← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
What Are the Odds?
00:59:24
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two stories with unlikely scenarios, rare events that have, at least fictionally, come to pass. Naomi Kritzer uses the idea of “The Little Free Library”—one of those impromptu structures that facilitate the swapping of books—to imagine an exchange of quite a different sort. The reader is Melora Hardin. And Ling Ma imagines how winning the lottery—292.2 million to one—actually plays out. “Winner” is read by Cindy Cheung.
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Transcript37 lines
- [00:00]
Narrator/Actor
Thy ticket, Lady Jennifer of Coolidge.
- [00:03]
Cindy Chung
Well, many thanks, good sir. Here is my Discover card.
- [00:08]
Meg Wolitzer
They accept Discover at Renaissance Fairs?
- [00:11]
Cindy Chung
Yeah, they do here. Discover is accepted at the places I love to shop. Get it with the times.
- [00:17]
Narrator/Actor
With the times.
- [00:19]
Cindy Chung
You're playing the loot. Yeah, and it sounds pretty good, right? Discover is accepted at 99% of places
- [00:26]
Meg Wolitzer
that take credit cards nationwide.
- [00:28]
Narrator/Actor
Based on the February 2025 Nielsen report.
- [00:31]
Walmart Express Delivery Announcer
Walmart Express Delivery can get what you need delivered in as fast as an hour. Whether it's baby formula, when you're down to the last scoop, pet food before the bowl runs, empty batteries for a dead remote or a last minute gift, it is handled. Try Walmart Express Delivery today and get free delivery with promo code. Express Promotion valid for First Express delivery. Order $50 minimum, subject to availability restrictions apply.
- [01:04]
Meg Wolitzer
There's something fundamentally human about pursuing unlikely goals despite terrible odds of success. But when we know the likely outcome, why do we persist? I'm Meg Wolitzer, and coming up on Selected Shorts, fiction about hope, luck, literate aliens, lottery winners and much more. Don't go anywhere. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Some things in life are rare. Seeing the aurora borealis or getting a tax audit. Some things are exceedingly rare and may never happen to you. Witnessing Halley's comet or losing your money in a stock market crash. And then there are the categories of things that happen so rarely and to so few people, we'd have to live multiple lifetimes to see them take place. Things like being struck by lightning or, say, winning the lottery. And though these events are exceedingly rare, they can occupy an outsized place in our heads as we catastrophize or fantasize about what might be. We might rehearse all the possibilities in our heads. But of course, if one of these staggeringly rare events ever did happen to us, do we really know how we'd react? On this episode of Selected Shorts, wild happenings that no one can truly plan for and their effect on the human psyche, at least according to fiction writers. In one story, a woman with her own little free library finds herself in a book swap with the Uncanny. In another story, a lottery winner revisits the person that she was before winning to find out if she left anything behind. Our first story is Little Free Library by author Naomi Kritzer. Kritzer is a prolific writer who has won Hugo and Nebula awards for her short stories. Her most recent title, Liberty's Daughter, came out in 2023, and while this story has a touch of magic to it, the extraordinary circumstances it describes do draw us in. It all starts simply with the Little Free Library of the title, and if you haven't noticed these tiny mailbox like structures in your community, the they serve as informal book swaps. I'll save the rest for the story itself, which was read by Melora Hardin. She's an actor with long runs on fan favorite shows including the Office and the Bold Type. Her work in film includes you, which she also directed. And now here's Melora Hardin performing Little Free Library by Naomi Kritzer.
