No Filter

Summary

Selected Shorts: "No Filter" – Detailed Summary

Podcast Information:

• Title: Selected Shorts
• Host/Author: Symphony Space
• Description: Our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Sometimes funny. Always moving. Selected Shorts connects you to the world with a rich diversity of voices from literature, film, theater, and comedy. New episodes every Thursday, from Symphony Space.
• Episode: No Filter
• Release Date: April 10, 2025

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Introduction: Exploring the Divide Between Public and Private Selves

Host: Meg Wolitzer
Timestamp: [00:08]

Meg Wolitzer opens the episode by delving into the inherent dissonance between how individuals perceive themselves and how they present themselves to the world. She draws parallels to the curated personas often showcased on social media platforms like Instagram, where users strive to appear "real and raw" despite the absence of visible imperfections such as warts or wrinkles. Wolitzer reflects on the addictive nature of social media, likening it to deep rabbit holes that consume users' time and energy, ultimately questioning why people invest so much of their authentic selves into these platforms. She posits that humans are inherently wired for storytelling, yearning to connect with others even if the narratives shared aren't entirely genuine. This theme sets the stage for the episode's exploration of stories that navigate the friction between private identities and public facades.

Notable Quote:

"We want to tell your truth honestly, but you can never forget that there's an audience out there." – Meg Wolitzer [02:15]

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Story 1: "Unselfie" by Amy Bender

Author: Amy Bender
Reader: Alicia Reiner
Timestamp: [03:27 – 21:29]

Summary: "Unselfie" introduces us to an unnamed protagonist who frequents George's bar, a less depressing venue compared to its counterpart, Benford's. She describes herself as someone who appears "unattached" and likens herself to a balloon or a cloud, emphasizing her detached nature stemming from the absence of her parents since childhood. Her interactions are brief and often superficial, characterized by fleeting connections and humorous exchanges with strangers.

The narrative takes a poignant turn when she meets a woman embarking on a road trip to Nebraska to meet her birth father, who found her through Facebook. This interaction forces the protagonist to confront her deeply buried truths about her own past. As the conversation unfolds, she reveals the convoluted and mysterious circumstances surrounding her parents' death, highlighting her struggle to maintain a semblance of normalcy despite the unresolved questions that haunt her.

The protagonist discusses her aversion to mirrors, a trauma-induced behavior linked to the aftermath of her parents' demise. This physical detachment from self-reflection symbolizes her broader struggle with identity and acceptance. The story culminates with her attempt to disconnect from the woman's intense focus on her own narrative, ultimately choosing to distance herself to preserve her fragile sense of self.

Notable Quotes:

"The most obvious examples these days come from social media, where posts often feel like confessions or requests for approval." – Meg Wolitzer [04:30]

"I can see how happy he was to do a small action I had requested and he said something about my lack of vanity which meant nothing to me at the time.” – Protagonist [14:45]

“She is simply too much for me to think about, and when I tried, my brain flashed with white like a broken machine.” – Protagonist [09:50]

Reader's Commentary: After the reading, Alicia Reiner shares her admiration for Amy Bender's storytelling prowess. She describes "Unselfie" as a "beautiful story" that intertwines deep insight with humor, likening it to a Virginia Woolf short story. Reiner commends the narrative's meandering yet profound nature, expressing a renewed interest in Bender's works.

Notable Quote:

"Amy is an incredible writer and it made me actually want to read more of her stories." – Alicia Reiner [22:03]

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Story 2: "Best Western" by Louise Erdrich

Author: Louise Erdrich
Reader: Patricia Callamber
Timestamp: [25:57 – 55:16]

Summary: "Best Western" narrates the tumultuous marriage between the protagonist and her husband, Ricky Zaks, a passionate yet troubled tenor in the Flathead Valley Choir. The story begins with their life on the road, performing across various venues from Oregon to Michigan. The protagonist highlights her role as the visual asset of their duo, focusing on appearance and presentation, while Ricky's soulful voice captivates audiences.

Their marriage, initially fueled by love and mutual admiration, begins to strain under Ricky's relentless pursuit of sleep and his inability to cope with the stresses of their touring lifestyle. The protagonist recounts instances of Ricky's growing irritability and emotional distance, culminating in tense confrontations that reveal deeper fissures in their relationship.

A pivotal moment occurs during a performance at the Thunderbird Motel in Minneapolis St. Paul, where Ricky's frustration and unmet needs lead to a heartbreaking scene. The protagonist's attempts to maintain her facade and cater to Ricky's demands ultimately result in a breakdown of their union. The narrative intricately weaves themes of identity, self-worth, and the destructive nature of unaddressed emotional turmoil.

Notable Quotes:

"I was the visual asset. But Ricky's voice carried us an Irish lilt, a touch of Hungarian soul, even moments of clear falsetto." – Protagonist [28:45]

"He never meant to stay here. This was a stopping place, a way station on the road to somewhere else." – Protagonist [34:50]

"I didn't know what else to do. I kept smiling as we got into the car, as we drove." – Protagonist [45:30]

Reader's Commentary: Patricia Callamber reflects on the subtle dynamics presented in "Best Western," emphasizing the story's exploration of the protagonist's internal struggles and the external pressures that erode her sense of self. She notes the absence of the protagonist's name, highlighting how Ricky's critiques dismantle the carefully constructed image she maintains. Callamber appreciates the narrative's depiction of moving beyond mediated self-experiences, suggesting a liberation from the need to constantly manage one's public persona.

