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- [00:00]
Sponsor Voice
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- [02:21]
Kathryn Burns
From PRX this is the Moth Radio. Welcome to Audio Hour. I'm Kathryn Burns from the Moth and I'll be your host this time. The Moth is about true personal stories told in front of a live audience. We provide a platform for seasoned raconteurs who hold court everywhere they go, whether they're on stage or at a dinner party. But we also celebrate regular people who have never been on stage before, but who've had something remarkable happen to them that they've finally gotten up the courage to share. We have three stories this hour. A teenager in Nebraska finds himself undermined by French absurdist theater. A middle aged man tries to flirt his way through therapy and a voodoo priestess is called upon to help the Saints win the Super Bowl. Our first story is from Michael Ripps. He told the story back in 2005 at the beautiful Celeste Bartos Forum at the New York Public Library. Here's Michael Ripps live at the Moth.
- [03:23]
Michael Ripps
There was a mysterious figure who wandered around downtown Omaha when I was a kid by the name of Richard Flamer. If you could find Flamer amongst the broken up buildings and the bars of downtown Omaha, and if he happened to like you, he would dispense eccentric information. There were two things that I remember from when I was a child that he told me, and I apologize if you've heard either of these two things, just interrupt me. The first one was that during the late 19th century there were a group of Nebraskans who believed that when God or the devil entered earth, they did so through people's pubic hair. The second bit of information, seemingly unrelated to the first, was that of all people on the planet, Nebraskans had the most difficult time learning a second language. He went on to explain that this was particularly unfortunate given the fact that Willa Cather, the most famous of authors from Nebraska, happened to be much better in the French translation than she was in the English. Now, Flamer's observation about Nebraskans having problems learning foreign languages seemed to be borne out when at the beginning of my freshman year in high school, the state of Nebraska announced that in conjunction with the University of Nebraska, there would be a foreign language competition. The way it worked and the purpose was to encourage foreign languages. The way it worked was you could do an original composition, I don't know, a short story or an essay in a foreign language, or you could do a translation of an American author into French or Spanish or whatever. The payoff was that if you completed the translation, you would get a full, full course worth of credits at the end of the year. Well, I had forgotten about this competition until the middle of my senior year when my French instructor told me that unless there was a radical improvement in my performance in French class, I was going to fail it. That would be most unfortunate because if I failed the class, I would not graduate, and if I would not graduate, I would be unable to go east to the college that had accepted me. I would end up back in Nebraska. I was fifth generation Nebraskan and I was desperate to leave. Here is the problem. Here was the real problem. I couldn't improve in French because I knew no French. I had a girlfriend who had gotten me through three years of French, and we had broken up my senior year, and she was not inclined to help me. I needed a plan. It's then that suddenly the foreign language competition, along with flamer's observation about Cather being better in the French than the English, that came to mind. I knew exactly what I had to do. I put on a suit, a tie, and I went immediately down to the Omaha public library. I introduced myself to the head librarian, an august and obviously intelligent woman. I said to her, by any chance, do you have an obscure American writer who also happens to have been translated into French? She said, wait a minute, and went off into the stacks. When she came back, she had a very thin volume. A play. She said, this is exactly what you're looking for. Very few Americans know this playwright, and we happen to have a translation. Perfect. I thanked her. I took the French translation home and spent the rest of the evening retyping the French translation onto my typing paper. The next morning, I crumpled up the typing paper just a little bit to make it look as if I'd been working on this translation for months and handed it to my French instructor. That very afternoon, she stopped me in the hallway. Despite what she had thought of my performance in class, I had done a superb translation. I was going to graduate from high school. That evening I returned home to find my eldest brother. He was, according to my mother, the brightest, most gracious, most accomplished of all of her sons. For that reason, my brothers and I referred to him as the Baby Jesus. Well, over dinner, the baby Jesus was going on about his latest accomplishments when I don't know what got into me, I felt compelled to announce that, actually, I had just finished a rather fine translation of an obscure American playwright into French. The baby Jesus asked me what the name of the playwright might be. Proudly, I exclaimed, eugene Ionesco. The Baby Jesus had on his face a look that I associated with those late 19th century Nebraskans who actually saw the