Santino Fontana (4:15)

Kerosene was a miracle invention. Powerful, odorless and cheap, it made whale oil obsolete, and Rufus Vanderhoot had ridden the wave right to the top. In the five years since opening his refinery, he'd become the richest man in Boston. There were Shetland ponies for the children, Parisian hats for the wife, and Bolivian cocaine for Rufus. His favorite purchase, though, was his pleasure yacht, a 90 foot beauty that he sailed daily, circling the harbor in a kind of never ending victory lap. And that's what he was doing, along with cocaine one Sunday morning when he heard a feeble cry in the distance. Rufus raised his bejeweled spyglass and gasped at the sight of the wreck drifting his way. Its deck was empty except for an emaciated man with wild eyes and a filthy, tangled beard. He wore a captain's hat but was otherwise completely naked. Ho. Rufus shouted. His crew stared at him with confusion. Ho was not a sailing term, and Rufus had just blurted it out at random because he had no nautical knowledge. Shall we pick him up, sir? Asked one of his servants helpfully. Yes, rufus said. He held on tight as his crew sped toward the battered ship and secured a tow line around what remained of its mast. The captain was too weak to walk, so they had to transport him to the yacht on one of Rufus's chaise lounges. The old man's voice was raspy from disuse, but after some frantic swigs of broth, he managed to croak out a question. What year is it? Rufus handed him a newspaper and the captain let out a startled scream. He said, it's been 10 years. Rufus shook his head in disbelief. My God, he said. How did you survive? Just straight up Cannibalism, replied the captain. Eating me beloved brothers one by one. You poor soul, rufus said. It sounds like you've been through hell. Ay, said the captain. But at least all me suffering be worth it. He pointed at his battered ship with one of his few remaining fingers. That hull be full of oil. And not just any oil. Whale oil. The finest fuel known to mankind. He grinned at the kerosene mogul. I whenever I wake up screaming from a nightmare, I just remind myself that all the hardships I faced be absolutely necessary. Rufus said nothing. His crew, he noticed, had at some point slipped below deck, leaving him alone with the captain. Arrr, I feel like I've been monopolizing the conversation, said the captain. Tell me about yourself. What is it you be doing for a living? Oh, this and that, rufus said evasively. You must be successful, said the captain. No man meat on the table. On my ship we had to eat each other. You mentioned that, rufus said. Ah, forgive me, said the captain. Me memory hasn't been the same since a whale headbutted me brain. He squinted toward the shore. Day had turned to night and the lamplighters were busily firing up the kerosene lanterns that dotted every street. Boston seems brighter than I remember it, observed the captain, his bushy white brows scrunched in thought. People must be usin more whale oil than ever. He flashed Rufus another grin. That's good for me, given I be sellin whale oil. Uh huh, rufus said non committally. I had to kill me best friend to eat his heart, the captain volunteered. He begged me to do it, but that didn't make it any easier. Even the whales knew it'd be wrong. They kept shaking their heads back and forth like stop. This be crazy. He chuckled. All worth it, of course. They were nearly to shore now. For the first time since becoming rich. Rufus felt a bead of sweat slide down his forehead. Say, Captain, he said. Why don't I buy your whale oil? That way you don't have to come to shore at all. You can sail on to Tahiti, Ideally without talking to anyone or looking at anything. ARR, that'd be very generous of you, the captain said. But I should really be testin me whale oil's value on the open market. Somethin tells