Notable Quote:

"There's such a telling absence in the story. We hear so much about Ricky, but Ricky never says our protagonist's name, not once." – Meg Wolitzer [55:16]

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Conclusion: Embracing the Authentic Self

Host: Meg Wolitzer
Timestamp: [55:16 – End]

Meg Wolitzer wraps up the episode by reflecting on the stories presented, underscoring the central theme of unveiling one's true self beyond societal filters and expectations. She draws connections between the narratives of "Unselfie" and "Best Western," highlighting the protagonists' journeys towards self-discovery and the challenges they face in reconciling their internal identities with their outward presentations.

Wolitzer encourages listeners to embrace authenticity, suggesting that shedding the metaphorical filters—much like abandoning selfies—can lead to a more genuine and fulfilling existence. She thanks the readers and invites the audience to engage further with Selected Shorts through live performances and online platforms.

Notable Quote:

"Honestly, selfies aside, if it's time to go without a filter, I think that's the way to do it." – Meg Wolitzer [55:30]

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Additional Insights:

• Production Credits: The episode is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague, with a talented team including Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. Readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith, and programs at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Theme music is by David Peterson’s "That’s the Deal," performed by the Dierdorf Petersen Group.

• Support and Accessibility: Supported by the Dungannon Foundation and public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Listeners are encouraged to attend live shows, participate in tours, or join livestream audiences to experience the magic firsthand.

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Final Thoughts: "No Filter" masterfully navigates the complexities of self-identity in the modern age, juxtaposing personal narratives that grapple with authenticity and societal expectations. Through the evocative performances of Alicia Reiner and Patricia Callamber, listeners are invited to reflect on their own expressions and the masks they may wear in daily interactions. This episode serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of embracing one's true self amidst the pressures of external validation.

Transcript

[Meg Wolitzer]

You can tell tales to strangers in bars or play the dutiful wife to an imperfect husband. Maybe. But what happens when you finally need to show yourself? On this edition of Selected Shorts, stories about selves obscured and revealed. Stay with us. I'm your host, Meg Wolitzer, and you're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. There's always a little dissonance between the way we see ourselves and how we present ourselves to the world. The most obvious examples these days come from social media, where posts often feel like confessions or requests for approval. You want to tell your truth honestly, but you can never forget that there's an audience out there. On a platform like Instagram, people are keen to tell you they woke up like this, that there's no makeup, or more importantly, no filter applied to what you see. It's real and raw, right? So why are there still so few warts, wrinkles, real human imperfections? I try to limit my time on social media because the rabbit holes are deep. One minute you're taking a short morning break from writing a novel, and the next minute it's nighttime, the apartment is completely dark, and you're well versed in the story of how the child of woman you haven't seen since you sat next to each other in algebra 2 lost the family hamster somewhere in the house and they all spent days looking for it until it turned up in the woman's husband's shoe. And you have to ask yourself, why? Why did I give away my energy, my attention, my best self, to the lowest bidder? We all know this is happening to us, and yeah, it can be bad. I'm not sure how to stop it. But I do want to say that maybe it all has to do with the fact that we are hardwired for story. We want to know what's going on with other people, even if the version they give us isn't real. But it is very telling, because what we see is what they want us to see. And so we now have a window, maybe not into other people's real lives, but into their deepest wishes. On this selected shorts, we listen to stories that explore this kind of friction between private lives and public faces. Whether or not they use the language of social media, our characters struggle to represent and to defend their real selves. In our first tale, a woman with an unbelievable past finally divulges the truth to a stranger. Kind of. In our second piece from Louise Erdrich, a young bride makes a roadshow of her life while the truth creeps up quietly behind her. Our first story, Unselfie, is by writer Amy Bender. She's known for unusual, funny, and affecting works, including the novel the Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. She's also a prolific short story writer, which is why we at Shorts asked her to write a story for our first anthology, Small Odysseys. Unselfie is Bender's commissioned piece for that collection. It's read by energetic performer Alicia Reiner. She has appeared in series including Better Things and Orange Is the New Black, and she read this story as part of our day long celebration of Small odysseys back in 2022. Now here's Alicia Reiner with Unselfie. By Amy Bender.

[Alicia Reiner]

