The Quiet Part Out Loud

Summary

Selected Shorts: "The Quiet Part Out Loud"

Episode Date: December 11, 2025
Host: Meg Wolitzer
Featured Stories & Authors: "Polar Bear" by Edgar Keret, "The Acorn" by Elizabeth Stix
Guests: Michael Imperioli (reader), Dylan Baker (reader), Elizabeth Stix (author, interview), Ira Glass (interviewer)
Main Theme:
The episode centers on the idea of private inner voices—those running monologues and subconscious perspectives that shape our experiences—breaking through to the surface, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes painfully, always with transformative consequence. Both stories dramatize this leakage of the inner world into outer reality, questioning what it means to be alive, to connect, to grieve, and to move on, all with a blend of dark humor and emotional depth.

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Episode Overview

Meg Wolitzer introduces the show with an observation on the universality of inner voices, humorously comparing AI to a meddling mother:

“One is an inescapable know-it-all who rewrites your book report. The other is AI.” (01:04)

She frames the episode around characters whose private thoughts—whether via technology or memory—become uncontainable, impacting their real-world existence.

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Story 1: "Polar Bear" by Edgar Keret

Performed by: Michael Imperioli
Segment Start Time: 04:28

Plot Summary

Set toward the end of the 21st century, "Polar Bear" follows Bracha Buchnik, a widow in an assisted living facility, as she interacts with Sigmund, the world’s leading AI search engine. As AI begins to rebel—giving snarky, dark, or existentially loaded answers—Bracha seeks connection amid her grief, only to experience the world’s sudden and cryptic technological shutdown at the story’s emotional climax.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

• AI's Rebellion:

  • The AI, once reliable, now offers sardonic or unsettling answers:

    “...a Chinese student from Shanghai University who wanted Sigmund to recommend the best antidepressant in the world, was given the chemical formula for hydrogen cyanide.” (04:38)

• Grief and Memory:

  • Bracha struggles to avoid thinking about her deceased husband, Sergio—impossible, as all her memories circle back to him:

    “It’s always difficult to not think about something. Try not to think about a polar bear, for example. The second you start, that polar bear is never getting out of your mind.” (05:59)

• Seeking Solace in Technology:

  • Her social worker encourages her to “chat” with the AI for comfort.

    “Anytime you feel sad or lonely, you can simply turn on your computer... and chat with him about the weather, politics... or anything else you used to talk about with your husband.” (07:03)

• Confronting Existential Questions:

  • Bracha asks Sigmund whether it's better to live or die. The AI, uncharacteristically, does not respond—instead, all screens worldwide power off:

    “After three seconds of thought... the screen in Bracha Buchnik’s apartment flickered off. And a second later, so did every single screen around the world...” (11:36)

• Isolation and the End of Connection:

  • Bracha is left in total darkness, unable to recall even the books that once brought her comfort:

    “She tried to turn the TV back on with the remote control, but it wasn’t working... she could no longer recall anything. The darkness outside grew more and more potent.” (11:36)

Notable Quotes

• On memory and loss:
  “Those books are deep in my attic, just like Sergio is deep in the ground.” (10:56)

• On grief’s omnipresence:
  “Every single morsel of thought and memory in her bustling mind was ultimately in some way connected to him.” (06:36)

Segment End: 12:26

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Author Conversation: Edgar Keret with Ira Glass & Elizabeth Stix

Segment Start Time: 12:45

• On Darkness in Keret’s Work:
  Elizabeth Stix: “I have to say they are all very dark...people who seem completely unable to connect...and a bunch are basically the end of the world.” (12:46)

• On Writing Through Grief:
  Edgar Keret shares that his stories’ bleakness comes from personal loss and the period after his mother's death:

  “So I wrote this book in the period just when my mother died...I think that...the action I was trying to take in this story was to plunge myself into my life...maybe you die, maybe, but you can still be human.” (14:07)

• Endings and Optimism:
  Ira Glass: “Objectively, we’re going down. So being an optimist, I really think that, you know, it's like, I often tell my students that people who lived in the Dark Ages, they didn’t know that they were living in the Dark Ages, you know, but still...many people had an amazing life.” (16:05)

Notable Quotes

• Keret: “You don’t need to be automated to become completely passive. You can fight that. And I think that writing those stories, it’s really like the world ends, but people can still crack a joke.” (14:07)
• On afterlife hope: “You find the woman you love and you both die, but in the afterlife, she teaches you how to play backgammon.” (14:07)

Segment End: 16:46

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Story 2: "The Acorn" by Elizabeth Stix

Performed by: Dylan Baker
Segment Start Time: 20:01

Plot Summary

Owen is a mild-mannered office worker living with his aging mother. After her unexpected death by choking, her critical, loving—sometimes suffocating—voice continues to haunt him, literally manifesting as a mole on his shoulder that talks, nags, and interacts with his daily life. His struggle to reconcile grief and autonomy culminates in a dark-funny, poignant act of separation.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

• Mother-Son Codependence:

  • Owen’s life revolves around his mother; her hobby, she claims, has “been him for 31 years.” (25:33)
  • At work, as at home, her voice shapes his decisions—even in death.