me I'm in for a pleasant surprise. He sniffed the air. That's odd, he said, eyeing the swiftly nearing streetlights. Those whale oil lamps don't seem to smell very strongly of whale. He furrowed his brow again Wait a minute. Rufus averted his eyes as the captain leapt to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger at him. Did they invent something while I was gone? I'm afraid so, rufus admitted. The captain let out a rueful sigh. I always knew this day would come, he said. The day when scientists would invent a new kind of whale oil lamp that would stop the whale oil from smelling bad, thereby increasing the popularity of whale oil. And now that it's happened, I can't help but dance a happy jig. Whale oil's malign, you see. I'm aware, rufus said, rubbing his throbbing temples. Ay, forgive me, said the captain. Sometimes when I get going about whale oil, it be hard to stop because it be so central to me life. I've got no family, no friends, no hobbies. I'm not even into sports. You know what I be doing for fun at night? I be reading books about how to improve me whale oil business. He furrowed his brow again. It's funny. I haven't been seeing many new releases in that category lately. He shrugged. Well, I'm sure they will be more soon, given whale oil's enduring popularity. Rufus snorted some cocaine. Okay, look, he said. There's something I got to tell you. While you were at sea eating your friends, scientists invented a new fuel called kerosene, and it's inferior to whale oil. Rufus looked the captain in the eye. It's better. I've made millions selling it. And I can assure you that no one anywhere will ever buy whale oil again. The men sat in silence for a minute, the waves lapping softly at the hull. I don't love this, said the captain. I'm truly sorry, rufus said, placing a hand on the captain's sun scorched shoulder. It's not your fault, the captain said. It's like they say. Sometimes you end up on the wrong side of the harpoon. They don't say that anymore. ARR. The captain stood up and cracked his neck. Well, I suppose I should be on me way. Rufus watched with confusion as the captain threw a rope around his waist and began to lower himself into the frothy waves. Where are you going? Back to me boat, he said. If there be no one buying whale oil, there be no reason for me to waste a night in boring, racist Boston. Where will you go instead? Rufus demanded. Where else? Said the captain. Back to sea to hunt more whales. You must not have heard me, rufus said. The entire whale industry is obsolete. Yes, I know. But I never wailed for the money. I did it for the love of the chase, the cool salty breeze in me hair, the thrill of the wheel in me hand, the sense, however foolish, that I be in charge of me own destiny. You described it as a living hell. Aye. Complaining be one of the things I love the most about it. People are impressed. And also it be given me an excuse to drink. But how will you survive? Rufus pressed. Even if you catch more whales, nobody will want to buy the oil. I'm independently wealthy. Rufus was taken aback. Really? I said the captain, my dad, he be inventin a medical instrument. You've never heard of it, but it's become the standard of care for all gallbladder procedures, and whenever it's used, I be getting a royalty. Wow, rufus said. Is it a lot? Arrr, no, said the captain. I'm not rich or anything, but so what? They've done studies and there be no correlation between money and happiness. He paused. I mean, you have to be above a certain threshold, obviously, right? Like the thing I be reading, it be saying that up to 75k it be mattering a lot how much you make, because if you be making less than that, you be stressed out all the time. But once you be making 70k beyond that, it'd be more or less the same. So you make more than 75k a year from medical royalties. I how much?

