do not think a YouTube tutorial on Windsor knots would be just as good. We're talking valuable life lessons here. You get to know your neighbors in intimate and touching ways. I'm no Mr. Woodruff, but not long after I moved into my apartment building, I was at a bookstore reading, when a woman came up to me and said, wait, I recognize you from the elevator. Turns out she lives upstairs and is a writer, too. And now we are great friends, and while we don't lend each other cups of sugar or knot each other's ties or some equivalent. We do take long walks together in the park and talk about what else Writing after the break, what do you imagine your neighbor is doing behind closed doors? A story by Ann Beatty says, it's not what you think at all. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City City and at other venues nationwide.
- [23:53]
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- [24:41]
Meg Wolitzer (Host of Selected Shorts)
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Hi, I'm Meg Wolitzer. This week, stories about Neighbors and Listen. We usually record the show in New York City, so we know we're not close to where most of our listeners live. But did you know the show goes on tour? It's true. We bring many of our intrepid regulars as well as exciting new faces to New York, Texas, Colorado, California, everywhere we can, really. To find out if we might be in the neighborhood, at least temporarily, head to symphonyspace.org and find the Selected Shorts Tour page. Oh, and while you're there, subscribe to our podcast, where you'll also find bonus episodes and backstage conversations with actors who perform in the show. If you like what you hear, please write us a review and tell your friends how much you love Selected Shorts. You've just heard some great short fiction and now we want you. Submissions are now open for the 2026 Selected Shorts 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. Our second piece is by Anne Beatty. She's famous for her many funny and observant short stories published in the New Yorker and for inclusion in collections including the Best American Short Stories. Her latest book of stories, Onlookers, was published in 2023. This piece, which is about first impressions that slowly reveals something more, is performed by Kirsten Vangsness. She's a lead on the series Criminal Minds and also a regular on selected shorts. She also writes and performs her own solo shows, including one titled Mess. Now here's Vangsness with a lightly edited version of Hoodie and Xanadu by Anne.
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Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Beatty.
- [27:01]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
This is Hoodie in Xanadu by Anne Beatty. Most nights my neighbor, a middle aged man in a red hoodie, would stand on his front porch, reaching up every now and then to knock the icicle Christmas lights dangling from the porch roof. He'd survey the street and smoke a cigarette. If he saw me watching, he'd give me a desultory wave or I'd lift a hand in his direction. He didn't go out at night and he seemed pretty bored, or not too bright or, like many Key Westers, pretty incomprehensible. At least he would have been in any other context. Sometimes I could hear Glenn Gould playing loudly, and then my neighbor, the drawstrings of his red hoodie tied under his chin, would emerge and stand with a blanket wrapped around him, looking forlornly down the empty street. If Hoody had anything much resembling life, you wouldn't know it by his chagrined expression and by the way he sagged in the chair on his porch like a shot duck too heavy, asked to rise even when he needed a sign for a package hoodie on the night in January we became better acquainted, silently greeted me as we stood across the street on our porches.
- [28:27]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
To citizens of planet Earth, as my.
- [28:31]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Late husband used to say, what does Hoodie do all day? I'm in my 60s, so if anyone wonders about me, I'm sure they assume I creak and groan and sprout chin hairs. My own son, Roland, appears once or twice a year for a brief visit, then returns to Miami. My best guess about Hoodie? He sleeps late, then does errands that in his case might include a certain number of doctor visits. Given his weight, I assume he has a hobby because of the number of boxes delivered to the house. I've been asked many times by the UPS or FedEx driver to sign in his absence. The boxes had names like Oxy, Loxy and Star lady and were heavy, smelled nice, and were more or less the same size. I arrived in key west in 1986, leaving a cruise ship that could continue to transport its weary just fine without me. Passengers tainted with flu, not quite ex wives giving the marriage one more try. My husband had died in 1985, Roland was in boarding school, and I'd impulsively responded to an ad for discounted cabins on a winter cruise whose first stop was Key west, which also became my last. When I'd left, I gotten a job cleaning at TRA La La Tropics Guest House. I soon branched out, creating displays for their entryway from flowers discarded after rich people's paper parties or stuffed in florist trash cans the night before garbage pickup. Fallen palm fronds have always been free, and a gold and silver glitter stick costs next to nothing and really adds panache. I still do the flowers for the Trala, which morphed into Seabreeze House when straight people bought it in the 90s. Though I don't dumpster dive anymore, I supplement my income when I'm called upon to make bridal bouquets and wrist corsages, which are especially popular in transsexual commitment ceremonies. Who knows what Hoodie made of me with these people coming and going from my apartment. Well, here's what he makes of me. He crossed the street after all this time wearing his customary red sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, which he untied and pushed off his head as if gallantly removing a fedora, and said, I'm.