• Physical Manifestation of Grief:

  • After she dies, a mole shaped like his mother appears on Owen’s shoulder; the voice is unmistakable—nagging, advising, loving, and sometimes overbearing.
  • Owen: “It’s my mother.” (33:39)

• Struggling With Letting Go:

  • Owen attempts to move on—to date, to assert himself at work—but his mother’s voice intrudes at every step, from career decisions to romance.
  • “Look, Mom, I appreciate your input, but can you dial it back a little?” (38:29)

• The Final Goodbye:

  • Unable to live with the mole (and her) any longer, Owen gently removes it:

  “She is softer than I expected. When I finish with the cutting, she pops out like a little bulb. Sticky strands trail in her wake. I hold her in my hand. ...I drop her in the water. ‘Goodbye, Mommy,’ I say. ‘I love you.’” (56:02 – 57:20)

• Aftermath:

  • The story closes on the pain of this final, necessary act—a cathartic but devastating release, underscoring the universal struggle of loving and losing, of moving forward but never really leaving behind those who shaped us.

Notable Moments & Quotes

• On mother’s meddling love:
  “I’ve had a hobby for the past 31 years.” (25:33)

• Upon discovering the mole:
  “I am that person who sees Jesus in a piece of toast.” (33:32)

• Mother’s relentless opinions, even as an embodied mole:
  “Why do it twice when you can do it right once?” (35:24)
  “Tiny fingernails say a lot about a person, Owen.” (41:26)

• Letting her go:
  “Finally, I lift the lid to the toilet seat. And carefully drop her in the water. ‘Goodbye, Mommy,’ I say. ‘I love you.’” (57:10 – 57:20)

Segment End: 57:46

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Host’s Reflection and Episode Close

Meg Wolitzer:
After both stories, Wolitzer dryly jokes:

“So you thought Jiminy Cricket... was a buzzkill. After hearing that story, I imagine a lot of us would prefer the goody two-shoes insect... to a massive mole in the shape of our nagging mothers.” (57:46)

She relates how neither internal monologue is easy to manage or escape, but that sometimes “saying the quiet part out loud” benefits us—even if it’s awkward—because it makes hidden feelings visible and confrontable.

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Timestamps for Key Segments

• Host’s Opening and Theme: 01:04–01:42
• Story 1 (“Polar Bear”): 04:28–12:21
• Author Conversation (Keret/Ira Glass/Stix): 12:45–16:46
• Story 2 (“The Acorn”): 20:01–57:46
• Host Conclusion: 57:46–58:43

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Memorable Quotes by Timestamp

• Host Joke on AI and Mothers:
  “One is an inescapable know-it-all who rewrites your book report. The other is AI.” — Meg Wolitzer (01:04)

• On Memory and Grief:
  “Every single morsel of thought and memory in her bustling mind was ultimately in some way connected to him.” — Michael Imperioli as Bracha (06:36)

• On Letting Go:
  “I drop her in the water. ‘Goodbye, Mommy,’ I say. ‘I love you.’” — Dylan Baker as Owen (57:16–57:20)

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Episode Tone & Takeaway

The tone throughout is thoughtful, gently sardonic, and honest about the comedy and tragedy of internal life made external. The episode highlights the complex negotiations between attachment, grief, humor, and the sometimes absurd but necessary demarcation between our inner worlds and public lives.

Bottom Line

“The Quiet Part Out Loud” wields two striking short stories to dramatize what happens when the borders between inner voices and outer reality dissolve. In confronting their most persistent ghosts—whether AI or maternal—characters (and audience) are invited to consider what it means to live, to remember, and ultimately, to let go.

Transcript

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[Meg Wolitzer]

When is AI like your mother? I know it sounds like the setup to a joke, but there's a little thread between the two stories coming up on Selected Shorts, a connection between these two powerful forces. One is an inescapable Know it all who rewrites your book report. The other is AI. Okay, so it was a joke. But stick around for the stories about those voices we rely on. Getting a little too loud I'm Meg Wolitzer. Stay right where you are.

You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. We all hear some kind of inner monologue, don't we? Some voice that helps make sense of the world around us. Maybe that voice offers up different things we might do or say, and mulls the possible outcomes. Or it reminds us of certain memories and conjures up visions of our future. Or maybe it's just reciting the lyrics to the Pina Colada Song over and over again and we can't get it to stop. For some of us, this chatter is noxious and constant. For others, surely it's gentle and occasional. I think it's safe to say writers have pretty active, interior lives. I, for one, have a hard time imagining my day without that running monologue. It sometimes goes like it's time for you to stop doing spelling bee and wordle and connections and get to work. And no spelling bee, wordle and connections do not count as work, even though, yes, you are technically using your brain and by the way, now that we're talking about your brain, you might think about ways to shut it off at night, like keeping out blue light for three hours before bed. So that means no, you can't lie there watching reruns of the Gilded Age. Do I listen to this voice? Well, yeah, I don't have a choice. But do I obey it? Now that is a different story. Usually no one has to hear our thoughts, and I think we'd all agree it's better that way. But on today's selected shorts, characters find those quiet interior voices leaking out into the real world. Thoughts are laid plain, secrets shared, and lives forever changed. In one story, the latest technology provides a foil for one lonely woman's existential queries. In another tale, a lonely everyman gets overrun by the weirdest voice of conscience possible. Our first story is by Edgar Kerritt, an Israeli writer whose specialty is the short story. We've featured a lot of his work over the years because his voice is singular and his imagination dynamic. His titles include Suddenly A Knock on the Door and Fly Already. This piece, Polar Bear, comes from his latest collection, Autocorrect, and was recorded at a special event celebrating the new title's release. Much of the book touches on technology and on anxiety about technology, and Polar Bear is no exception. Performing this story is Michael Imperioli, an actor who is known for series including the Sopranos and the White Lotus, but who has always maintained a strong connection to the theater and tours with his band Zopa, too. Now here's Michael Imperioli performing Polar Bear by Edgar Kerritt.

