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Too Hot For Radio: Carmen Maria Machado "Persephone Rides at the End of Days"
00:20:38
Cynthia Nixon reads Carmen Maria Machado's short story, "Persephone Rides at the End of Days."
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- [00:00]
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Aparna Nancherla
Repeat.
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Aparna Nancherla
Why? What's happening?
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Nature's Bounty Narrator
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Aparna Nancherla
Saturday, January 24th Walmart wellness event.
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Commercial Voice
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- [00:50]
Aparna Nancherla
I knew.
- [00:51]
Nature's Bounty Narrator
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- [01:04]
Aparna Nancherla
Hello everyone and welcome once again to selected shorts Too Hot for Radio. The spin off podcast that provides you with stories. Too steamy, too saucy, too softcore for the public radio audience. Yet here some of you still are, you little minxes. I'm your host, Aparna Nancherla. And unless I change my name to Jeff Bezos to hide my assets, and I'm sticking with it. Speaking of names, let's speak of names. Can your name hint at your destiny? By that I mean are all Karen's rule following haters of picnics and joy? Are all Chad's destined to be blonde blue eyed villains from 80s movies? Are all Adolf certain to have a terrible mustache? My name is Aparna. It's of Sanskrit origin and means leafless or. Or not having eaten leaves. Sure, it doesn't sound like much. Perhaps you're picturing an unapologetic carnivore. But wait, as always, there's a religious connotation. Aparna is another name for the Hindu goddess Parvati, who won over her soon to be partner, Shiva, the God of destruction by abstaining from water and food. No, not even a single leaf. And showing up to his cave John Cusack style with a boombox. But blasting a devotional song, no doubt. Not exactly When Harry Met Sally, but hey, better than Hinge, right? And so you have Aparna. But does that mean I'm fated to be a perpetually hungry girlfriend forever appeasing a significant other whose most defining personality trait is a death complex? Wow, that sounds like every woman who's dated an artist. I'd be in great company, but I'd like to think I'm more than the origin of my given name, but it's just harder to avoid the associations if you're named after a God. And that's part of what today's story is about. It was written by Carmen Maria Machado, the dark, inventive and sensual writer behind the collection Her Body and Other Parties, and the memoir in the Dream House. This story Persephone rides at the End of Days with was commissioned for the selected shorts anthology Small Odysseys, and it's about a Greek goddess coming to terms with who and what she is. At one point, Persephone's friend, the goddess of beauty and grace, Aglaea, asks what Persephone's name means. They don't say it out loud, so I googled it for you. It means bringer of Death. So yeah, tough draw. But is her name her fate? Or will she channel the other side of her mythological self, the part of her that's about spring and renewal and life and intoxication and joy? Let's find out. But first, our helpful heads up for the squeamish warning. This story definitely implies some vaginal lubrication and some incest and some street hot dogs. The last one by far the grossest. The story was performed for us by Cynthia Nixon, an actor best known for her role on Sex and the City as well as its sequel. And just like that, she has also appeared in so many other television series, including the Gilded Age, and is also big on Broadway.
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Aparna Nancherla
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Aparna Nancherla
Here's Cynthia Nixon performing Carmen Maria Machado's Persephone Rides at the end of days.