- [03:52]
Narrator/Actor
Little Free Library Megan built her Little Free Library from a kit because she wanted to make it into art. She sanded the wood and painted it with primer, then glued on the rocks she'd picked up from the Lake Superior shore over the summer and use acrylics to paint indigo swirls around them when she mounted it on the post outside her St Paul house. She decided to paint the post too, and painted a fuchsia road winding around the post to the box at the top and outlined the road in smaller pebbles. There was a little bit of glitter in the fuchsia craft paint, and she decided that the book cabinet should have some of that as well. Finally she screwed on the sign that said Little Free Library with the instructions Take a book, Return A book. Megan had never seen a Little Free Library before she'd moved to St. Paul, but here they were everywhere. Each Little Free Library was basically just a box of free books sheltered from the weather. You could register them on a website. Sometimes people specialized in one type of book or used the second shelf for a seed exchange. She was figuring she'd start by unloading the books she'd enjoyed, but she knew she'd never read again. She'd moved them up with her, but she didn't have enough space, and anyway, they were mostly just gathering dust passed along to someone else. They could be read and enjoyed and used. She could see the Little Free Library from her living room window and watched the first day as some of the neighborhood kids stopped to peer in. When she checked that afternoon, she noticed that Ender's Game, Dragon Singer, and Danny Dunne and the homework machine had all been taken. The next day someone had left a copy of the Da Vinci Code, which made her grimace, but hey, there were people who adored that book, so why not? She put in her extra copy of the Fellowship of the Ring along with two Terry Pratchett books. When she got up on Tuesday morning, the Little Free Library was empty. They did warn you on the website that sometimes people just cleaned it out, and she'd taken the time to stamp her own books. Always a gift, never for sale, to hopefully discourage anyone from thinking they could resell them to a used bookstore. She heaved a frustrated sigh, restocked it with more books from the box she'd set aside, and after thinking about it, handwrote a note that people would see when they opened the library. To whomever took all the books. In the future, please take just one or two at a time or consider leaving a book for others to enjoy. For now, I hope you enjoy reading the books you took. Please share them with others when you're done reading. When she got home from work on Tuesday afternoon, someone had taken the copy of Pawn of Prophecy, and on the top shelf of the little Free library where Pawn Pawn of Prophecy had been, they had left behind a sanded piece of wood that on closer inspection, she realized was a hand carved whistle made from a twig. She took that inside and set it on her mantelpiece and then put out Queen of Sorcery. The next day Queen of Sorcery was gone and someone had left behind a little metal figurine of a snake. It was very heavy and reminded her of the antique lead soldiers that had been made as children's toys, but her parents stored on a high shelf as decorative objects. Since lead is a terrible material for a child's toy, she took it inside and put it next to the whistle, then set out the next book from the Belgariad. For the next two weeks, the mystery borrower left things behind each day, some of it very strange. A small dark green bird's feather that looked like it had been shed by a blackbird, except for the color. A tiny clay vessel with a cork held in place with red rust colored wax. A carved stone animal too abstract to identify. A circlet of thin carved stone that was too big to be a ring and too small to be a bracelet. A hand hammered safety pin. These gifts were unnecessary but delightful. Megan took pictures of them and sent the pictures in email to her friends back home, two of whom ordered free little libraries of their own to give away their own spare books. They reported back that these boxes turned out to be a great way to meet their neighbors, and everyone thought they were very cool, but they had not been the recipient of feathers or carvings. Then one day, on a page of brittle yellow paper that looked like it had been cut from one of the blank pages of an older paperback to the librarian, is there A sequel to the Fellowship of the Ring. I would very much like to read it. I will leave behind anything I have for the other books if you will give them to me also. I am sorry about the day I took everything. I promise I will never do this again. What would you like in trade for the next book about Frodo, if there is one. It was written in ink, slightly blotchy, like the writer had used a dip pen but didn't quite know how to write with it. Right. St. Paul had no shortage of artists and eccentrics. Maybe this could lead to a friendship with someone close by. Grinning to herself, Megan pulled out the Two towers from her box of books and slipped in a note to the person who requested the next book about Frodo, Leave me some art you have created and we'll call it a good trade. The Librarian There was no gift the next day, but the day after, a piece of paper, again cut from the back of a paperback book judging from the size, was left behind, rolled up and tied with a red thread. Megan slipped off the thread and unrolled the paper. Done in the same slightly brownish ink as the letter. It was a line drawing of a cat. This was really getting fun. Megan wondered which of her neighbors this was. Another request should be coming soon. No one finishes the Two Towers and doesn't want to read the Return of the King. In the meantime, she left out the next book from the Belgariad, a Valdemar novel, and a picture book about a small fire breathing dragon's trip to the dentist. Sure enough, another note was left the next day to the librarian. Surely there is another book about Frodo. I have drawn you another picture, but if you would prefer something else, I can provide it. The person had drawn a picture of a leaf underneath the note. It looked like a maple leaf with five lobes, but with additional hooks and spikes on the edges so it looked almost fractal. To my correspondent she wrote, please leave me a leaf like the one you drew. She was expecting something cut out, maybe from paper, but it was a real leaf that got left in the place of Return of the King. Green and fresh from the tree, it looked almost like a maple leaf, but not for extra weirdness. It was February. There weren't any green blooming trees in her neighborhood. It was gray and frigid and everything was blanketed with snow. But maybe, maybe they'd put a leaf in the freezer or something. Or maybe the leaf had dropped off some sort of potted tree they kept in their house. Or maybe they'd picked it illicitly while visiting the St Paul Conservatory, which was filled with tropical trees. She