- [31:15]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Embarrassed to say we haven't really met.
- [31:19]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
And I said, joe, I know your name because of the packages addressed to.
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Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
You, and he said, right. So what's your name?
- [31:31]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Audrey Ann was the answer, but no one had ever called me either name, and Annie wasn't my favorite nickname. I told Hoodie I was Flora.
- [31:44]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Happy to know you, he said. I'm taking a pill called Zoloft and I find I'm able to extend myself to people now, so I think it's about time we made each other's acquaintance.
- [31:59]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
This, of course, made me feel bad. The poor man was depressed and I'd never so much as introduced myself.
- [32:06]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I'd like to ask you in for tea, he said. I'm feeling much better these days. We'll have a chat. Not about anything in particular, just a neighborly visit.
- [32:20]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Joe, that would be a pleasure. What would be a good time to.
- [32:24]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Come over in half an hour?
- [32:29]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Half an hour? Well, why not? Fine. Thanks so much. I went inside and saw the answering machine light blinking.
- [32:39]
Roland (Flora's Son)
Mom, hi, I'm calling because I've got a situation here. Is there any way you could use your AAA card to get us towed? I'm in Georgia. Yeah, we're over here in Marietta picking up Cindy's daughter who's Got an issue with spirit school or something?
- [32:58]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Yeah.
- [32:58]
Roland (Flora's Son)
A tree fell on our car. I maxed out on my credit card. I could use some help with towing. Cindy's cell is 518.
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Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Then silence. I stared at the answering machine. If I waited, the other digits of the telephone number might be magically filled in. Roland had a girlfriend named Cindy who had a child and they were in Georgia. Okay. Surely he would call back. But time passed and there was no new message. I took a quick shower, then headed off across the street.
- [33:40]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Please come in, Flora, joe said, stepping.
- [33:44]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Aside ungracefully in his doorway but not shaking my hand. He was wearing enormous baggy jeans and what looked like a red cashmere sweater. Oh, isn't this something? I was in Xanadu. The front room was an enormous, vibrant multicolored tent. The materials were radiant. Some sparkled with tiny mirrors that threw off light. I'd never been to Morocco, but maybe this is what things looked like there. Fabric and quilts in various geometric patterns were draped over the walls. Only the two front windows with white shades lowered were not blanketed. Your eye was constantly drawn to where the material converged. Mid century ceiling punctured by a dazzling pink spotlight that looked like it might have just vaporized a flamingo. This must have been what had come in the boxes. Joe re entered the room wheeling a two tier cart carrying a silver tea service. A lovely aroma mingled with the other room's smells a bit musty, somewhat cinnamony.
- [35:09]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Lemon tinged white rubs drive me crazy.
- [35:14]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
He said, straight faced, as if delivering the punchline of a joke. He poured tea into a china cup and handed it to me.
- [35:22]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Thank you for coming.
- [35:25]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
As you can imagine, we talked about how he created the room. It took a year.
- [35:30]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
He called the room by personal vision.
- [35:35]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
This was the guy who stood outside smoking, gazing at nothing. I felt like I was a shard inside a vast kaleidoscope.
- [35:45]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
It's for rent. Now that it's exactly the way I want it. To be perfectly frank, it's something I hope to interest you in.