devil in their pubic hair. When he finally composed himself, my brother explained to me that Eugene Ionesco was neither obscure nor American, and in fact, he had written in French. Sweet mother of God. I had just handed in a translation of Ionesco back into the original French. There was no question of graduation. I was going to be expelled. My sweet, private midwestern parents would be subjected to a very public and painful scandal. But there was nothing I could do. I waited for the principals letter, and it arrived that very weekend. I tore it open and it began. Michael Ripps, congratulations. Your translation of Ionesco into French has been selected. This is a tragic story. Has been selected to represent Central High School at the statewide competition at the University of Nebraska. The letter went on to explain that the principal had decided that the presentation of the play at the competition should be done by a group of actors under the guidance of the high school drama coach. The competition was a month away. During that month, I drank a lot. I consumed pills that I should not have consumed. And I had thoughts, very bad thoughts. The day finally arrived. A bus pulled up to my house. In it were the principal, all the French and other foreign language teachers, and a group of amateur thespians, and, of course, the high school drama coach. I got on the bus halfway to Lincoln, Nebraska. The drama coach, sensing my anxiety but misidentifying its source, sat down next to me. He was a small man with a pocket square, and he said to me, michael, don't worry. Nebraskans will never forget this performance. About that I had no doubt. As we entered the room where we were to put on our performance, I realized that it was all over. There sat three. Three judges, each of whom was a professor at the University of Nebraska, each of whom, with notepads and pencils, was obviously taking their job as judge quite seriously. But as we started the performance with the local thespians yelling out, rhinoceros, rhinoceros. In French accents, not one of the judges stood to stop us. Not one of those judges stood to declare that I was a literary charlatan. I sought an explanation in their faces. Clearly, the judges on the two ends had no idea who Ionesco was. But that judge in the middle, he knew. He knew who Ionesco was. He knew that Ionesco wrote in French. What he didn't know was why we were pretending that this was a translation. Then I saw it. I saw on his face the momentary contemplation of the possibility, however remote, that he was watching something brilliant. A lampooning of the earnest efforts of American educators to teach middle Americans a foreign language. And at the same time, my God, a send up of the whole tradition of absurdist theater by a parody of its greatest work, the Rhinoceros. In his mind, for just a moment, we were geniuses. Three hours later, we sat in an auditorium much bigger than this one. Thousands of students, teachers, administrators and parents waiting for the announcement of the winner of the competition, the statewide foreign language competition. Standing before us was none other than the president of the University of Nebraska. He began his remarks by saying that the foreign language competition had been a tremendous, tremendous success. He Then said that though the original compositions, which had also been read or performed that day, were extremely sophisticated, it was really the translations that were the great surprise of the competition. My body began to freeze up. He went on to say that in fact, it was a translation that had won the competition. I was now fully paralyzed. And he had one more surprise for us. He announced that the University of Nebraska Press had agreed to publish the winning translation. There was no more thought about graduating from high school, no thought about the embarrassment to my family. This was a felony. Being 18, I would most certainly have gone to prison. I needed to flee. I whispered to the old woman who was sitting next to me, I whispered, I'm paralyzed. Pull me up. Dutifully, she stood and started yanking on my arm. As she did so, I formulated my plan. If she could just get me into the parking lot, I would steal the school bus and drive and drive to South Dakota. There I would hide out, perhaps with the assistance of the old woman, for two or three weeks, and then I would escape the country. As I made my way out of the auditorium, straddling the top of the incredibly mobile old woman, a head in the crowd turned toward me. It was the third judge, that middle judge. He winked. And then I knew it. I knew from the bottomless mercy of this man's soul, he had done everything he needed to do to make sure I did not win the competition. As a result of that man, I was able to leave Nebraska and stand here in this library tonight. Actually, as I say library, I think to myself that I've never told this story and that I perhaps should be embarrassed about the fraud that I committed many years ago at another library, the Omaha Public Library. And I think that I actually seriously should have some regrets about that. You know what? I don't have any regrets. As a matter of fact. Well, you know what? That's not actually true either. I have one regret, and it's this. That Eugene Ionesco, a man who said, and I quote, and this is a translation, life is abnormal, never had the chance to hear this story. He, above all of us, would have enjoyed it. Thank you very much.