took a picture of the leaf and sent it to her friend back home with the botany hobby to see if she could identify it. Her friend sent her back a slightly baffled message. It did look sort of like a maple, but not a variety of maple she was familiar with. She suggested that Megan try the extension service at the Yew instead. Megan stashed it on top of her refrigerator and tried not to think about it. A fun correspondence with an artist playing a game was really all she wanted to imagine herself doing, but a day later, when she went outside to restock it, she left behind a copy of Defending youg Castle, which she bought because it looked hilarious but only ever skimmed through since she had no real intention of digging a moat around her house or installing a ballisti. That book was gone the next day, and a day later a tiny, glinting gold coin was left behind with another letter to the librarian. I do not know what I did to deserve the favor of the gods, but I am grateful, so grateful for your kindness to me. I believed our cause to be lost. I believed that I would never have the opportunity to avenge what was done to my family. Now suddenly, I have been gifted with a way forward. Blessings on you. If you can bring me more such books, I will leave you every scrap of gold I can find. The gold coin was a tiny disc the size of a dime, but thinner. There was an image of a bird with spread wings stamped into one side. The other showed either a candelabra or a rib cage. Megan wasn't sure. Megan's kitchen scale thought the coin weighed 4 grams, which, if it was actually gold, was over $100 worth of gold. Of course, most gold colored metal items weren't actually gold, but it was noticeably heavy for its tiny size, and when she tried a magnet, it was most definitely not magnetic. In theory she could have bitten it, but she didn't want to mess up the pictures stamped in. For the first time, she felt a pang of uncertainty. What is really going on here? Who am I giving books to? An artist, she told herself firmly. A storyteller. A neighbor. This is probably bronze or brass or some other yellow metal, and they hammer it themselves as a hobby, just like they carve whistles and all the rest. She tucked it in a coloring book about Roman aqueducts and left a note. Who are you? She also left behind a notepad, since the thought of someone cutting blank pages out of books to write on made her feel odd. A Few minutes later she went back out and added a pen. I am a servant to the rightful queen and heir. Displaced by her uncle at his orders, she took vows to join an order of lay sisters where she's lived ever since. But all my prayers were answered the day I found your library, and I will forever be your servant. Librarian of the Books of the Tree. We have begun constructing a ballisti in secret. Please send me more books. Megan bought a copy of the Knowledge how to Rebuild Civilization to put in the box, then a book on military history, then weapons by the diagram group, then an army tactical manual. Each book was rewarded with coins, all of them stamped with candelabra or skeleton and bird, all of them gold or gold colored. At least she was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than her library, on new books to leave, on who exactly might be coming, on whether she really still believed that this was an artist and neighbor playing an interesting game with her. Twice she tried to watch the box from her living room overnight, but both times she fell asleep. Finally, one day she found a note. We are ready. Many thanks for all your help. Pray for our victory. And the notes stopped. Someone did take her copy of Greek Fire, Poison Arrows and Scorpion Bombs, but did not leave a coin or a letter. After a few days of nothing, she gathered up the coins and took them to a jeweler who told her that yes, they were real gold and he could give her $1,245 for the if she wanted to sell them. No one spends over $1,000 on a joke. She didn't want to sell them. If she'd been about to lose her house, she'd definitely have done it. But the thought of parting with these tangible evidence of whatever had happened.
- [20:44]
Cindy Chung
No.
- [20:46]
Narrator/Actor
She told the jeweler she'd think about it and took them home again. Back at her house she went looking for the leaf she'd left on top of her refrigerator, but it had dried up and crumbled away. She looked through the gifts again, the ones that had been left before the coins started. She could take them to someone, maybe see what they thought, if they wouldn't think she was crazy, if they didn't think the stuff was stolen and it occurred to her that it might in fact be stolen, that maybe someone was playing a game with her and that that person blithely gave away $1,200 worth of gold because it didn't actually belong to them. But she looked through the pictures of ancient coins and found nothing that looked like what she had the hand forged safety pin was a fibula, though, and she found some pictures that were similar. Some were from ancient Greece and ancient Rome. Some were from modern artists selling their wares on Etsy. One warm night, spring had arrived. Finally she set up a chair in her yard and tried again to sit watch. She dozed despite herself and startled awake at some odd hour of the very late night and looked. The box was gone missing. She stared at its spot and then saw was back. Or it had never actually gone. She was left frustratingly uncertain. It felt like she'd read a book only to find the last page missing. Then one Monday morning, she opened the little free library and found another note along with a box that looked like it had been hand carved from a block of wood. All is lost, the note said. Our superior weaponry could not match their advantage of numbers. Our last hope is to send my lady's child forth into your keeping before they are upon us. As you keep books, so may you keep her child tiled, Megan thought with alarm. She opened the box. Nestled inside the wood was a straw lining and
- [23:54]
Meg Wolitzer
an egg.
- [23:56]
Narrator/Actor
It was large, not enormous like an ostrich egg, but it filled the palm of her hand. It was silvery green in color, with markings that looked almost like scales. What do you do with eggs?
- [24:19]
Cindy Chung
Well,
- [24:22]
Narrator/Actor
you keep them warm. She took it inside.
- [24:39]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Melora Hardin performing Little Free Library By Naomi Kritzer. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Yes, there has been a proliferation of Little Free libraries since the pandemic in 2020. Maybe to the point that you, your neighbor, and your neighbor's neighbor all have one. All that said, I still believe making contact with a warring alien race through your little free Library is a long shot. When we return, another unlikely circumstance. Winning the lottery and what life might look like after the boat, car, and home buying spree. Stay where you are. 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.