Unselfie People who have met me often say I seem a person unattached to other things. A balloon, said one acquaintance when we were having beers together at George's bar. You remind me so much of a balloon. She pushed her fingers down hard on a coaster of a beer's company's logo, as if to nail me to the ground. I told her that the last friend I'd had with whom I'd also shared a beer at that same bar with these same coasters, had said I reminded her of a cloud. Sure, she said, clapping her hands. A cloud works too. Definitely. Then we joked about how I seemed to make friends with poets. I did not mention that this was generally the range of friendship I courted one or two night meetings at this bar where I could laugh and tell jokes and then watch the person drive off. The new one took a sip of her beer and then told me about her upcoming road trip to Nebraska, where she was going to meet her birth father for the first time. He found me, she said, and she blushed. He found me on Facebook. He had to do a lot of research. He's a carpenter. It's a long drive. Will he pay for gas? Yes, she said, her face darkening a little with the thought. I will definitely ask him to pay for gas. There were only two bars in town, and George's was the less depressing for the people who at least could hide their alcoholism. While Benford's was open at 7:30am and most of the stools had actual identifiable butt imprints, I went to George's once a week or so to fulfill my need for social interaction. The woman with the frizzy red hair had been sitting at one of the small round tables when I came in and got my usual beer and said hi to George and asked after his dogs. Often people drove through our town on the way somewhere else, and it was interesting to me to hear where they were going. I have a long standing interest in the details of transit. What's that from? She later asked at the table. You're floating. I had forgotten the nail file. My nails were too long. I don't know, I said. It's probably because I have no parents. She laughed. Then she stopped laughing, and I said, with a growing warmth in my temples from the beer, my current theory is that parents act as the basket at the bottom of the hot air balloon, or as useful ballasts inside the basket. They can keep one attached to the world, perhaps becoming a little too heavy at some point, though still necessary for safety. Mine were gone my seventh year, so I've remained a little lighter, airier than most. She sat thinking about that for a moment. The nature of the frizz in her hair meant she reminded me of a sound more than a visual. She seemed staticky and motionful, like the buzz of white noise you might hear in a sleep machine made into hair. She had clear and bell like blue eyes that helped modulate, so I liked her for that, for the combination. Another reason I had told her about my parents was because she seemed slightly unprogrammed from the usual social responses. When I had come into the bar and asked if I could sit next to her, she said, in a chair. How did they die? She asked after a minute. I don't know, I said. It's true, I said. I actually don't know. What do you mean? I put down my beer. It was a conversation I'd had many times, but I generally constructed detailed escape routes, ways to shut it down by lying they had cancer, or by starting to fake cry or making up some other distracting story. But this woman was leaving soon for Omaha, and I wasn't working the next day and I was in the mood for whatever reason. I mean, no one told me how. I said they were dead. I went to the funeral, and when I asked my aunt and uncle, who then raised the rest of me, they never could keep their stories straight. She wiped her mouth. Some kind of light was shining in her eyes. Seriously, what stories did they tell? Drowning, Car crash. Once my uncle said it was strawberries. A deathly allergy to strawberries. Are they compulsive liars or something? She said, laughing again in a subtle way. She had turned her chair towards mine. Quite the opposite. They are very upstanding people. They correct a waiter if the check is wrong in their favor. But you've asked them now Right, I told her they still didn't know how. They had wanted to give me a secure answer as a child, though they hadn't really consulted with each other on it, so it was anything but secure. And how when I finally pinned them down, they said one morning they had received an email from my parents, dated the night before, saying the people who were my parents would be dead by morning, and to find their ashes in a set place, which they did find, and to pick me up in Seattle, Washington, as they were the legal godparents, and that they were sorry and grieved, grateful, and goodbye. Holy shit, she said. George brought over a new bowl of peanuts. Beer? No, thanks, I said. Sure, she said.

[Patricia Callamber]

Thanks.

[Alicia Reiner]

Are you bullshitting me? Was there a DNA test of the ashes? There was not, and no, I am not. She pulled at her lip, thinking this was the most I'd said on the subject in a long time. But. But it wasn't even close to the whole story. The whole story was too complicated. Had to do with my parents and what they were like and how they liked to leave things and how they hadn't really wanted to be parents, and it all remained the central mystery of my life. I figured it would largely stay a mystery, and if I had children one day, perhaps they could take up the search because it was simply too much for me to think about, and when I tried, my brain flashed with white like a broken machine. I preferred, at this moment in my life, the smaller mysteries and felt an urge to steer the conversation with this frizzy redhead back to one of those. For example, there was an additional reason why I had this trait of appearing to float that I considered sharing with her to derail her morbid interest. But right then, as I thought of telling her, even as I opened my mouth, a wave of tiredness descended. There is only so much incredulity a person can bear in another's eyes, and what is new to her is not new to me. I understand the impulse to an extent. Up until only a few years ago, I would see a very tall man in line at the bank. It was only shyness that kept me from tapping him on the shoulder and saying, you're so. So tall. As if he didn't know. So they could still be alive, the redhead said in a hush. They could, I said, closing my mouth. I suppose. Wow, she said. For real? For real. But I will tell you, this smaller mystery you get to know. This trait, for lack of a better term, did begin the same year that my parents died and is certainly related to that event in its aftermath but has become its own experience of flotation and bottomlessness as well. What happened was that after they died I lost interest, I would say, in the use of a mirror. I no longer wanted to look in mirrors, not full length, not bathroom, not any reflective surface in which a person can find his or her face around my parents death. Soon after arriving in my new home, my aunt and uncle were scrambling to get things ready in their new house and had started setting up the second bathroom and when I arrived the medicine chest was not yet in place on the wall over the sink.

[Patricia Callamber]

Sink.

[Alicia Reiner]

That first night in my new home I brushed my teeth at a sink with a high curving silver faucet and soap the color of coral, and I had no visual touchstone for myself and I found it relieving, maybe due to the various crying spells. I was tired of seeing the puffiness in the red swollen eyes and by the time they were prepared to put up the medicine I requested that they remove the mirrored door of the medicine chest. My aunt had asked, confused, and I told her, yes, please. We were folding coral colored towels together and putting them on shelves.