- [20:53]
Kathryn Burns
That was Michael Ripps. You can read a longer version of this story and many others in his book, the Face of a Naked An Omaha Family Mystery. In a moment, we'll hear about how a voodoo dance troupe, a fifth of Gordon's dry gin, and a pet boa constrictor named Esprit helped the New Orleans Saints make a bid for the Super Bowl.
- [21:39]
Production Voice
The Moth Radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange.
- [21:47]
Sponsor Voice
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- [23:18]
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- [23:50]
Kathryn Burns
This is the Moth Radio Hour from prx. Hi, I'm Kathryn Burns. Our next story is from Ava K. Jones. Ava was a respected attorney in New Orleans before she found her spiritual calling and became a voodoo priestess. She traded in court dates for performances with the Voodoo Macumba Dance Ensemble, a group of drummers, dancers, fire eaters, and sword and snake dancers who demonstrate the traditions of West Africa, the Caribbean and New Orleans. Ava was recorded back in 2002 and the quality of the recording is a little rough, but we think it's worth it. Here she is live at a show we called Objects of Stories about talismans and Treasures.
- [24:34]
Ava K. Jones
You may think that the great American sport of football is all about speed and muscle about the most valuable players and the best coaches. But I'm here to tell you tonight that there is such a thing as the spirituality of football. It may very well be that the ability to win or lose a super bowl may be contained right here in this little red flannel charm bag. Y'all may call it a mojo bag, but we in the crescent city, in New Orleans call it a grigri bag. Now I began my meteoric rise to fame as a voodoo priestess in the world of NFL sports. On a cold December day in the year 2000, I was called upon by the New Orleans saints to perform a miracle in the superdome. The saints, often called ain'ts, had never won a playoff game in 34 years. And to make matters worse, they were playing the St. Louis Rams. So they decided that they would bring in the big guns, and that would be me, voodoo, and yoruba priestess Ava k. Jones. Now, the problem was compounded by the fact that the superdome was built upon an ancient cemetery. And, you know, it's really not cool to go plop a sports facility on top of somebody's ancestors. It's just not kosher. So many felt that that was the reason for the less than stellar record of the saints over the years. So somebody got the bright idea. We're calling Ava Kay. She'll fix it, you know, and I love my city. I love the saints, you know, and I'll try anything once. So I came to the superdome equipped with my dance troupe, Voodoomacumba of drummers and dancers, my pet boa constrictor, esprit, fruits and flowers for the ancestors, and a fifth of Gordon's dry gin for the spirits. Of course, now I and my dance troupe are marching towards the 45 yard line with all of the determination of Dr. Peter Veeckman and the other ghostbusters. You know, I have a job to do. I'm going to get the job done. So I'm on the 45 yard line, and it's a good omen because 4 and 5 equal what? 9. 9 is the number of my patron goddess, oya. And oya is the goddess of the winds, the hurricanes. She's the queen of the cemetery, the marketplace, the ancestors. And she is also the goddess of change. And God knows we needed a change. So right there on the 45 yard line, we begin the drumming and the dancing. I take out a speaker, you know, and I'm dancing this dance for damballa, the voodoo serpent God, in honor of Marie laveau. I'M pouring this gin right at the 45 yard line, you know? You know, and the. And the energy in the Superdome was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. I'm holding up the grigri bag, okay? God, I'm holding my grigri bag to 67,000 fans, and we're cheering the voodoo. Amen. Ashe, Ashe, Ashe. And just imagine, 67,000 fans are cheering back at me. Ashe, Ashe. Ashe. And I held the gris up, my snake, the voodoo doll, and I told the fans we got our mojo working. And they all said, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. And I was feeling pretty good at that point, you know, I said, lord, I know that the ancestors are appeased. You know, the fans are, you know, becoming loyal again to the saints. I've motivated them, and I know the ancestors under the dome are appeased. But being a good Catholic girl, okay, Mm. I was not gonna take any chances. And furthermore, when I entered the Superdome, I had run into Father John, who was the former pastor of St. Jude's now, for those of you who don't know, St. Jude is the saint of difficult and impossible cases. You know, it's like St. Jude and the Saints were made for each other. So I rush off to St. Jude's I stay in the church, you know, making my invocations and talking to St. Jude until they put me out the church. That didn't deter me. So I'm outside the church in the car before St. Jude's in the freezing cold, listening to the game on the radio, on my knees, screaming at