- [25:21]
Narrator/Actor
Thy ticket, lady Jennifer of Coolidge.
- [25:24]
Cindy Chung
Well, many thanks, good sir. Here is my Discover card.
- [25:29]
Meg Wolitzer
They accept Discover at Renaissance Fairs?
- [25:32]
Cindy Chung
Yeah, they do here. Discover is accepted at the places I love to shop. Get it with the Times.
- [25:38]
Narrator/Actor
With the times.
- [25:40]
Cindy Chung
You're playing the loot. Yeah, and it sounds pretty good, right? Discover is accepted at 99% of places
- [25:47]
Meg Wolitzer
that take credit cards nationwide.
- [25:49]
Narrator/Actor
Based on the February 2025 Nielsen report,
- [25:51]
Walmart Express Delivery Announcer
Walmart Express Delivery can get what you need delivered in as fast as an hour. Whether it's baby formula. When you're down to the last scoop pet food before the bowl runs empty. Batteries for a dead remote or a last minute gift. It is handled. Try Walmart Express Delivery today and get free delivery with promo code. Express Promotion valid for First Express delivery order $50 minimum subject to availability restrictions. App.
- [26:36]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome Back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You too can be part of the magic of fiction. See the actors and hear the gasps and laughter live in a theater near you. While most of our stories are recorded at our home theater of Symphony Space in New York City, every year we pack our bags and take the show on the road. We go coast to Coast. Head to SelectedShorts.org for the latest tour dates and ticket information. Oh, and while you're there, subscribe to our podcast where you'll also find bonus episodes and backstage conversations with actors who perform in the show. If you like what you hear, please write us a review and tell your friends how much you love selected shorts. Next, a piece by Ling Matt. She's the author of the novel Severance and the story collection Bliss Montage. Everything she does is unusual and refreshing and funny, which may explain why in 2024 she was awarded the MacArthur Fellowship. This story about home and success and where to find them was published in the Yale Review, and this version has been edited slightly for time reading. This piece is actor Cindy Chung. Her credits include recent Off Broadway productions of the Antiquities. She's also been featured on a wide range of TV series, including 13 Reasons why and the recent FX hit Dying for Sex. Now Cindy Chung performs Ling Ma's winner.
- [28:19]
Cindy Chung
Winner I hadn't returned the keys because the landlord hadn't returned my security deposit. That's how I remember it, though it'd been a long time since I'd moved out. I came across the keys again when I was rifling through a desk drawer one day, looking for something. Batteries, maybe. There were three in the set, one for the building entrance, another for the mailbox, and the last for the apartment unit itself. I would not have recognized the keys if not for the daisy keychain. I closed the drawer again, not wanting to touch them. The deposit didn't matter by this point. A week passed, then another, before I thought to return them. It was the most karmically clean solution, but maybe I just wanted to go back. Where I live and where I used to live aren't that far apart. The distance is less than a subway stop. If you took the train, you'd overshoot it. I don't remember the last time I was there. There is no time like the present is something my therapist tells me, although I guess that's a common adage. It was midday on a Friday. I put on my shoes and took a walk. My old neighborhood has become gentrified like anywhere else. The assisted living facilities and retirement homes, outdated even when I lived there, have been converted into luxury condos and rentals. The liquor store was still in business, repainted with a selfie bait mural of animals punching each other in a rainbow boxing ring. Inside, the inventory had been completely revised. There were shelves of celebrity tequilas and in the fridge section, wellness drinks replace the old mystic juices and Coke varieties, those thick Goya nectars. I took a bottle of mushroom infused water that was inexplicably $7.99, and when I went to check out, I saw that they had still not taken the banner down. There was a photo of me on it shaking hands with the owner as we both looked at the camera, my old bangs, my greasy skin. Winning lottery tickets sold here. $60 million. 60 million is Britney Spears estimated net worth, I read somewhere, maybe in an article about myself winning the Powerball. The amount was inconceivable to me, but for Britney Spears it somehow didn't seem enough. I hoped she would never have to work again if she didn't want to. I myself have not worked in years. There's a surcharge of 3%, the cashier said. Our policy for credit card purchases is under 10 bucks. Is that okay? It was unlikely that he would recognize me from the banner. The girl in the picture had ascended into lottery winner heaven. She was zip lining through a Colombian jungle or Birkin shopping in Paris. Or she had joined the fate of most lottery winners and fallen into destitution. When you are struck by the lightning of extreme fortune, there is no middle path forward, only the path of extremes. It's fine, thanks. Suddenly I wanted to get out of there. There's a feeling I have sometimes that, having narrowly escaped my life, I'm about to be found out. I brace for a blow that never comes. I don't know why. Being lucky isn't a crime. He rang up the water. You want a bag for this? He gestured toward a stack of black plastic bags with a wry smile. It's seven cents, but I won't charge you. No thanks. I took my water and backed away. I half expected the old apartment building to be raised and replaced with new construction, but like the liquor store, it was still there, different and only slightly recognizable. Walking down the block, I almost passed its new brick facade. The building had been repainted a neutral Dilbert gray that covered up its confusing fleshy yellow shade. Someone had planted