- [35:57]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Me? Rent your living room?
- [36:02]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
No, no. But I've seen your talent for flower arranging and I thought that when very special people came, I might call on you to arrange some flowers.
- [36:15]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Special people? What do you mean?
- [36:18]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Flora, if you promise to keep this in the strictest confidence, I can be specific about the first arrivals.
- [36:30]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
The first name, the woman's I recognized, but I wasn't sure I could pick her out of a lineup. The man's name meant nothing to me, but he was apparently the husband. You know this is just incredible. Are they. I mean, they're checking in, I'd say checking out, he said, pleased with his turn of phrase. You want me to do the flowers? Where would you put them?
- [37:00]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I have a table in the other room.
- [37:03]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
We sipped our tea in silence. So these celebrities are on their way when?
- [37:11]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Saturday. They rented it from noon to midnight.
- [37:16]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I have to do the flowers for a wedding on a catamaran. This Saturday.
- [37:20]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Jo, I'll give you $5,000.
- [37:25]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Well, do we know what kind of flowers they like?
- [37:29]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I can ask.
- [37:32]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I feel like that would be taking advantage, though. It's too much money.
- [37:36]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
It isn't a lot of money to them, I guess.
- [37:41]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I thought about it for a moment. $5,000 was more than I'd make in many months of doing wedding arrangements. Well, I can't very well say no, can I?
- [37:51]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Good.
- [37:53]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Or tea? No, thank you. But it's delicious. No one could possibly suspect that walking through your front door, this is what she'd find.
- [38:04]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I never raise the shades, he said.
- [38:08]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
How did you get the word out that.
- [38:11]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Craigslist.
- [38:15]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
They were reading Craigslist.
- [38:19]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Their people were. It's an anniversary, not a wedding anniversary. The day their child was conceived or something.
- [38:28]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Should I allude to that in the flower arrangement?
- [38:33]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I wouldn't say so, no. I think that information was just personal. And do you really believe the deposit cleared?
- [38:44]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Wow. All right. Well, I'll have to give this some serious thought. This is really incredibly kind of you, Joe.
- [38:54]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I just look like a fat schmuck. Dot I.
- [38:59]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
The question startled me. If there had been anywhere to put my teacup, I'd have set it down. No worries, he said, gesturing to the walls.
- [39:10]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
This is definitely the Revenge of the Nerd.
- [39:14]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
It's truly amazing. So I can come up with some sketches.
- [39:19]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
You don't have to show me sketches. You're a genius.
- [39:26]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Far from it. And you've barely seen my work.
- [39:29]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I didn't exactly level with you before the UPS guy told me your name because you're always so nice about citing for my packages. And I've got a book about designers who've done amazing Key west interiors, so I realized instantly who you were.
- [39:49]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I found myself on my feet, preparing to leave. This has been quite a day. To be continued Heroes Also on the.
- [40:00]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Second attempt, I'll email their secretary and get information about what flowers they like.
- [40:07]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Good. Let me know. Joe opened the door and quickly stepped out behind me, unlit cigarette in hand, and pulled the door closed.
- [40:16]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Now you know, he said.
- [40:21]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
The words echoed in my head as I Re entered my apartment, which looked more than a little shabby, with an afghan thrown over an old chair and a picture hanging crooked. But who lived like Joe? There was something very odd about it. The answering machine light was blinking. Mom. Hey, Mom.
- [40:44]
Roland (Flora's Son)
We had that little trouble there, but some good Samaritan gave us a ride to school, so we met up with Frieda. No problem. We got back to the car. I'd been towed, so I was wondering.
- [40:56]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
If you could call the towing company.
- [40:58]
Roland (Flora's Son)
And point out that a huge tree fell on our car and it wasn't just a matter of not respecting the rules by moving our car by 5 o'.
- [41:07]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Clock.
- [41:08]
Roland (Flora's Son)
The thing is, we're all gonna have to get back to Miami, like get a bus or something. And the cash machine won't take Cindy's.