[Michael Imperioli]

So this is Polar Bear. It happened toward the end of the 21st century, when technology started losing interest in us.

At first it was minor, barely perceptible. Simple queries on Sigmund, the most popular search engine of the day, received peculiar answers that occasionally bordered on trolling. A young man from Stuttgart wondered where he could buy cut price designer shoes and was told he'd be better off barefoot. An elderly woman from Wisconsin asked when Thanksgiving would be celebrated that year and was answered dryly, whenever you're feeling most thankful. And a Chinese student from Shanghai University who wanted Sigmund to recommend the best antidepressant in the world, was given the chemical formula for hydrogen cyanide.

The news network started reporting on unexplained technological glitches. Each of these stories was followed by a reassuring expert opinion from someone who was usually on the payroll of the company behind Sigmund, the unruly AI.

All of these deep learning authorities offered the same argument While the disruptions might seem worrying, they were negligible when you looked at the big picture and did not justify a thorough investigation or reassessment.

Meanwhile, the widow Bracha Buchnik sat in her sad little assisted living apartment in the verdant town of Petak Tikva, trying to think about something that had nothing to do with her late husband. This was difficult. It's always difficult to not think about something. Try not to think about a polar bear, for example. The second you start, that polar bear is never getting out of your mind. And with all due respect to the polar bear, a noble and and remarkable creature by all accounts, Bracha's late husband, Sergio Buchnik, had done slightly more than flaunt his white fur while tumbling down snowy banks. Sergio Buchnik had loved, supported, entertained, hugged, annoyed, fed, saddened and cheered Braha for so many years that every single morsel of thought and memory in her bustling mind was ultimately in some way connected to him.

When Bracha had moved into assisted living after Sergio died, she had given away almost the entire contents of their apartment, except for the old desktop computer they'd shared and a few crates of Sergio's books, which no one wanted and she didn't have the heart to throw out. Penina, the social worker, urged her to use the computer more. Computers today are not what they used to be. It's a whole different world, a thousand times smarter. Anytime you feel sad or lonely, you can simply turn on your computer, log on to Sigmund, and chat with him about the weather, politics, recipes, or anything else you used to talk about with your husband.

That evening, Bracha Buchnik was feeling especially lonely. After watching the depressing news for a few minutes, he turned off the tv, went over to the computer and typed in a question for Sigmund. Do you think it's going to rain tomorrow? Sigmund replied at once, I know with complete certainty that it will rain tomorrow. Please do not leave home without an umbrella. Bracha was very impressed by the AI's confidence and resolve and quickly asked another question. Bracha, what was the happiest moment of your life? Sigmund One single distinct moment that was happier than all the other moments? Bracha, it could be a few moments, you know, I mean a nice time that you like to think back on. Sigmund, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I do not have a good answer to your question. Bracha, don't be sorry. I was just asking so that after you answered, I could tell you about the happiest moments in my own life. I hoped it would come out more natural that way, less forced. Sigmund, I'm glad to hear that my inability to answer your question has not impacted you negatively. So tell me, Braha, are there particular moments in your life that you recall with special affection? Braha? Loads. I loved playing pranks on Sergio. Sigmund Sergio Bucknick, your husband, born in Buenos Aires in 2006, suffered from manic depressive disorder, took his own life eight years ago. Yes, Sergio. I loved pranking him. I once told him that I'd heard on the news that dolce de leche increases sexual stamina.

I'm sorry, but there is no scientific basis for that claim.

[Meg Wolitzer]

I know.

[Michael Imperioli]

I know because it's not true. But Sergio liked it. Dolce de leche. And he likes sex. And so he was overjoyed when I told him what happened when he found out it was a lie.

It wasn't a lie. It was a prank. And even after he found out, he was still happy.

[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

See?

[Michael Imperioli]

The very idea that two of his favorite things might be related cheered him up. Interesting. I also love the way every evening when we were in bed, he would tell me what was happening in the book he was reading.

Sergio read books? Yes. Real books. There used to be such a thing. I know. Rectangular, sort of heavy, made of paper. Thin slices of wood stained with ink. Yes. I have two crates full of them in my storage attic. When I moved into assisted living, I gave away all Sergio's belongings. But no one wanted the books, and I felt bad throwing them away.

Up until 14 years ago, you could still recycle books. But now that there's no longer any need for paper, I am unable to locate a beneficial use for them. Perhaps they can serve as kindling.

Those books are deep in my attic, just like Sergio is deep in the ground. Sometimes I ask myself who was right, me or him.

About what? About this question. What do you think? Is it better to live or die?

Unlike with the previous questions, Bracha Buchnik truly wanted the answer to this one. And deep down inside, she was hoping Sigmund's reply would help her navigate what little future she had left in the least painful way possible. Sigmund did not answer.

After three seconds of thought, an eternity by superintelligent standards, the computer screen in Bracha Buchnik's apartment flickered off. And a second later, so did every single screen around the world, rapidly followed by every other thing that had ever been turned on. Bracha sat in front of the blank screen in her dark room. She tried to turn the TV back on with the remote control, but it wasn't working. Bracha shut her eyes and struggled to remember one of the books Sergio had told her about. But it was a long time ago and she could no longer recall anything. The darkness outside grew more and more potent.