anyone who would pass. Pray for the saints. Pray for the saints. You know, I'd give money to beggars, drunks, anybody who would pass because I didn't want to block my karma, okay? I mean, I really gave out more money that day. Just anybody. Some of these people I knew were lying, but I didn't want to take any chances. So I'm listening, and, you know, the Saints are winning. They are just winning and winning. And I'd run out of the car, get on my knees, pour a little gin, right, for the church, you know, to thank the ancestors. The saints are ancestors, too. You know, they're just ancestors in the church. So I give them some gin. But something happened. I think the Saints started to get a little too cocky, okay? And, you know, vanity is one of the seven deadly sins. So I got the. After I poured another swig of gin, you know, my gin bottle was getting kind of low. I saved some because I had other work to do. So we Drove over to Congo Square. And Congo Square is a very spiritual place for African Americans. It's the only place where my ancestors could lawfully gather in great numbers. And so the spirits of the African ancestors are strong and powerful there. So I went over to Congo Square in the dark, got on my knees, poured another swigga gin, and I proceeded to talk to the ancestors in Congo Square. So I'm carrying on this dialogue at my favorite tree where the ancestors, you know, congregate, telling them, look, this is me, Ava Kay. Y'all know me. I'm just asking you a favor. I'm just asking you to please go talk to the ancestors at the Dome and just tell them, you know, y'all got a dialogue going out there in the spirit world. So you go talk to them for me. So I'm on my knees in Congo Square, pouring gin, praying, and lo and behold, I hear it on the car radio for some unknown reason, but we know why this. I mean, this good player with the Rams fumbled the ball, and they heard it. He's fumbled. He's fumbled. The Saints have won the first playoff game in 34 years. You know, it's like, I couldn't believe it. So I poured another swig of gin, and I headed towards the Superdome. But on the way there, I stopped at the cemetery by the grave of the great Marie Laveau and poured out my. This was truly my last swig of gin. And I headed to the Superdome. And of course, people had recognized me from the earlier ritual, and they were shouting, whoop, whoop, whoop. Who let the dogs out? Who let the dogs out? And I'm screaming like an idiot, God, let the dogs out. St. Jude, let the dogs out. The ancestors let the dogs out. You know, shaking that rattle, blessing the crowds, you know, I mean, it was glorious. It was just magnificent. You know, it was a Saturday Night Live moment right there in the Dome. And I tell you, this was just the best. And this is how I became the voodoo priestess of the NFL. In fact, I ended up in Time magazine. I was on hbo, espn, cnn. And I tell you what the mother load for me was. I ended up in the New York Times, you know, and for somebody from New Orleans, it doesn't get any better than that. You know, the New York Times. All right? And so that's my story. But, you know, as the world turns, sometimes what's on top of the world has to come down. And, of course, the Saints did, but that's another Gris story. Thank you.
- [34:37]
Kathryn Burns
That was Ava K Jones, who let the dogs out. To see a picture of Ava holding her boa constrictor esprit, go to themoth.org while you're there, pitch us your own story. What does it mean when your therapist starts your session by opening a bottle of bourbon and pouring you a shot? We'll hear about that when we come back.
- [34:56]
Production Voice
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange. PRX.org.
- [35:09]
Kathryn Burns
This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Kathryn Burns from the Moth. Our last story is from Andy Christie. He's been a regular on the Moth main stage and at our Story Slam competitions for many years. Here's Andy Christie live at the Moth.
- [35:30]
Sponsor Voice
So my therapist, Phyllis, is in her chair across the other side of the coffee table, and she's got her shoes off in front of the Saul Steinberg lithograph. Her legs are tucked up underneath her in these kind of billowy white summery pants. And she's looking at me funny. And I'm on the couch looking back at her funny because in the middle of the coffee table, between the box of tissues and the sort of African primitive carving, is a bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon. She's my therapist. She knows what I drink. And next to that is a bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch. She's my therapist. I have no idea what she drinks, but I assume this is for her. And she's wearing a little more makeup than usual, enough so that I can notice. And three days ago, last time I saw her, her hair was brown and now it's red. She'd been messing with it for a while, first kind of light brown, combed back, and then dark brown with bangs. And every time she shows up with a new do, she asks me how the change in her makes me.