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Cynthia Nixon
Persephone rides in so many cabs, some of them smell like stale cigarettes and some of them carry the body odor of all their passengers. Persephone cannot drive, and even if she could. She does not own a car, and even if she did she would not drive it thrice neutered. She rides in so many cabs. She likes them. They are simultaneously real and unreal. They are physical objects that pass into and out of her consciousness many times a day like few other things do. Coins, maybe. She rides them drunk. Drunk. She imagines herself clean. No, no, not clean. Clear. She imagines her stomach is a giant fishbowl full of salty vodka martinis and olives, floating, rolling like buoys tossed about in a storm, and anyone who cared to look would see it, which is to say no one. And she is being transported to and fro and so quickly, uptown and downtown and midtown, and she pays with bills folded out like an offering of palm fronds, and she slides out of the cabs easily because she was barely in to begin with. Sometimes she cracks the window an inch and the city air whistles in between the glass lip and the rubber one and it drowns out everything. When she does this she can smell exhaust or hot dogs or sometimes both, a muggy mix of salt and poison. Mother says the fortune will be hers one day, all of the fields, all of them, right down to the golden chaff that has fallen in the dirt. Even that will be hers, albeit scooped up in the hands of laborers, transferred to other laborers, sold for money on the open market, converted into currency and deposited electronically into her bank account, but hers nonetheless. Persephone accepts this, though she knows she has not earned it. Her mother says, take this cash here, here, and Persephone takes it. She forgets how much she has. She finds hundred dollar bills washed and pressed, folded into jeans she hasn't worn in six months. Her only friend is Aglaea. She has many friends, but Agla IYA is her only real friend. Aglaea's father owns all sunflowers and the sun, some say, but that is just a nasty tabloid rumor. Aglaea comes over almost every day and she and Persephone go out to lunches, many lunches. Persephone feels as if she is forever eating lunch. They talk about names, they talk about names because Aglaea's father has so many wonderful varieties of sunflower under his charge. American Giant, Aztec Sun, Lemon Queen, Dwarf Sunspot, Ring of Fire, Velvet Queen. Persephone doesn't know as much about the wheat, though she knows there is a variety called Soft Red Winter Wheat, which makes her think of wine with mouthfeel and cashmere and blood on snow, all very nice things. But Aglaia is On a roll. I mean. My name means splendor, aglaea says. So I guess we're just a family of good namers. What about you? What does your name mean again? It is the afternoon. They are eating at a very upscale bistro where starch shirted waiters hand crisp the the corners of their paninis with solid gold lighters. Aglaea knows what Persephone's name means. She just wants Persephone to say it. Aglaea is Persephone's best friend, but she can be a bitch sometimes. Maybe they should do a TV show together. That night Persephone takes a bath. She fills the tub too high. She gets in and rolls to her side like she does when she is still sleeping. It occurs to her that perhaps this is the way to sleep in a tub full of hot water. Maybe there could be a device that constantly takes the temperature of the bath bed and adds a little hot water when it gets too cold. She should invent that device, but she is too tired to get out of the tub and write it down. She hears her mother's footsteps coming toward the bathroom. She hears them for several minutes. The wing's main corridor is very long. The door opens. Persephone. Persephone sloshes the water in acknowledgment. Her mother comes in. She folds a fluffy yellow towel in half, lays it over the side of the tub, and perches herself on it. She strokes Persephone's wet hair. What you doing, Poppy? Persephone looks up at her mother dully. She sloshes the water a little bit more. Bad day? I think Aglaea hates me, persephone says. I have an idea, her mother says. What if you planned an event, like a party, and then you can invite whoever you want. It can be the social event of the year. Maybe you can make some new friends. There is a voice on the other side of the door. A call for you, ma'. Am. Persephone's mother kisses her head. Use the credit card. Let me know if you need any phone numbers. Persephone watches her mother's retreating form, the way that her willowy body rocks when she walks, the golden sheet of her hair moving with her. After that, Persephone practices light social conversation with herself. The questions echo back at her, somehow sharper than when they left her mouth. Arian is Persephone's half brother. She has not seen him since they were kids and he kicked her in the leg and called her Persephone. He comes to dinner on a Thursday. He is no longer short. He is no longer whiny or covered in boils. Say something to your brother, Poppy, her mother says. Arion is her son from her fury days, as she calls them her wild youth. He is suspiciously handsome. His shoulders are broad and strung through with muscles. His hair looks like it was arranged on a wigmaker's form and snapped onto his head. I like your shirt, persephone says after a minute. Arion begins to talk about the shirt at great length. Persephone looks down at her plate. She presses her fork into the mountain of risotto. The peas roll into the cream sauce that covers the tenderloin. She looks up when her mother says her name. Persephone is planning a party, her mother says. Isn't that right, Poppy? I love parties, arian says. What kind of party? She rolls her spoon into the peas. They avalanche into the cream. It's chaos. Madness. It gives her an idea. An apocalypse, she says. The world is sort of