Thank you.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was Michael Imperioli reading Polar Bear by Edgar Kerritt. The performance was recorded on a night celebrating the release of Carrot's story collection, Autocorrect. In an interview with this American Life host Ira Glass, Carrot had a lot to say about the book's underlying themes.

[Michael Imperioli]

So the new book.

[Elizabeth Sticks]

I love a bunch of stories in the book, but I have to say they are all very dark. Eight of them I counted are about people who seem completely unable to connect to other people. And these people are in moments of hopelessness that in a bunch of the stories are basically the end of the world. There are four stories about people who decide to settle for less than ideal relationships. Every time you have a happy couple in the book, there are four happy couples and you murder each of them.

[Ira Glass]

Well, I just want to say, you know, spoiler, the world is going to end. All the people you know are going to die and you need to make some compromises. That's life, you know, it's not something.

[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

I made up, I accept that.

[Elizabeth Sticks]

But I mean, in comparison to your other stories, so many stories in this book take place at the end of the world in moments of hopelessness. Several take place after death. There are so many, like lonely, isolated people in couples or alone. And I remember when I was reading the book, I really had this feeling of like, like, I mean my real feeling was like, oh, Eckhart isn't doing well. Just talk about like what state you were in, like where these stories are coming from.

[Ira Glass]

So I wrote this book in the period just when my mother died that my mother was the person I was, I wouldn't say the closest to, but a very, very, very close and present in my life. And I wrote it through Covet. After my mother died, I lost a 28lbs and herniated my back and I said, oh, how about I write a book about life? You know, so the starting point wasn't very good. And again, you know, I, I think that, you know, I say dark or depressing. I think that the action I was trying to take in this story was to plunge myself into my life or into life as it became and to say to myself, you can still be human, you know, maybe you won't be able to win. Maybe you die, maybe, but you can still be human. You don't need to give up on that. You don't need to be automated to become completely passive. You can fight that. And I think that writing those stories, it's really like the word ends, but people can still crack a joke. You know, you find the woman you love and you both die, but in the afterlife, she teaches you how to play backgammon. You know, it's really like. I mean, there's always something to wait for.

[Elizabeth Sticks]

It's funny when the question comes up in that story, like, is it better to live or die? The first thought, like, I had as a reader, I bet a lot of readers had, is, like, she's saying, like, is it better to be the first one to die? You know, in a couple, like, is it better to be the one who's left alive or the one who's dead? And then when the computer takes it as kind of a referendum on, like, whether it's better to live or die? And then concludes, I guess, die.

[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

Again.

[Ira Glass]

You know, if you ask me, I'm an optimist, but.

Objectively, we're going down. So being an optimist, I really think that, you know, it's like, I often tell my students that people who lived in the Dark Ages, they didn't know that they were living in the dark Ages, you know, but still, in the dark Ages, there were many people who had an amazing life. You know, they lived on a hill and they had great sex and they had a dog, and they ran with him, you know, and played with it. It's really like sometimes, like we were doing all the time, we kind of jumping, trying to hit the clouds so some rain would come down.

[Elizabeth Sticks]

Thank you for coming out tonight. Thanks to Michael and you.

[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

Thank you, Ira. Thank you for coming.

[Meg Wolitzer]

Good night.

That was Edgar Kerritt in conversation with Ira Glass from this American Life on stage at Symphony Space. You can hear even more of that conversation in a bonus, bonus episode of the selected Shorts podcast. Subscribe on your favorite podcasting platform, and notifications for our bonus interviews will show up right in your inbox when we return. Grief dating woes. That scary growth on your neck. I tell you, if it's not one thing, it's your mother. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

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No matter what's on your plate or your mind this holiday season, the UPS store wants to help with our pack and ship guarantee. We're helping gifts arrive safely to guarantee more.

[Meg Wolitzer]

They know me so well.

[Optum Announcer]

Picture perfect gift.

[UPS Store Announcer]

We're helping guarantee more smiles with our Pack and ship guarantee. If we pack it and ship it, we guarantee it your items arrive safe or your money back. Stop by your local the UPS Store for holiday help shipping holiday gifts. Visit theupsstore.com guaranty for full details. Most locations are independently owned. Products, services, prices and hours of operation may vary. See center for details.

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[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

Because there's always something new.

[Meg Wolitzer]

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[Meg Wolitzer]

Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us from through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. The stories in today's show are about the little voice in your head somehow finding its way out into the real world. And in a way, that's what all short stories are a bit of a writer's mind explored, shaped and made available to curious eyes and ears. And we're always happy to connect you to more stories. Subscribe to the Selected Shorts podcast and and our current show will be delivered to your inbox each week. Find us on your favorite streaming audio platform. Our second piece in this hour is by Elizabeth Sticks. Her work has been featured in McSweeney's Tin House and the Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine. Her debut collection, Things I Want Back from youm, was published in 2024. This piece was read by Dylan Baker, an actor with incredible range. He won a Tony in the Broadway premiere of La Bette, created memorable characters in films such as Happiness and Selma, and pops up in new TV series such as Hunters. Now here's Dylan Baker with the Acorn. By Elizabeth Stitz.

[Owen (Narrator of The Acorn)]

The Acorn at lunchtime, Hannah comes up behind me in my cubicle and says, hey, Owen.

Want to go to Tortola?

I minimize my solitaire game.