hedges along the front. Only up close could you tell that they were plastic. I couldn't find the rental office where the landlord used to sit at his desk watching baseball on a small, goofy tv. Discarded fast food wrappers everywhere. When you went in to ask about repairs, he would only half listen, his eyes darting between you and the game. We called him Mr. B. We didn't know his surname, but it was just as well. He had inherited his family property and had mismanaged it into shambles. A management firm had mounted a sign with its contact details near the entryway. Mr. B had finally sold the building, I assumed, and the new owner had contracted the firm to maintain it. When I lived here, we heard rumors that Mr. B was going to sell it to a developer and retire, A matter of when rather than if. I thought to call the listed firm to return the keys, but the idea of leaving them with an anonymous company based out in the suburbs held no meaning. It was unlikely that the missing keys had been registered in the sale and transfer of the property. I stood on the sidewalk, gathering neck sweat. It had gotten hot. I had come out all this way, and I had no one to be accountable to. At the building entrance, I tried the keys. The door opened easily. I stepped inside. The musty smell of that foyer, the mail room, the hallways, was so familiar. Marine air freshener and faint secondhand smoke. Technically, I was trespassing, but it didn't feel like a crime. You can't trespass into what's familiar. I walked up the stairs to the second floor. It was a small studio at the end of the hallway, next to the janitor's closet. From inside, I always seemed to hear the elevator chiming in the night and early morning. I lived in that place through Most of my 20s, working at an insurance brokerage firm. The entire time, my supervisor was what we would call abusive and toxic. Now, when I wasn't at the office working, I was at home, blanked out, sleeping or watching tv. Those are the only two modes. The door had been repainted gray, a lighter shade than the building's exterior. All the doors had been. I recognized the dent along the bottom of my old door from having kicked it in anger. One night when I tried the key, the door opened just as easily as the one downstairs. Someone lived there, it looked like, but no one was home that night, lying in bed beside my husband, I couldn't quite slip into sleep. One trick to relaxing, my therapist advised, is envisioning a familiar space. You imagine yourself walking around, taking inventory of every detail. As my husband's breathing deepened into little snores, I thought back to my old studio that hours earlier I had broken into. The unit, had seen some updates and renovations, a development probably affected by the management firm. It was tidy and pleasant, if a bit impersonal, with its soft, muted tones. Ochre curtains, heather sheets, the framed photos of natural wonders, a cactus palm, a seaside cliff could have been stock images. The occupant had organized the space more effectively than I had. I respected that they had opted for a twin sized bed, which allowed for a desk and sofa within the 300 square foot space. The American choice would have been to sink a space like this with an extravagantly large mattress, so that all other functions eating, watching tv, sweet surfing online would have to be conducted from where one slept. It is not choosing the big things that is fundamentally American, but the blind insistence on grandiosity despite the reality of circumstances. It's not living beyond your means. It's the unceasing, headless insistence on the best, whatever that is. The biggest compliment my supervisor used to give me was, you're no American. It meant that I had a work ethic adapted to what is necessary, that I was not blind to circumstances. My supervisor often told me this in the evenings when I was staying late at the office. At her encouragement, or rather at her demand, it was typical for me to stay two, even three hours after everyone else left before returning to the studio to collapse into my small, hard bed. My supervisor was born and raised in the country of my parents. I wondered if that was why she had hired me. At times I conflated her approval with that of my parents. That may be the reason I stayed at the job for as long as I did, the only full time job I have ever held in my life. I thought her toughness, her demanding nature, would improve me. Not being American, according to her, was also being able to take suffering. It literally took winning the lottery to quit that job, and even then I stayed another month to ensure a smooth transition. You'll never make it, my supervisor said to me routinely, casually, at unexpected moments. Only toward the end did I question what it was. I didn't have ambitions to climb to the top of the company, and I wasn't committed to the field of insurance brokerage, which was ugly and corrupt, like all things health care related in the United States. What did it mean when I told my supervisor I had won the lottery? She was confused at first. We were in her office. She wanted me to explain how the Powerball system worked, something I didn't totally understand myself. She was both solemn and overzealously congratulatory, but I was tasked with working through her confusion. With her her continual, now incessant questioning began to feel exaggerated, pointed. Any good fortune could not have occurred unless she had personally verified it. Trapped. I had planned to give notice, but it would have to wait until another time. When she asked, why you? I said, I don't know. The next day was Saturday. Montessori was closed. We did family time. Some configuration of stroller walk, coffee shop, farmer's market and playground, maybe a brunch restaurant. A nice middle class family doing nice middle class activities. Then we returned home where my son took his nap while I played video games. My husband read the news in the other room. It began to rain in the afternoon. We took our son to the library in the children's area. I read him a picture