- [41:14]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
MasterCard, so if you the line went dead. I already felt like Alice expelled from Wonderland. But Roland's phone call was too much of this world. I undressed and stepped out of my shoes to lie down and take a nap. Her favorite flowers were anthuriums, birds of paradise, and Proteus. Mixed in with these would be white irises. I found some white ribbon with red sparkles at the Dollar store and asked a friend if I could prune his bougainvillea. Awful thorny stuff, but it would be at the base of the arrangement. And what was beauty without a little danger? I asked Joe if I could come in Saturday morning to assemble the flowers. On site I had $5,000 cash, which Joe had handed me in a bank envelope the day after we spoke. The night before, I had slept badly and it took two espressos to get me going. I had hoped Joe would volunteer to help me carry the boxes, but he seemed so nervous. I didn't want to do more than hints, making it a point to stagger. During the three trips I made carrying the big boxes, I arranged and arranged, repositioned, plucked and tucked, and when I finished, I used the tips of my hedge clippers to pick up the bougainvillea branches. It was a truly magnificent arrangement. Big headed proteas doused above the bougainvillea. Birds of paradise shot upward like torches. The delicate waxy anthuriums in white and pink added an odd texture and were perfectly interspersed with the white irises. Joe again pronounced me a genius. He had centered the table under the spotlight. We hated to leave, but we did, Joe dropping his key in the mailbox.
- [43:17]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
This is sort of embarrassing, he said, but I don't really have anywhere to go. Do you think I could spend a bit of time in your apartment.
- [43:28]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
He could tell. I was taken aback. My apartment? What would he think of such an uninspiring place? And how long might he be there?
- [43:38]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I'm agoraphobic, he said. I could go a little way from home, but not really that far. This wouldn't be the day to pass out on the street.
- [43:48]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
No, it certainly wouldn't. Well, of course. Come over.
- [43:53]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
They had a lot of hope for the Zoloft. Although it's facilitated our friendship, it doesn't seem to have stopped me from feeling that if I go far, I might stop breathing.
- [44:04]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
What a terrible affliction. Joe, are you okay? He stopped in the middle of the street.
- [44:09]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I look up and down the street, practicing, he said. It's easier at night. I made it to the library three days ago. That today wouldn't you know.
- [44:19]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Joe, let's just. I took his hand, which was quite cold.
- [44:23]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I don't think I could take another step.
- [44:25]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Joe, I said calmly, there are chairs out front of my house, and if you can make it there, you can look right over at your house. Let's try that.
- [44:33]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I'm dizzy.
- [44:35]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Well, Joe, it's not really safe to stand in the street. How about heading back to your house? Your own house? He crumpled. He was almost bent over double, but he managed not to sink to his knees. Everything okay? Said a young woman passing by. Fine, I said, sounding doubtful.
- [44:53]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
So sorry. I can't.
- [44:55]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
He was gasping. Joe, we don't want to call an ambulance or have the police drive up. You know. We don't want a scene outside when your company might be arriving. Joe.
- [45:08]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
It'S good I haven't passed out. I'll be fine in a minute.
- [45:12]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Slowly, inch by inch, Joe started to straighten up. He leaned on me heavily. His eyes were slits. Much better. You see, you're coming out of it. You can do it. Just over to my porch chair. Just then, Joe took off, a little lopsided, more or less dragging me with him. We made it to the other side. All right, he panted, cupping his hands over his ears.
- [45:38]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Okay, but I don't think I could make it to the chair.
- [45:41]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I'll bring it to you.
- [45:43]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Yes, please. So sorry. Thank you.
- [45:46]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I ran up onto the front porch and I carried a chair to where he stood, sweat running down his face. Joe sat down and rubbed his hand over his face.
- [45:55]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
So sorry, he said.
- [45:57]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
His breathing was less frantic, but he stared straight ahead. I stood at his side with my hand on the top of the chair. I felt a little rattled myself. Time passed and he got better. I went in to get him a glass of water. We chatted about his guest's arrival, how soon they'd be there, that sort of thing.