Lowes Advertiser (14:45)

ARR.

Santino Fontana (14:46)

I don't feel comfortable saying the exact amount, but it'd be enough so that I be comfortable. 150? 200? ARR. I prefer not to say six figures, though. Aye, but let's be moving off it now because I be getting uncomfortable. Just tell me, rufus said. ARR, no. I don't be feeling comfortable. And with that he cut his rope line free and splashed his way across the moonlit waves. Rufus rolled his eyes as the captain crawled aboard his wreck and broke into a wild, carefree shanty. The old coot was obviously deluding himself. A man needed more than salty breezes. He needed a purpose, a sense that his life was worthwhile. Whaling was worse than futile. It was immoral. Lives would be lost and nature despoiled for a cause that future generations would look at as barbaric and unnecessary. It was horrible to contemplate. He lowered his spyglass and turned with relief to the shore where his factory awaited him, and the black smoke billowed as high as he could see. Simon Rich.

Meg Wolitzer (16:18)

That was Santino Fontana reading kerosene by Simon Rich. I'm not sure which is worse. Having an amazing idea only to find that someone else had that idea already, or being the person who has to break this bad news to their excited friend. And if you think this story is outsized fiction, something like it happened to the author David Lodge. He'd been working on a novel about the life of Henry James, only to learn that the more well known and lauded writer Colm Toybean had also been writing a Henry James novel. Both of these books came out in the same year, and in fact, so did a third novel about Henry James. Yet the Master by Toybean is the one that received the attention and won big prizes. But David Lodge did get a kind of consolation prize out of all of this. He went on to publish another book all about what happened, called the Year of Henry the Story of a Novel. And luckily for him, no one else wrote anything remotely like it. Next up, a piece by Tanya James. She's the author of novels including Atlas of Unknowns and Lute, which was long listed for the national book Award in 2023. She also has a short story collection, Eragrams. This uncanny little gem of a story, the Cage takes on ideas of safety in parenting. Reading it is Nicole Kang. She's a writer and performer known for series including youg and Batwoman, a show on which she played Poison Ivy for three seasons. Now here's Nicole Kang in her selected shorts debut, performing the Cage by Tanya James.

Nicole Kang (18:03)

The cage at 2:32am the baby falls out of our bed. We decide that night, the baby raging against my chest, that we can never let this happen again. What if, my husband says, we rearrange the room and push our bed into the corner? Would that look crazy? We push our bed into the corner of the room and see how crazy it is that we never thought of this before. Two edges of the bed hug the walls. The other two edges we bolt with wooden rails too high for the baby to swing a leg over. Did you know that a mouse can squeeze itself through the crack beneath a door? Their insides are basically puree. That's how flexible they are. Similarly, our baby pours himself through the space between the rails and achieves a four point landing. A mom at the playground weighs in. She's a mom I normally avoid because I can't tell if her nose ring is a nose ring or it's a mole and it makes me uncomfortable. I know this sounds crazy, she says, but try making your room all bed. When I ask how, she says she knows a guy. So the following week, my husband and I remove all of the furniture from our bedroom and fill the floor with a custom made Etsy Silver sourced foam mattress delivered by ups. With the full floor mattress, our room feels like a spare yet magical pen, granting us the freedom of padded play. We sing our lullabies beginning with Twinkle, twinkle little star How I wonder what you are up above the world's star so bright like a diamond in the sky Twinkle, twinkle little star How I wonder what you are. Though the baby has no real life references for stars, having never seen one in our light polluted skies. Still, the baby falls right asleep and eventually rolls into his own corner just as I'm slipping into a dream about our UPS guy who is sometimes the only guy I see all day other than my husband. The baby honks his head against a wall. Here's a crazy idea. My husband what if we built some sort of, I don't know, cage? And I'll admit the cage does look a little crazy at first. But not after we paint the bars a pale sky blue, same as the lid where we fresco clouds and the faint shapes of dinosaurs and whales and bunnies. The lid of the cage is in fact less cage like than the actual ceiling of our apartment. My parents weigh in. We never caged you. They say. We let you walk around dragging a piece of particle board, partying all night, and when you decided to sleep, you threw down that particle board and you slept. We also potty trained you when you were 15 months old and had you swimming at two and a half. What faith my parents had in my ambition and brilliance they have transferred to the baby. The baby has only to fart in the wind, and they'll say, now this one will be a great scholar. Another night. I fail to notice the baby's escape from the cage until a whack rings through the bed frame. I sit up. There he is, grinning pinkly by my bedside. In his hand is a broken piece of sky blue pole. My husband goes away on a work trip. I imagine him high atop a hotel bed beneath layers of damask and goose down, sleeping this sleep of the dead. Did you know that in 1930s London housewives used to nap their babies in what was basically a wire cage fastened to the outside edges of a tenement window like an air conditioner, so as to maximize the baby's exposure to fresh air. For our own open air compartment, I use a clear acrylic punch with holes and layer it with a mattress and a tightly fitted organic cotton sheet. Then I turn to the baby and I gesture for him to enter. The baby says, you must be joking. I ask the baby if he is my good baby. I ask if he is my good baby or my bad baby? The baby says he is good. Then try it, I say. You try it, he says. In I go, curling myself into a fetal position. That feels better once I stop fighting it. Wow, isn't this something? I begin to say, but I am interrupted by the bang of the casement windows, which the baby has shut so that I am trapped on all sides. Classic baby, sharp as attack, sharper than I thought. He trots out the front door and down the steps. Use the handrail, I call out and up the street, walking jauntily as if to the office or to my parents house, where my mother will sit in her rocker and sleep, the baby on her chest or on the nearest piece of particle board. 20 floors separate me from the sidewalk below. I am frightened of height, so I keep my gaze on the scalloped turrets and shingled roofs in my sight line, the laundry lines sagging between windows, a nightgown pinned upside down so that the sleeves are long and pleating. I am finding it difficult to breathe. At some point I notice an open air compartment just like mine in the window of another apartment building. Inside is a woman curled up, though I can't see the expression on her face, nor can I tell if she sees me. I think at first she might be checking her iPhone, but as it turns out she is flashing her iPhone light at me in a kind of Morse code I can't read, but seems something along the lines of I see you. In the apartment across from that one, there is another open air compartment, another mother flashing away. And then I see another, and then another. Eventually I count more than 50 compartments, all of them made visible by the flashing of lights, each of which seems to convey the same meaning. Me too, me too, me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. At these heights there is no sound, no fear, only flashing. And it feels good to think that the baby might be looking through my mother's bedroom window, dazzled by all of the stars.