book about a zoo filled with sad animals, which turned out to be about climate change. We were interrupted by an eerie snake synchronized beep, a flash flood warning on everyone's phones. When we prepared to leave, our kid protested with whimpers, then screams. We had to drag him out. He darted into the parking lot, splashing into a puddle before my husband grabbed him, wet and wailing. On the drive back, my husband fumed. We're doing it wrong, he said, echoing his mother's stance, which is that it is unnatural for our lives to revolve around entertaining a two year old. Whatever, I said. Drive to the toy store. Our son had been placed in the NICU after his birth, and for a while it was very touch and go. His thighs, the only puffins of fat left, were punctured with needles and IVs. I kept a notebook, a narrative of his condition, because I did not believe that the system, a scattering of nurses and doctors tending to multiple patients, would be able to keep it straight. I stood next to him reciting the narrative, making sure they didn't miss any details. At one point the doctor said they had done all they could. It's up to him now. Only at this crucial moment did they recognize his agency. It was winter. I looked around, trying to find something that would tip the scales in favor of living the paper cups of coffee, the linoleum tile flooring, the bouquet of spray carnations that had come questionably with a white condolences balloon My husband had taken the balloon out of the room and was looking for somewhere to throw it away. He had been gone for 20 minutes. Outside the window, the hospital parking lot was covered in a porridge of gray snow and slush. A cluster of coats waited at the bus station across the street. Street. There was nothing I could convincingly point to, but I spoke to my son through the plastic. I said that from his vantage point, the world might not seem like an inviting place, but if he was willing to wait, strange, spectacular things happened every day. Like his birth, for one, and everything leading up to it. I said that the chances of winning the lottery were extremely slim, but it had happened, and the money was what made his conception possible, the fertility treatments and so on. If anything, the extremely narrow odds leading to his existence meant that he was supposed to be here, that he deserved to be here. So I hoped that he would stay. I was surprised by this line of reasoning as I spoke, but his little face, closed up like an old fist, seemed to relax at the sound of my voice. Finally I said that if he could keep going so we could leave this hospital, I would use the lottery winnings to make his life great. The toy store was closing early when we got there due to the extreme weather, but the clerk opened it and I managed to grab a Duplo set along with a mock smartphone that played musical notes and something called a Papa Balls Push and Pop bulldozer. At the clerk's recommendation, rushing out into the rain, I put the shopping bag into the backseat instead of the trunk, which was a mistake. Wait to open the boxes when we get home, my husband instructed our son. Don't make a mess, I chimed in, getting into the passenger seat. You can hold the toys, but don't open them yet. In the rear view mirror, we watched helplessly as he tore into the boxes. He was surprisingly strong, with fast growing nails. I could barely keep up with trimming.
- [43:42]
Meg Wolitzer
Yeah.
- [43:43]
Cindy Chung
He yelled, waving the toy over his head like an 80s wrestler.
- [43:47]
Meg Wolitzer
Yeah,
- [43:50]
Cindy Chung
we're doing it wrong, my husband repeated, looking straight ahead at the road. There is no right way. I might not know what the right way is, but I definitely know we're doing it wrong. Yeah, you keep saying that. Outside the window, even the parking lots of box chain stores were deserted. Look, if a kid is screaming and being disrespectful, he shouldn't get rewarded. It's as simple as that. He gestured to the back seat. If he's throwing a tantrum at the library, we don't need to take him to the toy store. Right after. It just encourages bad behavior. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Maybe those are two separate things. We went to the library and we went to the toy store. Not everything is cause and effect. That's not how it comes off to him. My husband turned into our driveway. He needs to learn about consequences. We need to instill some kind of moral code. Okay, I said as we pulled into the garage of our house, a three story refurbished single family home with a rooftop deck, dual zone heating and cooling system, and landscaped bamboo courtyard. I hear what you're saying. On Monday I received an email from my former supervisor. It read how are you? Occasionally I still get emails from her. They come unpredictably every few months. Maybe. It is always a brief message, often a question or a leading statement. Sometimes it is an inside joke we once shared a few times it was a news link asking my thoughts about something related to to insurance. In all cases I delete the message. The thought crosses my mind that I should keep them as evidence. But evidence for what? I have to get rid of it or I'll keep thinking about it. How are you? I deleted this. Then I emptied the trash folder. I did this from the comfort of my old studio, which I had snuck into again. The space was just as as good, clean and tidy as it had been last week. There were no dishes in the sink, no dirty cereal bowls or coffee mugs abandoned before they rushed out the door to catch the train. The white countertops looked smooth and spotless. The bed was made. Who did that? Who kept their apartment that clean on a Monday morning? This time I felt like an intruder. But I didn't leave this time. I had brought in iced coffee and my laptop, which I set up at the desk. I planned to apply to jobs that morning, something I had been procrastinating on for weeks in my old apartment. I updated my resume, describing my work gap as a decision to spend time at home as a new mother without any mention of the