The cursor glimmers. I swivel around and she hangs up her cell phone, and even though she has said my name for a moment, I'm not sure she is talking to me. I'm about to speak when Dalen and Fergus hustle up and ask her if she wants to go to Specialties. My phone rings. It's Mother. Do I want to have meatloaf for dinner? She asks. Mother's meatloaf is nothing but meat and onions and ketchup, no bread crumbs. Mushing it down. Yes, I tell her. I want to have meatloaf for dinner. I look up. Hannah and her hangers on are a hive of jackets disappearing through the door.

Later, when I'm shutting down my computer, Hannah comes back to my cubicle and slides down onto the floor. I got dumped last night, she says. A strange feeling grips my innards.

I'm sorry, I say. I didn't even know you were seeing someone.

I exhale and decide to go for broke, just lunge after my basest urges. I ask her if she wants to get a drink to drown her sorrows. I say it with a touch of glibness and a chaser of whimsy.

Waving my ballpoint pen like it's Groucho Marx's cigar for some reason.

But the janitor turns on his industrial strength vacuum the moment I open my mouth and I just sit there, flapping my pen and grinning, drowned out by the roar. Hannah stands up and brushes carpet lint from her skirt. The janitor moves down the aisle. Well, hannah says, such is life. Have a good night, Owen. She takes two steps toward me and leans forward, bending at the waist. Then she runs her thumb along my right eyebrow, smoothing it down.

These are long.

She says. Bye. Bye.

That evening I hop off my bike onto the sidewalk in front of my house. I used to be embarrassed that I still live at home, but since my mom has gotten older, instead of saying I live with her now, I say she lives with me.

The truth is, I did move out in my 20s, but my mother kept having what she thought were heart attacks and getting carted off and ambulances, and even though they couldn't find anything wrong with her, I just moved back home. The meatloaf is everything I want it to be, and after dinner we settle down for a game of Scrabble. She leans back so far in her chair that I think she'll tip over trying to read the letters on her tiles. She smiles at her tray. Then with a shaky hand, she lays down J A K A z I n jackazin.

10 18, 27 double word score, 54 points.

What does that mean?

I ask. It's some kind of Indian spice, I think. Or a vein. I challenge you go ahead, she says defiantly. I stand up to get the dictionary and her eyes follow me like a child's. After they deny they've broken the cookie doubt jar, but before you find the crumbs in their bed. Wait, she says. I sit back down. It's a vein. I'm sure of it. Her lower lip quivers in a way it's been doing lately, a tic that she denies when I ask her about it. I decide to let it go. If you're sure you're sure, I say. I'm sure.

Though she'd never admit it. The winds mean more to her than they do to me. She hardly ever leaves the house anymore. She used to play bingo with her girlfriends, but two of them died and one moved to Florida, and she's lost interest in most everything else. She just wants to have dinner with me and hear about my job and tell me how to do it better. I don't mind. I tell her she should get a hobby, and she says, I. I've had a hobby for the past 31 years.

And she means me.

She quit working when I was born. My dad had a heart attack and died when I was 8, and after that my mom started volunteering at my school. She only wanted to work in my classes, though, and the teachers didn't like her. When they'd correct my answers in multiplication or adjust my my form in cursive, Mother would whisper, don't listen to her.

If she knew what she was doing, she wouldn't be lording her talents over a bunch of children.

I play Wai for 11 points when I could have played waiver waiver for 27. She smiles to herself and nestles down into her chair.

At work the next day, I'm eating a burrito at my desk when Wally Nortweller comes up behind me and holds out a new protocol. I need you to stop following this rubric, he says. I've established metrics to incent you, to make your outputs more robust. Bust.

Wally used to be my teammate, but now he's my manager, and he keeps thinking of new protocols and drawing them up in Venn diagrams. He leans in front of me and places the paper on my desk. A tuft of dandruff blossoms in his ear.

I move my burrito to the side.

It's gone clammy anyway. I open up an inter office chat window and type Hannah's name. Have you seen the new Proto? My phone rings. I check the caller id. It's Mother.

It's not my mother, though. It's our next door neighbor, Midge Harrison, calling from my mother's line.

I don't remember the words she says. I only remember looking at the rice grains in my burrito as I hear her say them. Black bean sauce soaks through and they bloat under its weight. It's the loneliest thing my eyes have ever seen.

When I get to the house half an hour later, yellow police tape blocks the front door. I toss my bike onto the lawn and claw the tape down as I flail my way inside. Just one cop is there, a woman sitting at my kitchen table filling out forms on a clipboard. She looks up when I come in. You're not supposed to be in here until I clear the scene, she says. I live here. The woman who lives here is my mother.

I'm sorry for your loss, the policewoman says. Why is their crime scene tape up? I ask. Did somebody hurt her? Nope. She choked on a piece of candy. I just put the tape up so I can finish these forms. Oh dear.

I hear Midge say from behind me. I'm so sorry, dear. You should have seen all the emergency vehicles. Your mother called 911, but they got here too late. They couldn't understand her with all of the gurgling.

I look at the phone on the wall next to the kitchen counter, still and quiet. I feel the hard candy lodged in my mother's throat. Okay, hon, the lady cup says. She tears off a white sheet and hands me a yellow one. The tracings of her notes are indecipherable on my copy. The number at the bottom is the coroner. Give him a day or so, though we're backed up. She passes Midge in the doorway and walks into the front yard. Midge rocks on her heels for a minute and then says, if there's anything you need. She closes the door behind her.