Meg Wolitzer (27:00)

That was Nicole Kang reading the Cage by Tanya James. As a mother of former infants, may I say to all the new mothers out there, hang in there. In time you'll find ways to compromise. You know, things like 12 hours of Peppa Pig for them, one hour of white Lotus for you. You'll get the hang of it. When we return, Seinfeld superstar Jason Alexander tackles the new love and new life of older adults. 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.

Dr. Horton Advertiser (27:34)

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Meg Wolitzer (28:25)

Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This week we're listening to stories that reinvent the wheel. Or try to and while people might play with the format, truth is a story will always be a story. For us, that's a comfort. A story might be light and breezy, heavy and heartfelt, funny, sad, autobiographical, told in the form of haikus or tattoos, but it'll always be a story. If you're enjoying the program and want to hear more of what we do, stream our latest shows@pledshortshorts.org or on your favorite podcast platform. Our final story on the show is by Jess Walter. He's a writer who made many fans with books including Beautiful Ruins and published his most recent title, so far gone in 2025. He's also a prolific short story writer whose funny tales about families in turmoil are just perfect for selected shorts. Reading this piece is Jason Alexander. He's been involved in many Broadway productions over the years, most recently directing the Cottage. He's appeared in films as iconic as Pretty Woman, though he's best known for playing George Costanza on Seinfeld. Now Jason Alexander performs Jess Walters story the Dark.

Lowes Advertiser (29:53)