lottery. If an employer googled me and figured out who I was, then fine. I looked up various postings and bookmarked a few positions. Most of these were entry level communications type jobs. None were an insurance brokerage. This was the most productive I had been in months. The longer I stayed, the less I felt like I was intruding. And when I was done, I cleaned up after myself, making sure not to leave anything behind, including trash. As I exited the building, a neighbor coming in smiled at me. I almost froze, but I smiled back. Have a nice day, I said. The next few days passed in much the same way. After I dropped off my son at Montessori, I would come to the apartment and work on job applications. On one of those days, I even did my virtual therapy appointment from the studio. I'm cat sitting at a friend's place, I explained to my therapist. That's very nice of you, she said, but is this something you wanted to do? Walk me through how this request plays played out. The previous week, my therapist had given me a chart on the four communication styles. We both agreed that I resorted to my default passive style too often and needed to practice assertive style. My friend asked me a while back and I agreed. They live near me, so it's not a big chore. I was unprepared to make up more lies on the spot, but I tried to convey that I had not been finagled into this by my passivity. I just feed the cat and spend time with her. She's sweet. I thought you were allergic to cats. Not like super allergic. I can be around them for a couple of hours. Then, switching gears, I added, I've been using the time here to start applying to jobs. She nodded in approval. Finally, some progress. We had recently come to the conclusion that I should seek out gainful employment again. It was a grounding measure of a way of ordering my days, which had become increasingly slippery and meaningless. How is that going? I'm a little worried because I don't have a lot of references and I don't want to put my former boss's name down. What do you think would happen if you asked her to be a reference? I don't know. She might feel that I owed her. I'm afraid. I trailed off. It sounded ridiculous to say that I was afraid she might come back. Are we dealing in fears or plausibilities? I'd rather not even open that door, I said. It's why I have been applying to entry level jobs. I'd rather just start over. What would happen if you were to approach her? I don't know. I didn't want to engage in more thought exercises. I think she's still angry at me. Why does she feel angry toward you? Because I struggled to find the words. Because I escaped. And by escaping I upended the order of things. She wielded her power over everyone, especially me. But suddenly I had an escape hatch out of that whole system. Lots of people quit their jobs, but it was almost if by quitting I was saying that the system, the one in which she reigned, was stupid, that anyone would leave if given the chance. My therapist paused. How do you know she feels this way? I just know from working with her for all those years. I know how she thinks. You've given a lot of thought as to how she might feel toward you. Tell me how you feel toward her. She was a mean spirited person who made my life hell in subtle ways at first and as time accrued, more obvious and egregious ways. But by that point I was used to it, and so I just took it. So you feel angry? I feel angry, I said, then added, but I've been very lucky. You're minimizing yourself. She jotted something down. You don't have to minimize your anger. The more space you allow yourself to take up, the more this world will accommodate you. She paused. And the less angry you will feel. I sighed. That line of thinking seems so American, though. If everyone gets to take up space, it would be I searched for the word. She laughed a little bit.
- [51:08]
Narrator/Actor
Yeah.
- [51:08]
Cindy Chung
Tell me. What do you think would happen? It would be annoying, I wanted to say. Disgusting. Newsflash, my therapist said. You're an American. Leaving the studio that day, I saw that the door to the janitor's closet was open. It emitted a dim orange light, incongruous with the cool white illumination of the hallway. Peeping inside, I saw a single bulb dangling low on a string. It was jiggling, as if someone had just turned it on, but there was no one around. Even when I lived here, I had never seen inside the closet, which was the size of a homey walk in. There were a few shelves of cleaning sprays and bottles, some brooms and vacuum cleaners, and a floor sink where the mops were washed out. Nestled amongst these was a little cot with a wrinkled floral sheet spread over it, lilacs against a white backdrop. A McDonald's burger, unwrapped from its wax paper, had been left on the cot alongside some fries. When the elevator pinged, I moved toward the stairway. The next week I was in the studio, in the middle of writing an email to follow up on an application, when the door opened. I turned around, bracing myself. The person at the door was an older man. There was a pause. Well, you're not supposed to be in here, he said, only mildly surprised. It was Mr. B. Which was also surprising. I'd assumed he'd retired. Oh, hi, Mr. B, I said, for lack of anything else to say. He looked smaller. He still wore the same thing, white T shirts yellowing around the pits, tucked into belted chinos. You're not supposed to be Here, he repeated. There are showings here tonight. Oh, okay. I tried to recover from how startled I felt. Are you trying to find a new tenant for this place? No, the showings are not for this unit. They're in this unit, he said, impatient. This one is not for sale. This is the sales model. Oh, really? I reassessed the studio again. It made too much sense. The sterile tidiness, the framed stock photography, the impersonal decor. I could have figured it out. You're lucky no one lives here. He chuckled. I did not seem to be in any trouble. Hasn't been lived in for a couple years, so they spruced it up as a sample. But I used to live here. I wondered