[Patricia Callamber]

Because.

[Alicia Reiner]

I don't like the mirror part, I told her. She went to consult with my uncle in the hallway. I could hear them whispering and then my uncle returned with a screwdriver. He was good with tools and had it off within a few minutes. And then there on the wall were the exposed shelves of band Aids and some small shapely lavender bottles of perfume my aunt thought looked pretty. Neosporin and a couple of unopened boxes of Tylenol and Advil. Thank you very much, I said. My uncle kissed the top of my head and they were both broken with pity for me and I could see how happy he was to do a small action I had requested and he said something about my lack of vanity which meant nothing to me at the time, though I've heard this so many times since and it always seems off the mark, it is not. For those reasons I am plenty vain. All I understood then, and still pretty much now, is that I no longer wanted to see my own face and check on it. I wanted instead for it to do its work out in the world on its own. Other people could look at my face. I did not need to. I was wanted to avoid keeping such lengthy tabs on the miniscule changes in my features every hour, every day. I didn't like my eyes seeing my eyes. I didn't like how absent it made me feel. What was the set place, the frizzy Redhead asked then at the bar she tapped me on the arm. Excuse me? The set place. The one your parents told you to check for their ashes. Would you feel comfortable telling me where it was? Her voice was low, almost a whisper. I laughed. It was funny what people seized upon when I did decide to tell a bank safety deposit box. She let out a gasp.

[Patricia Callamber]

No. Yeah.

[Alicia Reiner]

Who put it there? I don't know. I mean, someone had to put the ashes there to be found, right? One would think. But they never showed up again. No, I said. They did not. George brought her beer, and while the redhead searched for her cash, I got up to play my favorite arcade game. I like the one where the monster eats the dots. I find it soothing to run the creatures through their mazes. By then she, the redhead had started to aggravate me. I could see the gleam in her eyes, how the story and its story power was overtaking me, the person to whom the story had happened, and that was one of the main reasons I didn't talk about it much in the first place. I played two rounds and made top three list on the second round, so I encoded the initials like I do JPS for Jean Paul Sartre, purveyor of nothingness. Back at the table, she was furiously texting someone. It's not really a story to share, I said. No, no, she said. Of course not. No, I'm texting my birth father, asking him about the gas. We waited. It was late in Nebraska, but she said he was a late nighter and had a telescope and knew about constellations. She called them constellations, but I didn't correct her. It seemed about right. I asked her if she was sure this reunion was safe. Had she verified his identity? Would she meet him in a public place? And she assured me she had and she would. He can pay for gas, she said, looking up from her tax, and something naughty cleared from her forehead. She drank down the last of her beer. What a story, she said. Thanks for telling me. Good luck with your dad. Maybe I'll see you on the way back. You live in this town or something? I do. Maybe I'll stop through. Look me up, I said, giving her no information. Cool, she said. She shouldered her purse and left, and I watched the newscasters on the raised TV for a while and then waved to George and walked home. I brushed my teeth and washed my face in my bathroom, where I too had removed the medicine chest door the day I moved in. Having grown quick at the unscrewing of hinges, I felt the washcloth move over my face, trying to ease in and out of the various rises and falls of skin and bone. I cleared the lipstick from my mouth, selected for me by a salesperson at a department store who assured me it looked smashing. I brushed my hair off my forehead. Sometimes my aunt takes a selfie of us and shows her phone to me and says, don't you look beautiful? And I never know at first glance who the photo is of and have to really understand by the construction of her grammar that it's me. There's a girl in the photo, true, with the same basic traits I know are my own and around the same age, but she's not anyone I recognize and certainly has nothing to do with the running mind and discordant ball of personhood I am carrying around all the time. Called myself I drank my nighttime glass of water and the beer and water moved through me and out of me, as did my conversation with the redhead, and by the morning she was just a pleasant memory, no more real than a TV show I had watched or a magazine article I read in line at the grocery store, or almost, just in case I kept my eyes on the news online, the Omaha World Herald, to make sure there was no sensation. Sensational death in Nebraska. Based on the story she told me, nothing showed up, just some difficulties with farms, a crop issue, a shooting. While I scanned the headlines, I kept calling up an image in my head of the two of them standing across from one another, the redhead and her birth father, perhaps also red headed, unsure whether or not to hug the plains of Omaha surrounding the awkwardness and the sweetness. Anyway, I didn't like to think of it. Reunions irritate me. The attraction of transit was that she was long gone into her own story, and like dropping my end of a string, I released her from my memory, further ballast from the balloon to rise a bit higher in space.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Alicia Reiner performing Unselfie by Amy Bender. You'll note, of course, that no selfies were taken, much less mentioned, in Unselfie, the story by a writer whose free range ideas and attendant wit are a pleasure to encounter in her novels as well as her stories, strikes me as almost a photo negative of a person, an image hidden away somewhere, only visible when the owner wants to see it developed, and even then the resulting print is just a suggestion of the real person in the photo. We caught up with Alicia Reiner after her reading.