The Dark. In the days before she died, Doug's wife had given him detailed instructions about how he should comport himself in his future romantic endeavors. Ellie, he said, I do not want to talk about this. First, he was not to introduce their adult children to any women for at least a year. Elie, please. Second, he might have some Viagra on hand in case grief and guilt affected his performance. Jesus, Ellie. Third, and somehow this was the most important to her. Doug should beware of blonde women in their 60s. Now, almost two years after his wife's death, Doug Coates finds himself on his first date in 40 years, sitting in a coffee shop across from a beautiful 60 year old blonde. She swirls her chai tea and smiles. Children? Yeah, two, says Doug. Aaron works here in Spokane as a city planner. Maya is a designer who lives with her wife in la, actually in Santa Monica Technically, Pacific Palisades. Or, you know, in between. Actually, technically in between. Why is he dithering like this? What's the matter with him? His tongue feels like it's swollen, like he's just been to the dentist. When Doug was young, conversations with women came so naturally he thinks he might even have been charming at one time. Smooth, funny Grandchildren? The woman asks. Doug concentrates, channeling his old smooth, funny self. Not that I know of, he says, and then, for some reason he winks. Doug and the blonde woman both cock their heads. They look down awkwardly at their drinks, and for a long time no one says anything. Not that you know of. Aaron is delighted by his father's haplessness. Doug has driven straight to his son's house and is once again struck by how much Aaron looks like his mother when he laughs. Wait, wait. Aaron holds up a hand. So were you saying that you were so promiscuous in your youth, that you fathered children you don't know about? Who maybe fathered children they don't know about? Or that Maya and I are so promiscuous we're just out here dropping grandkids that you can't keep track of? Like those women who leave babies in department store dressing rooms. Doug wonders if he missed a story about babies in department store dressing rooms. What is wrong with this world? Honestly, the Doug says, I have no idea what I meant. So tell me this, Mr. Suave, says Aaron. Are you planning to see this woman again? Doug sighs. Not that I know of. A week before the end, not long after Ellie gave Doug her awful dating advice, hospice sent over a non denominational pastor. Doug was confused when he answered the door. He and Elie had been clear about not wanting this. Doug was a geology professor who valued science over superstition. But Ellie had lapsed from her family's evangelical church as a teenager, and for her the decision was more personal. In the kitchen, Doug explained to the pastor a woman named Astrid. He spoke quietly so as not to awaken Ellie from her morphine sleep. Doug said that while he appreciated Astrid coming by, they had been quite intentional. In checking the agnostic atheist box on the hospice forms. We specified no last rites or Doug. Ellie called from her bed in the living room. He was surprised at the power of her voice. They'd been speaking in whispers for days. It's okay, his wife said. I asked to see her. Doug experienced something he later suspected was common to every married person the fear that he didn't know his spouse nearly as well as he thought he'd felt this before, of course, but to experience it now so profoundly. At the end, Doug was overcome with shame and a self pitying anger rose in him. How could he not know this? How could Ellie not tell him something so important? I'm sorry, doug said to the pastor. Please follow me. The pastor was one of those ageless older people, lineless face, long slate hair. She followed Doug into the living room, where Ellie reclined on the rented hospital bed, looking out at a bird feeder that Doug had hung from the rain gutter so they'd have something to watch out the window. But squirrels had figured out how to hang from the rain gutter and eat the birdseed. When this was all over, the first thing Doug planned to do was take that stupid feeder down. Thanks for coming, ellie said to the pastor. I'll leave you two alone, doug said. Then he went to the kitchen and wept. Give it a year, everyone said. His kids, his sister, his therapist. The first year you will feel bereft, they said. And he did. Don't do anything drastic, they said. And he didn't. He got up, went to work, came home, stared at her clothes in the closet, and watched that one year date like it was a finish line. But of course, when the date arrived, nothing changed. Somehow he thought he would be transformed, or at least that he might feel like being out in the world again, maybe even meeting someone. But Doug found himself indulging the thought or the fantasy that after a year he might get to see Elie again. This too was normal, said his counselor. Getting through the funeral. In the first year of grief, the bereaved often entertained a subconscious belief that once the obligations were all met, their loved one would be allowed to return. It gave Doug no consolation, hearing that his anguish and delusion were so routine. Have you been considering self harm? The counselor asked. I haven't, actually, doug said. What would you suggest? The counselor didn't even smile. This made Doug miss