why they would use the smallest unit as the sales model. He looked at me, curious. Okay, well, that was probably a mistake. I didn't know how to respond to that. I used to live here, I repeated. Like for six years, back when it was your building. Ah, the good old days. He squinted as if trying to place me, but I don't think he remembered. Why are you here now? I was going to return the keys. It wasn't exactly an answer, but I fumbled through my bag. Here, I said, holding them out to him as if I had been waiting to do this all along. I held onto the keys because I never got the deposit back. He did not move to take them. Did you come back for the deposit then? He asked. Don't worry about it. I still held out the keys. Because if you're asking for the deposit, he continued as if he had not heard me. First of all, there might be a statute on that. I don't know. I can't say one way or the other. But you're going to have to go through management. Not me. They own this place now. Do you work for management? I don't work for anyone, he said, bristling before launching into a long winded explanation. He had an arrangement with the property firm to help maintain the building. It sounded like light janitorial tasks. He swept the front entrance. He made sure no packages were left outside. He tidied up, the sales model, et cetera. Do you still live in the building? I live in the Fairview. Do you know where that is? Yeah, that's not far from here. It's just down the block. Mr. B was uncommonly proud. Never thought I'd end up there. I heard it's really nice. Fairview was an expensive senior living facility, one of the last in the neighborhood that advertised hotel quality amenities. Well, I sold this building for a tidy sum you might say propriety prevented him from disclosing the exact amount. I thought you'd be fully retired by now. And what would I do all day? He said, suddenly indignant. Watch tv? I bit my tongue. That was literally all he did when he was the landlord. Watched baseball in his office. He continued. This building has been in my family for generations. I know it like the back of my hand. And you can't buy that kind of knowledge. They know that. They're the ones who keep asking me back. Sharpened by his irritation, he zoomed in on me. And now I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Please. I'm going, Mr. B. I had been holding the keys out the entire time, keys he hadn't accepted, and I put them in my bag. It was nice to see you again, he grunted in return, neither confirming nor denying. In the hallway, the janitor's closet was open again. I didn't peep inside this time. I went down the steps to the foyer, then through the front doors and down the streets of my old neighborhood. I went past the station where I used to catch the train to go to work and the new bus stop that accommodated an express line going directly downtown. I hadn't even clocked the new shoe store or the fine jewelry shop. When you come into a big windfall, the impulse is to convert the money into material things. But I think the real trick is to convert money into time. I walked until I arrived back at my house. New construction that, according to our agent, accrues at a higher rate than most properties in the city. I punched in the security code, and when I opened the front door, the blast of air conditioning felt bracingly, refreshingly minty. In the foyer and living room, I negotiated the labyrinth of paintings and sculptures, silently accruing value day by day, hour by hour. Also accruing along the hallways were rare first editions entombed inside closed bookcases, titles I have never touched, let alone read. I climbed the staircase to the master suite, where I found my king sized bed dressed with sheets the color of pistachio ice cream. Even if I don't know what to do with my time anymore, I still want it. It's mine to waste. I smoothed out the pillowcase. I got underneath the covers. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. Thank you.
- [58:41]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Ling Ma's story, Winner, read by actor Cindy Chung. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and I'm guessing if you've imagined yourself winning the lottery, it was about the material things you've longed for and that you might gain the sense of self, you might lose? Not so much. Maybe you've seen the perfect longtime slogan for the New York State Lottery. Hey, you never know. Which in a way, could also be the perfect slogan for what might happen to a person who wins the lottery. And because you never know, the deft writer Ling Ma wanted to find out. A good piece of fiction like the one we've just heard, or Naomi Kritzer's story earlier in the program lets us imagine a kind of wild, dramatic change while calculating the possible consequences of that change. Projecting ourselves onto a protagonist like this can be like a rehearsal. What we do, if and when it is ever showtime, is up to us. 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 Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Mi? A White. 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. Hey, if you've ever wanted to do Selected Shorts in your own home, I have a suggestion. I have a novel coming out for kids and since kids do like to be read too, maybe you could read aloud to them from this book. I co wrote it with my son Charlie Panick, and it's one of those scavenger hunt books with a lot of really cool clues in it. Great for ages 7 to 11. That's found sound. Read it aloud. Let your kid read it. Let your grandkid read it. Let adults read it. Whatever. For delicious meals, you could go out to eat or you could just make a Marie Callender's meal. Marie Callender's classic Chicken Parmigiano bowl is so good. It has marinara sauce that's made from scratch and creamy mozzarella cheese over. It's delicious with no artificial flavors, colors or preservatives and 30 grams of protein. You can find it in the frozen aisle. Marie what Having it all tastes like Walmart.
- [61:43]
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