[Alicia Reiner]

It's a beautiful story. Amy is an incredible writer and it made me actually want to read more of her stories. It's a meandering story in the way the best short stories are. It reminds me a little bit of a like a Virginia Woolf short story. It starts in a bar and she's talking to a stranger, and we learn throughout the story that she lost her parents very young. And we learn the title of the story, which is really based on her desire not to look in mirrors, but there is deep, deep insight in it and humor, and it's just a gorgeous story.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Alicia Reiner speaking backstage at Symphony Space. When we return, a bit of lipstick, some stage banter, and a marriage made in cruddy motels. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You already know Selected Shorts is a radio show and podcast, but did you know it starts with a real live show? Join us at Symphony Space in New York City, on tour across the country, or as part of our livestream audience. As an audience member, you will be part of what makes Selected Shorts broadcasts and podcasts so special. And you can listen to your favorite stories again on your local public radio station or on our podcast. To find out more about where to be part of the action, visit selectedshorts.org in this hour, we're listening to stories about the divide between our public and private selves and how image might play into it. If that reminds you of social media, well, congrats. That means it'll be easy for you to find Selected Shorts online. We're regulars on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. We love chatting about stories, authors, and whatever else pops into our heads. So please come find us at SelectedShorts or our home theater, Symphony Space. And please subscribe to our [e-mail] Our second story of the hour is by the writer Louise Erdrich, a longtime friend of the series. She's the author of novels including Love Medicine, the Night Watchman and the Roundhouse, and a bevy of short stories, too. She's one of those writers who always seems to find subtle and profound ways to reveal character and subvert your expectations at the same time. This narrative is in a steady state of revelation, so I'd rather not spoil it. Suffice it to say it's about someone coming to terms with a fantastical idea about her life as well as the work she does to keep that fantasy intact. Also, erdrich, is a member of the Turtle Mountain Band of the Chippewa, so when our narrator talks about Indians haunting a particular motel, it's helpful to have this bit of context. It was performed for us by one of our treasured regulars, the actor Patricia Callamber. She's known for films including Signs as well as series including Sisters and the recent stars hit Power. Now here's Patricia Kalimber reading Best Western by Louise Erdrich.

[Patricia Callamber]

Best Western I was a straight A high school English student working my way through community college when I ditched it all and ran away with Ricky Zaks, the lead tenor in the Flathead Valley Choir. My voice was adequate, that's all, but I was a fair piano accompanist. Ricky and I formed a duo, the Midnight Specials, and through an agency we booked ourselves to play hotel lounges, wedding dances, and live music bars from Oregon to the sad Black Forest towns of Upper Peninsula, Michigan. I was a clear alto. My voice had no range, no upstairs, but I knew just how to dress for the spotlight and for my weight. I wore zircons on my fingers so my hands on the keyboard glittered. Home EC had taught me where to vertical stripe and where to drape, showed me accent points, the tricks of choosing jewelry pieces to draw attention towards good anatomical features and divert the eye from from others. I was the visual asset. But Ricky's voice carried us an Irish lilt, a touch of Hungarian soul, even moments of clear falsetto. It had everything, the whole of Europe, I used to think, a world about which Ricky didn't know any more than I did. Except. But he was it a blend that gave him a haunted, wavy haired look when he sang Volare. He was passionate. At the same time he was darkly wholesome with his big square face and preacher clean smile. I had always been the kind of girl that people called attractive, never pretty, the kind who worked for every bit of notice that she got, who never took appreciation for granted. I was the kind of girl who'd go on a date that consisted of six rounds of miniature golf. I fell in love all the time. I couldn't help it. Movie stars, rock stars, even faces in commercials, football captains, all the assistant coaches, civics teachers, then professors I nursed unrequited affection. Until Ricky Zaks. He'd been one of those I'd worship from afar. Not that he was always handsome. The thing about Ricky is that he had an ugly childhood. All through grade school he was the one the others herded out, the skinny boy who'd give up without a fight, cry, tell Tattle. Eat dirt. Then he blossomed into a hunk. In eighth grade he joined the football team and paid people back. He had no friends, exactly, yet everyone was awed by him. By the time we were out of high school, he'd run the gamut of available girlfriends down to the little swayback sophomores. He was at loose ends after graduation, working resort clubs here and there when he noticed my thick blonde hair. How come we never got together back in high school? He wondered.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Where were you?

[Patricia Callamber]

I was about the only girl left he'd never taken on a date, but I said nothing. I never told him how. I'd watched him, just wishing it was luck. I was the last one left and maybe that helped. He talked of eloping, not putting up with church and community bullshit, a wedding, all that. And though I'd already planned a Princess Di dress in white satin with a tiny sophisticated diamond of a hat and a long lace train, I figured running off might be my best chance to keep him. So we got married in Vermillion, South Dakota, by a justice of the peace with thongs on her feet, whose house smelled of just canned pickles requited for the first time. I threw sparks. I felt it. When I left home. We hid out for a month at the Garden Court in Eugene, where Ricky had gone to college. We used my savings holed up in a room with a narrow balcony and pictures of pots of flowers and the rough tan walls, the double glass door windows looked out in a parking lot. We didn't care. One afternoon we got in, exhausted from a live audition and sitting in our twin captain's chairs, we poured ourselves iced Cokes to cool down. We were silent. Actually, the day had not gone well. In Ricky's casual refusal to meet my eyes, I thought I could detect repressed blame. I'd hit a few bad notes he'd had to sing over my mistakes. He stared moodily down at the side of the fish restaurant next door. Suddenly, around the corner came a young, long legged blonde girl in shorts, tanned and tall, carrying a violin case in one hand, a large soft drink in the other. Well, that's sweet, said Ricky. I could tell he was wondering if she would practice. He was mortally sensitive to noise. Behind her, a boy also carrying a violin popped over a hedge. Then a dozen, some with cellos, and then more girls with all sorts of instruments and cases of molded leather French horns, trumpets, tubas, and most ominous of all, drums. Must be some sort of convention, ricky said uneasily. We watched as they came toward us across the lot Laughing, swaggering, shrieking, showing off for one another, they streamed toward the Garden Court. We heard them on the stairs. They plunged up, down, thundered in their rooms, doors slamming. Out of their rooms, doors again. No.