- [46:15]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
I was going to sit in the reading room of the library, he said.
- [46:19]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Tilting his head to look at me. Well, when you feel ready, we'll have some tea. I tried to sound encouraging, but I wasn't sure he'd ever make it into the house. I was worried that the famous people would show up and we'd be there gawking. We did make it inside. We had tea, and afterward Joe agreed to lie down for a minute. He stretched out on the sofa and fell asleep. As the day went on and it got colder, I considered putting on the space heater, though I was afraid it might wake him. I lightly placed the afghan over Joe. I picked up the book I was reading In Transit by Mavis Gallant. The stories were very involving, though every now and then I'd look up to see if anything was happening across the street. Gradually I let the worry I tried to suppress take over. What if they never came at all, though he did, we did have the money at least. What would it matter if Xanadu sat there unseen? I went on to the next story. I was so engrossed that I forgot about dinner. When Joe woke up, we had tomato soup and we moved one of the chairs so we could sit side by side in the dark, watching a bit of tv, trying to pretend to each other that we weren't watching his house. Not long before midnight an enormous white shape appeared, a white stretch Humvee limo. We raced to the window in unison and closed the curtains, then peeked from either side as if we were hurting this. There they are, he said. Oh my God, they're here, I whispered. It was like being a little child looking in on Santa Claus. This was no Santa, though as I'd read in the tabloids, she was very curvaceous. She had on a long white strapless gown, plunging in the back and looking, I don't know what was way in the front because she got out on the side near the curb, and I never saw anything but her fancifully upswept hair, her long neck and back. A fur stole was handed out of the car and then on the same side from which she disembarked with the chauffeur holding open the door. The husband emerged, quite a bit shorter than his wife, reaching up to place the fur around his wife's shoulders.
- [48:45]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Look for them. They're in there, joe whispered.
- [48:49]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
The chauffeur was reaching around in the mailbox for the keys. He and the husband stepped in front of the woman, who had on very high heels. She took several perfect steps backwards and finally swept up her stole and tossed it over one shoulder. Then they were all three inside and the door was closed. The limo glowed brightly under the lamp lights. The chauffeur came out, closing the door behind him. Putting on his cap, he went quickly to the trunk and took out an ice bucket and a stand.
- [49:20]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
They didn't say they wanted anything, jo whispered, hurt.
- [49:24]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Our eyes met, but we didn't want to miss anything. With a bottle of something champagne, tucked under his arm, the chauffeur went back in, carrying the ice bucket in its stand.
- [49:35]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
There's no ice, joe said. I locked everything but the bathroom.
- [49:41]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
The chauffeur exited in about three minutes. He stood on the porch looking left and right, much the way Joe did at night, and then, removing his cap, he bounced down the stairs and got in the driver's seat and pulled away. Then there was darkness. Did you see the height of those heels? You don't see those down here unless it's tourists from New Jersey or drag queen queens, I said.
- [50:05]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
She had a phenomenal ass, if that isn't too crude to say.
- [50:12]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
He looked at his watch.
- [50:13]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
It's after midnight. How long do you think they're going to stay?
- [50:17]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
At least as long as it takes to drink a bottle of champagne.
- [50:20]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Let's open the curtains, joe said. They won't see us if we turn off the tv.
- [50:26]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
We did, then continued to sit in the dark. I wondered whether the two of them might be in there all night and what that would mean in terms of Joe. Then the big white limo pulled up again and the chauffeur, putting on his cap, got out and lifted a big bag of ice from the floor. He went into the house and was out in another few minutes, in time to move before the car behind him with its pulsing, deafening sound system sounded its horn. Joe yawned. I offered him the afghan, but he insisted I have it. I had never known it to be this cold in Key West. She must be freezing in her low cut dress. And doing what inside. They didn't seem like the types who would get down on the floor, but you could never tell. I wondered if Joe was thinking the.