overdue for one, honestly. Arian's eyes widen. I've never been to an apocalypse before. Well, says Persephone's mother brightly, why don't you include Arian in the planning? I bet he'd be good to she goes on talking to Arian, laughing like a girl. Persephone scowls, but no one notices. Later she decides to make up with Aglaea. I forgive you, she says over the phone. Help me plan my party. Were we fighting? Aglaya says. And yes. Agla recruits some friends she met at rehab. Four sisters. Their dad owns a bunch of churches. She says. The sisters don't look so good. Skin strung over bone, blemishes glowing on their arms and mouths like roses, breath rattling in their rib cages like the wind whistling through a row of decrepit houses. And they are fighting with each other. When everyone arrives, Aglaea and Persephone sit down and watch. The sisters argue over who will take notes as one of them punches another. Arian wanders in, tossing a football from hand to hand. Okay, let's talk about decorations and food, persephone says. Ooh, ooh. One of the sisters bounces up and down, her bony hand waving in the air, the fight for the legal pad forgotten. We could make the room look like a war torn landscape. The victorious sister scratches this down. The others chime in like we could destroy some of the tables and chairs, but not all of the tables and chairs, but not all of all of the tables and chairs because people need to sit and we need to put the snacks somewhere. But the snacks could be rations dehydrated ice cream and meat and stuff. We could blow up the whole block, half the city even. We would need enough rations for the city then. Just half. Persephone looks down at her manicure. She notices Arian watching her from his folding chair, which he rests upon like a hunking Clydesdale. He scratches at the back of his hand. Something tangles inside of Persephone like she has stuck her finger into her own belly button. Persephone's mom invites her daughter to come visit the fields. Bring Arian, she says from many miles away, her voice sliding melodiously through the wires like water. Can you take the time off from planning your party? Arian has a yellow sports car and when they blast down the highways the corn bends toward them like so many attendants and the soybean fields ripple and Arion talks to Persephone, who does not listen but looks up and watches the clouds pucker and roll and the light spilling down through the cracks in between. When it's done, Persephone looks around, having forgotten where she was. What? Won't there be an after party? Persephone closes her eyes. The car is purring. She feels warm. Aryan pulls the car over. He kisses Persephone. She kisses him back. She takes his huge meaty hand and slides it up under her shirt, under her bra, and he cups her breast like a baby bird. She mashes her fingers down over his and feels relief when he squeezes harder, kisses her neck. At the fields, Persephone's mother is looking radiant. She is wearing a headscarf like Brigitte Bardot, has a woven basket under her arm. Persephone receives the forehead kiss. Her mother picks up a stalk of wheat and tickles it beneath Persephone's chin. Once upon a time there was just a single seed. Her mother flings her arm out, gesturing to the endless expanse of field. And now this. And you, she says, once fit in a basket this big. The day of the party, Persephone has no lunch. She takes a cab and gives the driver every bill she has on her person, which amounts to $649 and a nickel. Live large, she says. You have until midnight. What? The driver says, but she is already out of the car. Aglaea is there and the sisters dressed in their finest. Arian comes looking handsome and confused. Persephone is wearing a gold dress that drags on the floor behind her and gives her great cleavage. Her hair is tufted with wheat stalks. She checks on the decorations and the catering. The ballroom looks like a bomb ravaged wasteland Hors d' oeuvres, mounted in tiny rationed boxes encircle the burned rims of metal trays. The tables are surrounded by hastily erected metal shelters. The walls are bleak and part rubble. It looks hopeless. Perfect, persephone says. Let them in. The guests enter. The sisters leave. They have work to do. Somehow Persephone thought the world would be harder to dismantle, but it's the easiest thing she's ever done. The guests dance and sweat and spill the punch bowl. Earthquakes shake the room. Persephone's mother does not come to the party like she promised. Persephone's heart actually hurts. An apocalypse, and she will never see her mother again. Her beautiful mother. Arian asks Persephone to dance, and she refuses. He asks her if she wants to make out, and they do. Beneath one of the tables, one of the terrified caterers is huddled under there, but he leaves when Arion sticks his tongue down Persephone's throat. Do you want to stay here? Arion says, panting. We can go back to my place. I can't abandon my own party, persephone says, but she is already wet. The music is loud, but Persephone thinks that the building next door has possibly come down. Everyone screams, laughs. Persephone grabs Arion's collar. Okay? Yes, she says. Let's go. Outside, the sky churns black. Persephone smells burning plastic. The horizon is rimmed with fire. At Arion's car, she jumps into the driver's seat. Arion slides in next to her. Do you know how to drive? He asks. No, persephone says, and turns the key.
- [21:33]
Aparna Nancherla
That was Carmen Maria Machado's perspective. Persephone rides at the End of Days. Read by Cynthia Nixon Our show is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Mary Shimpkin. Our podcast producer and editor is Colleen Pellacier. Matthew Love is our consulting producer. This episode was recorded by Miles B. Smith at Symphony Space in New York City. Our theme song is by Poddington Bear. I'm Aparna Nancherla. Thanks for joining us. For selected shorts Too Hot for Radio.