[Meg Wolitzer]

No.

[Patricia Callamber]

Ricky's voice rose an edge to it, hysterical. I need my sleep. Sleep was not mere routine to Ricky, but something much more vital and elusive. I'd never thought much about sleep before I shared it with him. Love was the thing he took for granted. Adoration. Sleep was the thing he had to court. At the desk, he had asked for the quietest room. Walking into it, he put the bags down and turned his face intently from side to side, checking for the roar of traffic, cries of pleasure from the outdoor pool, thumps overhead, or the whine of television from next door. Even in the deepest quiet of the night, however, it is true that sleep for him was an attainment. I sensed him beside me those first weeks till I got used to it. He'd hum to himself a little, trying out new arrangements in his head, or replay the day's tensions, the fights he often had with bar managers, arguments that I smoothed over as I dropped off. I'd feel him flexing and relaxing each part of his body in a kind of yoga exercise that he had learned from Tarzan books. Sometimes he screwed in foam ear stops, and some mornings when I woke, I saw that he'd won his battle only by donning a black silk eye mask. He claimed that lack of sleep destroyed the timbre of his voice, and whether that was true or not, it sure wrecked his disposition. I began very early on, try and ensure a full eight hours. And so that afternoon in Eugene, when he turned to me, his sleek brows wild, his mouth stuck half open, I was already thinking. As always. We were in the no smoking wing. He hated smoke. Breathing cigarette smoke, he said, was our only occupational hazard. Let's move to a smoking room, I said.

[Alicia Reiner]

They're teens.

[Patricia Callamber]