- [51:15]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Same thing, smelling the flowers, drinking champagne, dancing.
- [51:22]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Joe said, as if reading my mind.
- [51:25]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Then I hope neither one of them smokes. The ad very specifically said no smoking.
- [51:31]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Did you make it clear they had to leave at midnight?
- [51:34]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
It was very clear confirmed with the secretary.
- [51:38]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Why do you think they came so late?
- [51:40]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Those people have no sense of time, he said.
- [51:44]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
Wait. The husband was standing on the street, talking on his cell phone. He was hunched over in the wind, hand to his ear, and then he was reaching behind him for the hand of the woman descending the stairs who threw the bottle into the bushes. Good God. It disappeared right into the hibiscus. The man and his wife clasped hands as she leaned her head with its big tower of hair on his shoulder. The stole was fastened around her collarbones. She bent a bit to kiss him. He slid his hand down her back as their lips lay locked. He clutched her but kept looking over her shoulder. The limo pulled up and the driver jumped out with another bottle of champagne. But the husband put up his hand like a traffic cop and pulled open the back door. His wife's shiny, amazing ass tipped into the air for a second. Then she was in. Head first. He tossed her shoes on the floor, rearranged something, and closed the back door. He hopped into the front seat and the limo idled for a minute. Then the chauffeur got out, went up the stairs, put the key in the mailbox, returned, and drove away. Joe and I were both so tired we were rubbing our eyes. The question was, could he make it back across the street, or would I really prefer that he stay? Just in a neighborly way, of course. Or did I simply dread taking the chance and being caught out in the cold again? With Joe unable to take another step, the same thoughts had to be going through his head.
- [53:19]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
Your son that you were telling me about earlier. You think he gets scared and can't continue speaking? Did you mean he suddenly seizes up or.
- [53:29]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
I don't know. I guess I don't want to think he's drunk or stoned.
- [53:34]
Joe (Neighbor with Agoraphobia)
He could be having panic attacks, you know. Sounds like he's finding himself in some strange situations. I could talk to him. They have a lot of new drugs for that. Not that they've done me any good.
- [53:51]
Flora (Neighbor and Narrator)
He's forthcoming and he's willing to address my problems, and I like that. Maybe this is it, I thought. How much do I need to go out gallivanting when I'm happy to take an afternoon nap and am yawning by midnight in even in the midst of a fairy tale. Also, he's proven he's no deadbeat. Between us, we've just made what used to be my entire year's salary. You miss out on life for years and years and then you meet the guy across the street who thinks you're a genius and you've got money again. And love. Well, it was hardly love with Joe, but it was clear that even though this was the last thing I expected, it was the way things did conclude for two citizens of planet Earth. And in spite of all odds, I had a partner. I had a partner on a night when the animals sang and danced in the moonlight and the old people sat and stared. Thank you.
- [55:09]
Meg Wolitzer (Host of Selected Shorts)
That was Kirsten vangsness reading Hoodie in Xanadu by Anne Beatty. Now, Beatty is not telling us that if we go visit our neighbors, we're going to find love and a magical world we won't want to leave. But I think she is saying there's at least a chance it could happen. When Anne Beatty started publishing stories in the New Yorker decades ago, everyone started talking about them. Given the neighborly theme of this show, here's a related I was in college and I stood pulling my copy of the New Yorker from my tiny mailbox. At the same time, someone, two mailboxes away pulled their New Yorker from their tiny mailbox. And then we both saw that there was an Ann Beatty story in the issue and we exclaimed similarly. And then we both began to read it then and there. Sure, there is fiction about bad neighbors out there. Ira Levin, who wrote Rosemary's Baby and the Stepford Wives, clearly had a certain fear about whether friendly neighbors had a sinister agenda behind sharing their prized meatloaf recipe. But I think it's fair to say that most writers hope you will make friends with the strangers who live adjacent to you. And if this episode's stories have a grain of truth, you just might find yourself making friends with someone you admire or finding Xanadu next door. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimpkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer 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 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.
- [57:35]
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