his wife even more. She would have loved that joke. In many ways, the second year was even more difficult than the first, as the distance between him and Elie seemed to grow. He was haunted, too, by the realization he'd had during Elie's last days, that he had never really known his wife, that the gap between them had always been impossible to bridge, as if what he and Ellie had was a kind of mirage, a temporary detour from the existential horror of being alive and alone and her decision to see the pastor. What was that? Though he knew it was irrational, he kept imagining that Elie knew something that he didn't, and that she'd found a secret door to some afterlife that, as a non believer, he would never find. He would lie awake at night and hear his own pleading voice in his head. Elie, where are you? As the second hard year dragged on, it was suggested by those same people kids, sisters, therapists that Doug needed a change. So he took early retirement, sold the house in Portland and moved back to Spokane, where he and ellie had met 40 years earlier and where his son Aaron lived. Maybe he could reconnect with old friends from Gonzaga University. Or maybe he could meet new people. Which is how he ended up at coffee with his sister's friend, the suspiciously blonde woman who no doubt had left their only date believing that Doug was a crazed, promiscuous grandfather. I wake up every day feeling like I've been left behind, doug tells his son after the blonde disaster. Like I've missed a train or something. Like there's been a huge mistake. You're letting yourself feel that way, aaron says. He slides a beer across the counter to his father. I don't think so. Doug takes a drink. The city feels different, for one thing, his college friends are gone, his favorite restaurants and bars closed. Downtown was once filled with offices and department stores. Now it's all condos and coffee shops. Aaron lives in a neighborhood that didn't even exist 40 years ago, a strip of train tracks and vacant fields replaced by townhouses and wine tasting rooms. You want me to see if I can get them to put the train tracks back in? I mean, come on, dad. Aaron points to the phone in Doug's hand. Focus. Doug sighs, looks back down at the open search page on his iPhone. Best online options for people over 60 match Zoosk, Bumble eHarmony. What are these names? Silver Singles. That one sounds like a slot machine. Give it here. Aaron holds out his hand, and Doug recognizes something familiar in his son's expression. And then he remembers Aaron as a boy, struggling to cut the steak on his plate, shaking the whole table until Doug finally said, give it here, took the knife, cut his son's meat into small, chewable bites, and slid the plate back at the counter. Aaron exudes that same caring impatience as he drums his thumbs on the screen of Doug's iPhone. All right, I'm setting you up on OkCupid. Sure, sure. Because I'm saying, okay, Cupid, I'm ready to date. Or hey, Cupid, just find me someone, okay? Aaron hands the phone back. You should really save this banter for the ladies. A week before she died, Ellie talked to Astrid the pastor for almost an hour while Doug sat alone in the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, stared at it a while, and then poured it down the sink. Finally Astrid came out of the living room and told him that Ellie was resting. It's a difficult time, the pastor said. A time of transition. He fought the urge to grab her by the shoulders. Are you kidding? Transition? It's the goddamn end of the world. Instead, he thanked her for coming. She asked if he wanted to talk. I don't think so, doug said, and he showed her out. He returned to the living room where the sun was setting and the only light casting a faint warm glow came from a floor lamp that Ellie had taken from her parents house when her father died. His wife was facing the window with the squirrel feeder, but her eyes were closed, lips pressed together as if she was concentrating on a problem. How was it? He whispered. Nice, she said without opening her eyes. He didn't know what else to say, so he asked what he always asked. How's your pain? She opened her eyes and turned on the pillow to face him. 86 got a nice rhythm, easy to dance to. He used to think of them as one thing, a Dug and Ellie. But of course they weren't. Not really. There had always been a Doug and an Ellie. They had come together for almost 40 years, but now they would be apart again. A sparrow flitted outside the window. Can I ask? Doug said. What are you thinking now? Everything, she said. Doug's second date in 40 years via OkCupid is a petite agent, hair appropriate woman named Marcy. They meet outside a Kraft Pizza place near Downriver Golf Course. This time the conversation flows. They bemoaned the smoke from the August fires and reminisce about the clear blue skies of their childhood summers. Marcy has three adult children and she smiles and nods at his recent observation about Aaron's impatience over Doug's technological ineptitude. So true, she says, and laughs. They parent us as impatiently as we parented them. It's a nice laugh. Unforced, not too high. Or maybe I'm just not cut out for online dating, doug says. I think you're doing fine, she says. What is that feeling? A shiver in his spine. His guts. Menus come. Wine is ordered, then appetizers, then more wine. Doug