They're not supposed to smoke, right? I could see him weighing the noxious alternative. He gave in. And that night, in the blessed and stale odored quiet, his nerves soothed by the white noise of a blank station on the radio, Ricky fell asleep in my arms. It was such a rare thing, sleep overcoming him with his neck crooked at an uncomfortable angle that I didn't dare move, although his head on my chest was a weight I had to lift with every breath, that night at the Garden Court was a high point. I should have known we were heading for a low. The only nature I got to see in those days of marriage was landscaping. It comes back to me so clear sometimes. Moments. Places. There we were at the Nights Inn, Detroit. I was looking at the boulevard, at the plantings around the parking lot and pool, at the way the flat yew bushes grew between the clumps of candy striped petunias and yellow snapdragons. I was looking at the soft shapes of pines when suddenly wanted so badly to just lie down. It was midday, the parking lot quiet, but Ricky was in our room, in the bed underneath the cross spears on the wall. He was catching up on sleep. I needed sleep too, but I didn't dare go back in the room for fear of waking him. The pines were 6ft tall, maybe more. Their lowest branches touched, forming caves. The cedar bark and shredded wood spread across the ground beneath looked springy and cool. It looked so inviting that I thought, why not? I could choose a lawn chair beside the pool and fall asleep in it. No one would bother me. Why not? The little shadow, the cave underneath the tree. I stepped carefully around the bright flowers and I stretched out right there and it was comfortable. Outside the greenery. It didn't seem there was a breeze at all under the tree, though I felt the sigh of needles, heard the singing of some tiny unfamiliar insects native to Detroit. I guess there could have been a bird, a sparrow or something. There was the smell of earth, the thick white odor of petunias. I closed my eyes in my bones as I lay there. I felt the traffic beyond the boulevard, the shutter of life. Voices passed, but I felt safe. All around me leaves ticked and flowers hummed and took in light. The world was drunk with light. I was sliding deep into the dark underneath the chipped bark below the plastic set down so the weeds could not poke through. Under the layer of broken glass and topsoil and clay gumbo, I pictured a darkness so total it was a fabric of air. I fell heavily asleep and did not wake up until the sprinklers came on and soaked the ground. Then, as I stumbled out back into normal life, I realized that Ricky would have been absolutely furious if he had seen me, and I was glad he had not. It didn't occur to me how strange it was that I was sleeping outdoors while inside the motel. My husband had two queen size beds to himself with royal blue velveteen spreads on them. No, the situation did not strike me as odd at all. It had become normal for me to guard Ricky from the world. The facts only begin to Clarify in Minneapolis St. Paul at the Thunderbird. I do believe that that motel is cursed by Indians. There's a 30 foot chief. Constructed out of fiberglass in the front, that's for starters. Inside, there's. The place is littered with designs. The rubber mats to wipe your feet on, the carpets, the cocktail napkins all full of squares and diamonds, Indian looking strange. There were a bunch of tired plaster Indians dressed up, enclosed in glass. The animals these people lived off were stuffed and hiding in the rafters, poised to leap down and attack foxes, wolves, raccoons, squirrels and wild goats. The night we played at the Thunderbird, the lounge was full of families bumped off a canceled northwest flight. You can imagine the mood they were in already. Our show did nothing but give them a target, a focus for their irritations. It was wild, though, the things Ricky tried. He had always told me that patter with the audience was his strong suit. He started out with a few remarks, talking about his family. My uncle was a deep sea diver, but he was too polite to last met a mermaid and tipped his hat to her. I had an aunt, too, an old maid. She let the dust accumulate beneath the bed. How come? She heard, a man is made of dust. He got to me, his wife. She wouldn't kiss me last night, said, honey, my lips are chapped. Well, I said, one more chap won't hurt him. You people come here in an airplane. I hate them. I stay on terra firma, the firmer the grounda, the lesser the terra. Now, seriously, folks. Soon after, we swung into Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head, let's fall in Love and I fall to pieces. Then Ricky asked the crowd if there were any requests. Harmonize, a voice called from the back booth. There was laughter. Ricky shot me a foul look and retorted, you want to hum a few bars? Then it was like we had started some kind of trend, or maybe our airline passengers had got a fright that day. And you know the way you wake up in the morning and a song is going in your head and you realize it's a comment on your life. They asked for falling rain. I fall to pieces again when autumn leaves start to fall. We kept singing for them, taking requests for falling numbers. I think the emphasis on getting dashed to the ground set some kind of tone. Morbid. And when we sat down to take our break, a weird thing happened. Of course, Ricky hadn't slept well and I was walking on pins anyway. But he looked at me all critical. Your lipstick's off center, he said. Oh, I had my purse. I took out a little lipstick tube with a mirror attached, and I looked at my lips. Applied a touch up. Okay now? I asked. But he didn't say yes. He looked over my head, studying a stuffed hawk, and spoke in a dreamy voice. It's your mouth. To be honest, your mouth is set crooked on your face. I was astonished, then hollow with hurt. Oh, I said. Oh, really, is it? Ricky tipped the strong line of his jaw away from me. Goes with the rest of it. He grabbed my arm, hauled me up. I had no time to react, or maybe I was numb. Before I even took his remark properly, I was in front of the crowd, drawing out the opening to Snowbird. And then that night, after we had played until the lounge closed and we went upstairs to bed, after I hung up our clothes, turned the covers down, and loosened the tight, clean sheets, Ricky slid in and closed his eyes to block out my face. I turned the lights off. The night. The air all was still and very black around us. The room's drapes shut out the lights from the parking lot. From time to time we heard other people in the outside hallway. Doors closed with hollow, watery booms. Voices dropped like stones into the bush. Please, I said. I held my breath as he turned in his slumber. The silence deepened. I didn't dare speak or make any noise at all. Even the sound of my breathing, the ragged need of it, even the rustle of the bed sheets seemed much too loud. Since the day I turned 13 and my mother let me put on makeup, I had never begun my morning without the ritual of eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lipstick. The next morning was a first. I forgot about it, didn't even check my face and hair in the mirror. Ricky was downstairs eating breakfast. He must have slept real good. That meant after long sleeps he always ordered the specials that included minute steaks, hash browns, three eggs instead of two. After a good night's sleep, after making love, I'd usually go downstairs fresh and put together, perfect as I could make myself. Ricky and I would sit across the table from each other. Everything around us would seem interesting and intense. We'd read our placemats out loud, flip through the packets of sugar. Even the words on the menu would make us laugh. But that morning, as I stood in the doorway by the Please Wait to be seated sign, I caught sight of Ricky from behind. He sat alone at the counter. Clearly he did not want company. His back was hunched over his food and his elbows were moving up and down, up and down, pumping at his