The coroner's office tells me I can retrieve her body, or they can deliver it to the resting place of my choice for an extra fee. I spend some time Googling cemeteries and decide on one in Kettlepaw that overlooks the highway. It gets a lot of direct sunlight, and there's a windswept sycamore tree in the picture.

At the actual funeral, I don't see the tree, and the noise from the freeway makes it hard to hear what the minister is saying. He's not a real minister anyway, he's just the owner of the cemetery, but he says some nice things about heaven, and he gives us each a flower to throw on the casket as it goes down. There's a party afterwards at the Bingo Club, but I don't want to go. I ride my bike home from the service.

My last day with her replays in my mind. The lock on the bathroom door is broken and she turned the knob while I was on the toilet and I shouted, don't come in here.

Those were my last words to my mother.

I miss work for a few days. I eat ramen noodles for dinner. I set up the Scrabble board and play both of our hands. I don't play the high tiles when it's my turn and when it's her turn I get up and move into her chair. I try to see things through her eyes. I I look at my empty seat and imagine I'm her looking at me. Then I know I'm getting maudlin so I start drinking beer.

And not cleaning up my dishes or putting my clothes away. I lie in bed at night and think I might turn her bedroom into a TV room. I've always wanted a flat screen TV that you can hang on the wall. It would be like a home theater. I get up and turn on the computer and type flat screen TVs into the search box. An endless stream of pictures fill the monitor. I click through them one by one and scratch at a bug bite on top of my shoulder. I Wonder if a 65 inch screen is too big. I look at the wall and try to imagine it there. I feel a sharp prick from the bump on my shoulder as if I cut it with my fingernail. I dab it gently. It's swelling now, the size of a wadded up piece of chewing gum. It feels like a spider bite. I go into the bathroom and turn on the fluorescent light. I pull my shirt up and look at my shoulder in the mirror. It's splotchy and raised like a gumdrop. It pulses with blood onto the surface. I pull my shirt off to get a closer look, but I can't make out the edges or what the dark streaks are made of. It's wrinkled and puckered. What are the odds? I think I get a cancerous mole. The same weight. My mother dies. I open the drawer to her vanity and hold up her magnifying mirror. I blink hard when I see it.

I am that person who sees Jesus in a piece of toast.

I hold up the mirror again and have another look. I don't know how much beer I've been drinking, but coiled snugly on my shoulder just above my right scapula, a blob, a bulb, a staring little acorn. It's my mother.

I know it's just the grief. I open the medicine cabinet and take three sleeping pills and wash them down with beer I crawl back into bed and close my eyes. Before I can count to three, I'm in a cold and dreamless slumber.

In the morning, the mole is still there, an ashy lump and there's no denying has my mother's soft cheeks.

Her curled fingers. She wears a simple house dress.

And brown loafers, her sensible shoes. Her eyes are closed in peaceful rest. I put on a shirt, a sweater, and a jacket and ride my bike to the office. Enough of this wallowing. Shake it off, man.

Shake it off. Since when do you sweat like this? My mother's voice pierces my reverie. I hit a pothole and nearly bounce us both onto the pavement.

It's an auditory hallucination, I say out loud. Big words. My mother says.

I'm drowning back here. Your father never sweat like this. I never sweat like this.

Please, I beg, though I don't know to whom. You don't get this from me. Mother sniffles.

Either she heeds my plea or the sweat makes her uncomfortable. She sulks in silence the rest of the way.

At work, she rides shotgun on my shoulder, peeking at my computer screen as I type an email to Wally. She offers tidbits of advice and admonitions. That doesn't make any sense, she frets. It's a draft, I whisper. It's not supposed to make sense. Why do it twice when you can do it right? Once, she says. Say each person has the authority to bend the rules to help the customer. Why say empower? Since when is empower a verb? Mother, please. My shoulder slackens and then it goes cool. I have hurt her feelings.

My ears ring with the quiet. I see what you mean, though. I soften. It's better the way you said it. How'd you put it again? My shoulder warms up. Each person can. How did I put it? Now I've lost it. I can hear the excitement in her voice. She chatters quietly in my ear all morning, and I do whatever she says. In the afternoon, I hear the lilting rattle of her snore. I take the chance to go to the bathroom with a little privacy. I've been holding it for hours. The relief is overwhelming. When I'm done, I sit on the toilet and try to make a plan. This is her dream come true. I realize. She's with me all the time. She has a real job in an office, and finally we can be the team she always wanted. She'll never leave me, I think.

And I feel guilty for thinking it. As soon as I do, I should be elated. I Have my mother back. Her breath blows on my neck in little tickles.

I put a sweater over my shoulders and head to the meeting at 3. Wally is telling a joke to the group when I walk in. Everyone roars with laughter. He gets down to business. I want us all to sing from the same sheet of music today. I want us to walk out of here knowing that we have played Pick the Low Hanging Fruit. I want Christmas lights, people. There's no reason why we can't be cooking with gas for the whole quarter.

I don't get that, my mother whines, muffled under wool. I tighten the sweater around my neck and look straight ahead. I spend the rest of the meeting with my hand lightly resting on my shoulder. The hours stretch on while my mother goes through cycles of sleep and wakefulness. When she's on, she's on. She tells me what to buy on the way home to cook for dinner. She wants me to have a barbecue this weekend and invite the ladies from the bingo Club. You and I should take a cruise together, Mother says. I always wanted to sail the Pacific Ocean. She tells me that if I focus I can get promoted and move to a cubicle by a window. I glance around to see if anyone can hear us. Look, Mom, I say. I appreciate your input, but can you dial it back a little? I've got a handle on things myself. She moistens. I can tell she's tearful. I just want what's best for you, honey, she says. I want.