feels himself relaxing. He looks down at the menu again. The pizzas here are named for streets in the downriver neighborhood. He wonders aloud if the pizza names are chosen to reflect the people on those streets of, say, the folks on Alice Avenue are more likely to be vegetarians than those on Gordon Avenue. Marcy smiles. Right. Or this one is for the down Home pulled pork and slaw folks over on Dalton. They choose two small craft pizzas, a chicken curry and a cauliflower Brussels sprout, and then they settle into polite, gentle questioning. Retirement hobbies. Travel. This time when grandchildren come up, Doug simply says, not yet. How about you? No, thank God, marcy says. I can't imagine learning to date again and being a grandma at the same time. She swirls her wine and seems to get lost watching it in her glass. But then she looks up suddenly and says, was it hard losing your wife? Before he can answer, she shakes her head. I'm sorry. That was a terrible question. No, he says. It's a fine question. And yeah, it was. What you can't ever imagine is the distance, he wants to say, but he's not sure she'll know what that means. He's not sure what that means. She nods, reaches out, and covers his hand with hers. The feeling of her hand on his hand is so intense Doug is almost relieved when she pulls her hand away. He takes a deep breath through his nose. She tells him about her divorce and how she suspected that she and her husband weren't as connected as they had been, but how she imagined that when the kids were gone they would find each other again. But then their youngest went off to college and a week later her husband left. You try not to be surprised. But Doug nods. No need to finish that thought. It's been a year and it still feels so raw. Marcy looks down into her wine glass again. I don't think I've dealt with it very well, doug says. I think you're doing fine. She smiles at the repeated line, then shakes her head. I can't even bring myself to use my maiden name. Well, doug says, this seems as good a time as any. He offers his hand. Doug Coates. Nice to meet you, miss. After a moment, she smiles, extends her hand, shakes his, and says, gearing, Marcy Gearing. Nice to meet you. As they shake, Doug feels a different shudder. Their hands separate. Ah. Where did you go to high school? Ah, yes, she says. The classic Spokane question. Surprised it took us this long. Shadow Park. You? I didn't grow up here, he says, distracted. I moved here for college. My wife did, though. Yes, his late wife, Ellie, who also went to Shadow Park High School on Spokane's north side. And who would tell you, if she were here, that she had only ever hated one person in her entire life. A cruel Girl from high school named Marcy fucking Gearing. Over the years, Doug repeatedly asked Ellie not to use that word when telling the story of Marci gearing and the 10th grade cheerleading camp. But Ellie was incapable of saying that woman's name without the profanity in between. And she told the story often. Whenever their kids encountered any social trouble at school, Ellie would inexplicably trot out the tail of Marcy fucking Gearing. It's important to always have an arch enemy, she would explain to the kids. One of Ellie's occasional moments of insane parenting advice that Doug would counter by shaking his head and mouthing, no, it's not. The story went like this. Sophomore year of high school cheerleader camp, chubby nerd Ellie Martin comes back from summer break 2 inches taller and 10 pounds lighter, sans braces. Blossomed, one might say, and committed to changing her lowly high school status by trying out for cheerleading. At camp, the girls are each mentored by a current cheerleader. Ellie's mentor is that pretty paragon of popularity marsing F. Ellie. Doug would interrupt as she told the story to 8 year old Maya and 6 year old Aaron, who were both enwrapped. Oh, sorry, Ellie would say. And then she'd carefully enunciate each word. I meant to say Marcy fucking Gearing. And then she'd smile at Doug, who would put up his hands in surrender. So back in 1980, Marcy Gearing tells blossoming Ellie to try this tumbling run and to hold her pom poms thusly and to practice those dance moves. And then, on the last day of camp, when the cheerleading mentors introduce their charges to the other cheerleaders who will vote on the new girls, Marcy Gearing stabs Ellie in the back by standing up and introducing her this way. This is Ellie Martin. You might know her as one of the smartest kids in school and a clarinetist in the marching band. Like I told her, it would be so neat to have someone like Ellie on the squad this year. The first time he had heard the story, Doug looked around thinking, wait, was that it? Had he missed the cruel part? Someone like Ellie? Do you seriously not hear that, Doug? He did not. She was basically saying, look, the fat band girl wants to be a cheerleader. Look, I don't. I mean. Doug stammered, anyway, you would have hated being a cheerleader. Of course I would have hated being a cheerleader. You think that's the point of the story? Ellie, he said. You grew into a successful, happy, beautiful woman. Who cares what some 16 year old cheerleader said, why can't you let it go? Let it go? She stared at him like weevils were crawling out of his eye sockets? Sometimes I don't think you're human. Would you excuse me for a