work. He ate like a mechanical horse, everything about him given over to the one task. I turned and walked out. Drumbeats, a wailing kind of faraway sound. Indian themed music came from the loudspeakers. It was a music so foreign to me that I could not tell whether it was meant to be sad, happy, or something more complicated. I sat down in the lobby next to a shallow pool laid with blue tiles. Under the ripple of the spotlighted water, coins glinted, a hundred of them, 200, each one representing a person's wish. It was just me and $100 worth of small desires. I couldn't stand my thoughts. I took out a quarter. I wanted to get my wish. All right. I hope lightning strikes and burns this place down, I said. When I threw in my coin, the ripple from the little splash spread and continued moving outward, widening all day. I'd seen Ricky mad in his anger once he'd loomed toward me and I was afraid that he was going to hit me, but his hands stayed at his sides. I never thought he would hurt me, not really. But I was wrong. We stopped on the way to Billings, in one of those wayside parks. I made Ricky a sandwich of meat, cheese, and bread. I was cutting it in half with a little paring knife I'd bought when Ricky came up behind me and grabbed my arm and twisted it so the knife went spinning, springing across the table, cartwheeled off unto its point. I heard myself yell, scream, really, and I watched the knife as it fell. I watched very closely because the pain in my arm, the wrench, electrified me. The wooden board stood out in focus, the texture of the bread. Surprise, said Ricky, letting go. I read your mind just now. I turned, cradling my elbow. What do you mean? What do you mean? He mimicked a high pitched whine. I had never been struck, hurt, or touched wrong before. I was like a baby. I could not connect Ricky with the wrench of pain I felt. At the next table over, a woman watched us. She looked shocked, her mouth open to say something, so I shrugged at her and shook my head. I was first and foremost terribly embarrassed for Ricky Zaks. But he just bit into his sandwich, chewed, and then that big clean football captain smiled, spread across his face, all white keys. I held my arm and looked into his eyes and I don't know. I smiled back at him. I didn't know what else to do. I kept smiling as we got into the car, as we drove. What had I been thinking, I wondered. What had he seen? My smile was easy to hold now. I felt cheerful. The grin was painted there. Then, just before Billings, in one of those big gas station stores that sell everything, words began to stick to my feelings. I'd gone into the ladies room When I came out of the stall, I stood before a padlock dispenser of condoms. Placed in this establishment for your convenience, said the lettering on its front. Savage love. $0.50, two quarters only. Too much, I thought. I went out the door and stood beside Ricky. He was putting some money in the slot of a plastic box full of small soft animals, plush rhinos and pink elephants and candy striped bears. Over them a little tin crane's arm swung loose. Ricky worked it from a lever. Which one do you want? He said. None of them. Tough, said Ricky. The tin claw hovered, touching down. He was going for a small blue bear with shoe button eyes. The back of the box was mirrored, reflecting the scene somehow from another mirror, one of the infinite dimension tricks from movies. The pointed tip of the pincers touched the little animal's fur. Ricky had good small motor coordination. Well, that's what he said. He always won prizes at the carnival stands, pitching softballs in wooden milk bottles, shooting lead ducks. Part of me admired his delicate touch with a loaded controls, and part of me watched this all happen. In the mirror. I grabbed his arm as if in excitement. The crane swung and clinked against the side of the box. The claw bounced and Ricky went dark with anger. Get in the car, he ordered. I walked past him. I was glad I couldn't stand that fur toy's little stone stitched on mouth, its shocked black eyes. That night I took a long time getting my hair perfect, setting it to ripple down my shoulders in a golden mane. I chose my red V neck chiffon and a piece of jewelry with real drama, a large filigree arrow head hanging from a wire neck band. I stayed in the little tile bathroom at the vanity sink, surrounded by my beauty equipment, blow dryer, electric rollers, sprays, a pronged curling iron. These things were like defensive weaponry. They bristled, hot and female. Ricky did not come near me. He sat right outside the door on the balcony in a webbed vinyl chair. He sipped from a plastic cup and contemplated what was happening below him in the courtyard around the pool. It was after dinner and the sun's rays were long and cool, the water spread out like a gleaming sheet. People sat around on the deck in white plastic chairs, also drinking out of cups. I heard one of them shout, you want to party? No thanks, I heard Ricky answer. I knew that as he watched them, he worried that later this evening, maybe as late as after the show, the party would still be going on underneath our room. I knew it too. I could hear it, their voices rising their laughter loud and drunken. He would be stuck listening. Rain fills Ricky's tracks. Luck runs out the holes. He leaves his wallet with our money on the bed, and I stuff almost all our cash into my bra. And then, when I do not return from fetching ice for his drink, he finds himself stranded at the Billings best Western with $10, a suitcase, and no ice bucket. I can see it. He does not believe the truth at first. He continues sitting in the same spot. He never meant to stay here. That was never his intent. This was a stopping place, a way station on the road to somewhere else, a temporary shelter where he could wait while his luck changed and the damage collected behind him in the sheet of chlorinated water below, reflecting nothing. The sky goes darker and voices bounce off the tiny ripples. Courtyard beach umbrellas topple as folks dance to a portable tape deck. A woman passes, bringing ice, but it isn't me. The night deepens all around Ricky's ax. He watches the closing of many numbered doors and finally goes inside our room, crams the pillow to his head. He is thinking of the time in second grade when girls held him down and filled his mouth with bark. He is thinking of the time the teacher wouldn't let him use the bathroom. He is thinking of me, how I'm supposed to take care of him, and he is planning how he'll throw me down when I come back. He thinks I will come back. But then he sees a cracked bell made of frosting white and glittering. He sees blond hair, a bunch of tin cans tied to a fender, bouncing, rattling behind a hot red car that speeds away and disappears. He tosses and turns, but he is unable to sleep. As more people and more people join the party below, he grows furious. Their voices are sodden and raucous, while his is beautiful, or was, for as the night wears on, he feels the rich sound Rust.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Best Western By Louise Erdrich Read by Patricia Callamber there's such a telling absence in the story. We hear so much about Ricky, but Ricky never says our protagonist's name, not once. Then, as Ricky punctures the carefully constructed images she's been maintaining, everything starts to fall apart for her. The two characters are alone in this story, but but the voices in the background assert themselves, whether they're coming from within her or from the audience of a darkened lounge or from other rooms at night. And ultimately the real world calls to the narrator of Best Western, and she knows she has to answer. As she leaves her husband, we have the feeling she'll see life without having to mediate her experience that she'll continue to face herself. Honestly, selfies aside, if it's time to go without a filter, I think that's the way to do it. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf 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.