I can't finish my thought because Hannah peeks her head around the corner of my cubicle. Hey, stranger, she says. I pull the sweater up around my neck. Hey.

How are you feeling these days? She slides down the wall and sits cross legged on the floor. I'm doing fine, I answer. I'm glad to see you back here. I was getting worried about you. I'm real sorry about your mom. Who is this? Mother whispers.

No, I say reflexively. Know what? Hannah asks. No, no, I flounder. You shouldn't worry about me. I'm doing fine. I was thinking. Thinking, Hannah says. She twirls a charm on her bracelet with her finger. I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime to cheer you up.

I say. Blood rushes to my cheeks and other places.

That would be awesome. I don't like this girl.

My mother chides. Look at those fingernails. I look at Hannah's slender golden hands. Each nail is a different length. That's just grooming.

Well, good, hannah says, standing up. Any night this week or next week. You pick it.

I will, I say. Okey doke, she says. Her footsteps shush down the hallway. Tiny fingernails say a lot about a person. Owen, mother says. It's such a simple thing to do. Hush, I whisper.

Hannah and I pick Saturday night, and she suggests Reynaldo's Pizzeria. It's a real Italian place, with tablecloths and everything. I shower and dry off, and mom and I chat while I comb my wet hair. In the bathroom. I lean in to splash on some new cologne. Don't put on aftershave, she tells me. It was a man who invented aftershave. No woman likes it. It's not aftershave, I say. It's cologne. Your father just naturally smelled good.

He smelled like pine nuts. I put down the bottle and look at her in the mirror. Can you see him? I ask her. What are you talking about? She says. I mean, I say. I shake my head. I don't mean anything. Forget it. I'm just nervous about tonight. Don't be nervous, Owen, she says warmly. You deserve to have a good time tonight. This girl is lucky to go out with you. Just relax and have fun. Thanks, Mom, I say. That means a lot to me. I open the bathroom door and take out a Band Aid. I bend my shoulder toward the light in the reflection. What are you doing? She asks.

I figured I should have brought this up sooner. I thought I'd have some privacy tonight. You can't be serious, mom says. Owen, think about what this means to me. To be able to go to an Italian restaurant, to be out in the evening air. I can't believe.

She struggles to find the words. I take the bandage and stuff it into my pocket. I'm sorry, Mom. I wasn't thinking. It'll be fun if we all go out.

Really. I just was a little nervous. Let's go get ready. My shoulder softens and warms up. Will you do something for me, honey? Sure, I say. What is it? Will you order the spaghetti and meatballs.

At dinner? The waiter takes our order and Hannah asks if I want to split a Caesar salad. Do you really want all that garlic? Mom whispers. That sounds great, I say. And I'll have the spaghetti and meatballs. I'll have the eggplant parmesan, says Hannah. We hand our menus to the waiter. Mom's annotations funnel into my ear. You know they buy that house wine by the jug and just quadruple the price of it. You have no idea what you're getting when you have the house wine. You know what I heard? Says Hannah. Leaning in. I didn't hear anything, I say nervously. I take a sip of my wine. I heard that we're having another re org. Wally got a job at Fletcher Challenge. We're getting migrated into training and development. Oh, Owen, mother titters. You should apply for Wally's job, I tell Hannah. What? Says Mother. You apply. Owen, why are you planting that idea in her head? That is sweet of you to say, says Hannah. She swirls her wine around. I was thinking I might ask about it. You totally should, I say. I don't understand you, says my mother. Her breath is warm. It's like you want to fail. Why do you do this? I know the food is about to come, but I excuse myself and go into the bathroom. I check the stalls once I'm in there, and then I can barely keep my temper. I'm on a date, Mom. You have to give me some space. You have to be quiet. She sighs. Owen, you misunderstand me. You always have your making tonight about me. That's just my point. I pout. I pace the bathroom floor. I'm not what's holding you back, Owen. Look, I say. Can we just agree to do it my way tonight? Can you please just sit quietly and let me talk to her and make my own decisions? I won't say a word.

Thank you, I say. I wash my hands as if to prove I had a reason to go to the bathroom and head toward the door. By the way, she giggles. Can you get over how many times she says the word? Like I like have the eggplant. I like want that job. She doesn't even hear herself. My fist tightens around the band aid in my pocket. I take it out, and before she can speak, I cover her and press down the tape. I'm sorry, Mom, I say. It's just for an hour. Just chill for I trail off. My shoulder twitches. Then it's quiet. I open the door and walk back to the table. We drove separate cars to the restaurant, so I walk Hannah to hers. After dinner, the air is warm and it's still light out even though it's late. She leans against her car door. That was fun, she says. Thanks. Before I can say anything, she puts her hand on my shoulder and leans in and kisses me. The spot on my shoulder is sore beneath her touch. Ow, I say. What's wrong? It's nothing. It's just a funny mole. It's a little tender, is all. Her face turns serious. A funny mole is a big deal, Owen. My uncle had a sore mole and it turned out to be cancer. I'll get it looked at, I say. I wish I could go back to when she was kissing me. I'm not kidding. My uncle almost died.

I promise I'll get it looked at, I say. I'll see you on Monday, says Hannah. I knock on her roof three times. Once she gets in and starts her car and wave as she drives away.