moment? Doug says to Marcy Geering. He stands and walks to the bathroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror. Creased skin around tired eyes, thin graying hair. It surprises him sometimes, this old man's face. Jesus, what kind of a test is this? He likes this woman, really likes her. She is the first person he's connected with since Ellie died. She is pretty and nice and maybe a little fragile like him. He can still feel the charge from her hand on his. And yet of all the people in the world, this is literally the one he cannot date. Not okay, Cupid. What's he supposed to do now? Go back to the table and yell at Marcy fucking Gearing for something she surely doesn't even remember? Sneak out the back door and stick her with the bill? Get Ellie's revenge after all these years later? Or no, perhaps this is another kind of test. He thinks about the Pastor Astrid and wonders if there is a heaven and the only way he can help his beloved Ellie ascend to paradise is this here on Earth to forgive his wife's pointless lifelong grudge. Sure, right. He can almost hear Ellie's voice in the men's room. And how do you propose to do that, Doug? By actually fucking Marcy fucking Gearing. In the bathroom mirror, Doug watches his reflection slap its forehead. Three days before Ellie died, Doug finally asked, what did you talk about with that Pastor? Ellie's eyes opened slowly. She took a deep breath. My parents? The church? God? Not God. Our kids. You. Did she say anything? I don't know. Comforting? Ellie licked her dry, cracked lips. She did, actually. She said, we are the ones who teach babies to be afraid of the dark. Doug cocked his head, unsure what this meant. She said, we put in night lights. We leave lamps on. We are the ones who create that fear. She said, why would babies be afraid of the dark when it is the place they've just come from? In the pizzeria bathroom, Doug comes to a decision. His wife is gone now. Nothing can change that. And sitting out there waiting for him is a beautiful, seemingly kind, intelligent woman. He will go back out there and explain to Marcy why he was gone so long, tell her the reason he reacted so strangely a few minutes ago, that his deceased wife had gone to the same high school as her without mentioning cheerleading camp. And hopefully they will laugh about the coincidence and decide to see one another again. He takes a deep breath and walks out of the bathroom. Look, I'm. I'm sorry, he says as he settles into his chair. This is gonna sound weird, but no. Marcy Gearing interrupts him, and now he sees that her eyes are red, that she's been crying. I'm sorry. While you were gone, I realized. She covers her mouth. I'm not ready for this. Forgive me. It's not you. I just. I'm sorry. Then Marcy Gearing stands, grabs her purse, and rushes out the door. In the thrum of the crowded restaurant, Doug can do nothing but stare at her empty chair. He sits by himself this way for a while. He looks down at the two half full wine glasses, then at the tables around him, mostly young families, couples. Someone is breaking off pizza crusts for a baby in a high chair, and this nearly ruins him. But after a few minutes a strange sense of calm comes over Doug Coates. Happiness even. He hums a laugh, finishes his glass of wine, toasts the empty chair in front of him, and reaches for her glass. He honors the Asian population of D Street by having a few slices of their signature curry style pizza, the other pizza he has boxed up for lunch tomorrow. Is the lady not coming back? Asks the waitress. The lady is not, Doug says, and when the bill comes $96 before tip, Doug smiles and realizes he cannot wait to tell Aaron about this, his second official date. No, Aaron will say, and he will smile just like his mother. Oh yes, doug will say. Marcy effing Gearing. Then Doug will explain how they were having a great time when she suddenly left and stuck him with the bill. And while his delighted son laughs, Doug will think that maybe we never stop loving the people we love, even when they've gone back to the dark from which they came. But maybe, if we're lucky, we get to feel them again. In this case, in the small shared experience of getting fucked over by Marci Guerin, and again in the warm, familiar laughter of the people we made together.

Meg Wolitzer (58:38)

That was Jess Walters story the Dark, read by Jason Alexander at the Getty center in Los Angeles. A dilemma, isn't it? Reinventing yourself and interrogating your chances for love after a tragedy. And Alexander does a fine job of articulating that conflict, remaining hopeful against the odds, feeling disloyal about dating despite the insistence of a former partner, and ultimately letting that new possibility go, even if it offers something of a desired change. So maybe reinventing the wheel doesn't have to be entirely redundant or silly. Maybe as we attempt to craft something new or different, the reward is in the effort itself, believing in the possibility of what could be. But I'm feeling warm and forgiving after that story. Try me again over my next belt buster and make mine vegetarian. 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 Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Philippines Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

Santino Fontana (60:37)

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