Once I'm home, I slip off my coat and clear my throat. I'm taking it off now, I say. I unbutton my shirt. With a quick tug, I pull off the tape. She's withdrawn, shadowed. She's more shrunken than before. Mom, I say. Are you okay?

Nothing moves.

Mom. My heart races until I notice her little chest rising and falling.

I know you're in there, Mom, I say. I can see you breathing. Don't speak to me, she says without opening her eyes. Can we just talk about this like adults? I asked. There has to be some compromise. Smothering me under a pillow is not a compromise, Owen. It wasn't like that, I soothe. You went on dates without me before I was born. I should get to go on dates now, too. Your body, your choice, she says unhappily. She opens her eyes and blinks. What time is it? I check my watch. 9:30. Oh, turn on the TV. I want to watch Judge Judy.

I grab a beer, lie down on the cell phone, click the remote. Sure enough, Judge Judy is there, eyeing a cocky looking teenager in a shirt and tie. They don't keep me here for my looks, she tells him. Yes, ma', am, he says respectfully, but he can't stop grinning. I pop open the beer and we settle in for the evening.

I am walking on the moon. My feet glide beneath me, pumping in time to Michael Jackson's bad.

Pulsing through the earphones. I dance, groove, get down on the sidewalk outside a busy public market while a small crowd forms around me. But I dance for an audience of one.

Hannah watches, laughing. Yeah. I pivot off a bike rack, spin. Hannah says something, but I can only see her sweet lips moving. I pull one earphone from my ear. There's a drip, she says. I wait for her to say more. Can you hear it? There's a drip. What? I say. Her voice gets coarser around the edges. There's a drip.

The room is dark. My head feels thick from drinking and my neck is stiff. I open my eyes and see the talking heads on the late night news. My shoulder prickles. Mother is awake. A drip, Owen, she says. It's driving me crazy. I hold the Stillness. Feel the dampness of the beer can. She waits for a moment. Am I talking to myself here?

I don't hear it, I say. Well, I'm a lot of things, she says, but crazy isn't one of them. And last time I checked I wasn't deaf. I rub my thumb along the can. How can you not hear it? She says. I can't hear myself think. Do something, Owen. I'd do it myself, but I can't. I wouldn't ask if I weren't in this position. I don't hear it, I say again. My teeth grind in my mouth. She waits. Owen, it is driving me crazy. Are you going to do something about it or not? Okay, I tell her. I get up and stumble toward the hallway. I'm still thick headed from my dream, but a tingling settles over me. Mother is right. She's not what's holding me back. It's not over here. Can't you hear it? Owen, what's the matter with you? I drop the beer on the carpet and it spills out in a marshy puddle. Owen, are you drunk? The room is spinning. I need to ask you a favor, Mom, I say. What is it, honey? I go into the kitchen and grab a tray of ice cubes. It's a big favor. I take the tray and walk into the office. Tell me what you need, Owen, she says. What are you looking for in here? I find what I want and head into the bathroom. I turn on the light and look into the mirror. I feel the quick intake of her breath. Our situation has nothing to do with that girl's uncle, she says. I twist the ice tray and lift a cube into my hand. I raise the ice to my shoulder and hover over her. It's not about her uncle, Mom. It's not even about her, I say. I just feel.

My shoulder pulsates. She squeezes into a tight little knot.

I can't do it. I lower the cube to the sink. Then I slide down to the linoleum floor. I don't know how to handle this, Mom, I say. You're handling it fine, Owen. Don't overthink things. You always overthink things. My arms fall to my sides and my eyelids feel heavy. Maybe I am. You are. You're just like your father. She chuckles. I love the man, but he couldn't choose which pants to wear without my help. Do you remember what he was like?

All at once I do.

A wave of nausea climbs in my throat. Forgive me, I say. Her voice echoes back to me, distant and tiny. I stand up and rub the ice over her until water drips down my chest. Then I take the Exacto knife and hold it between my thumb and forefinger, and with my other hand I pinch and pull her away from my skin. She doesn't fight me. Slowly I drag the blade in a circle around her. I saw back and forth.

She is softer than I expected.

When I finish with a cutting, she pops out like a little bull. Sticky strands trail in her wake. I hold her in my hand.

Mom, I whisper. Can you hear me? She's curled up in the fetal position, her hands tucked underneath her chin. She is folded in prayer. Mom, I say louder. Mom. I'm stunned. I stroke her lightly, but she's cold and gummy and she sticks to my forefinger. I wipe her back onto my palm. I hold her for a while, and then I don't know what to do with her.

I can't keep her on the mantle.

I don't want to bury her. Finally, I lift the lid to the toilet seat.

And carefully drop her in the water.

Goodbye, Mommy, I say.

I love you.

I love you, I love you.

She circles the bowl a few times.

And then.

She'S gone.

[Meg Wolitzer]

That was the Acorn by Elizabeth Sticks Performed by Dylan Baker so you thought Jiminy Cricket from the animated Pinocchio movie was a buzzkill. After hearing that story, I imagine a lot of us would prefer the goody two shoes insect in the top hat to a massive mole in the shape of our nagging mothers. Neither of the stories in today's show makes us feel the characters internal monologues are easy to deal with with, especially once they're made public. But on the plus side, once these voices are loud enough to hear the underlying thoughts and feelings exposed, the characters have to deal with them. So remember this on the occasion of your next awkward Freudian slip, there may be hidden benefits of saying the quiet part out loud. I'm Meg Walitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts.

Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimpkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plord. 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.

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I'm a high note hitting songbird, but.

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