- [36:45]
Kathryn Burns
You.
- [36:45]
Sponsor Voice
Know, like maybe she's doing it for me. So I spend about $20 worth of therapy telling her how great she looks because, you know, just in case she is flirting, I want her to know that I know. And now she's in this red wig and there are these bottles and glasses with ice there. And she wants to have a drink with me right now in the middle of a session right here in her office, which is also her living room, which means there is a bedroom here someplace. You know, I am on the verge of a massive therapeutic breakthrough after three years, you know, sitting here listening to her say, and how do you feel about that? And how do you feel about that? While I'm Trying for one, you know, guilt free second to forget my girlfriend back home and imagining Phyllis getting up and tiptoeing across the room to squeeze in next to me and ask me, how do you feel about this now with the whiskey bottles? I feel like it's my move. Only I'm not much of a mover. I'm more the shaker type. That's why I'm here. And I have a girlfriend. Also why I'm here. At the time, I was a 53 year old man who after 16 years was still calling his girlfriend his girlfriend. One day my girlfriend and I were home when we were only living together for about 13 years. And we're watching TV and we're talking about, you know, our future, when she stops and laughs and says, oh, forget it, you know, you'll get married when hell freezes over. And I stop for a second and think and I say, I never agreed to that. And she laughs again because, you know, it's a funny line and she has a great sense of humor. But after that, the conversation kind of fades away and stops because it's time to talk. Which for me means it's time to talk to a mental health professional. Which is when I find Phyllis. Phyllis is probably about 50 like I am, because she remembers and forgets a lot of the same things that I do. But she looks a lot younger. She's tiny and kind of pretty, so she's cute enough to inspire my fantasies and old enough so I don't have to feel like a midlife crisis cliche. It's the best of both worlds, really. But the attraction isn't really a physical thing. I just think we make kind of a nice couple. Unlike every other therapist whose spirit I'd broken, Phyllis always looks happy to see me. And also unlike them, she has human reactions. She's appalled when I say something appalling. Like the time I was in a men's room and a moth flew out of my pants, right out through the fly like it was an empty old purse. And when I say something funny, like the time the moth flew out of my pants, she laughs, just like my girlfriend. And because we haven't been living together for 16 years, she always at least pretends to be listening. And you can't expect that from anyone. So I'm kind of in love with her. But that's okay, because you're supposed to fall in love with your therapist. And I swore to myself and to my girlfriend that I was going to do this right this time. So she started changing her Hair. That was the first thing I noticed. And shortly after the hair thing, I noticed that she kind of started losing the little midriff belly bulge that she had that you could only see when she wore certain pants. It was like she was working out maybe. Then a little while after that, I stopped bumping into her other patients kind of as they were walking in and out of the office. I wasn't avoiding eye contact with Mr. Handsome with a Chiclet sized cell phone anymore. And that was okay with me. I didn't think he belonged in therapy. Anyway. After a while it was just Phyllis and the Saul Steinberg lithograph and the Ben John lithograph and the African carvings and the shark's teeth and the rainforest white noise machine and me. And her place was like my place, like our place. And now she wants to pour cocktails like we're a couple and we just got home from work and have to unwind before dinner. And she asks me, you know, do I want a drink? And I'll say, sure, you know, if you're having one. And she says, I know the whole drink thing is totally unprofessional, but I've been struggling with a way to bring this up and I know it's coming. I know it's going to be big. And suddenly I am terrified. It's like when I took a few flying lessons and I was really into the whole idea of it, you know, the big green headphones and the logbook and the flight bag and the, you know, shrink wrapped set of instructional manuals. But I always kind of hoped the lesson would be canceled because of bad weather. You know, give me a license, but keep that plane away from me. So now I am kind of nervous about how she's going to crash, crack open this whole thing that's going on between us. So I sit back and let her start and she pours the drinks. She looks at me for a while and she says, I've been sick. I am in the middle of a course of chemotherapy right now. You must have noticed me losing weight. And I can't say anything. I am kind of frozen. I'm shocked and I'm scared and I'm whatever a bigger word for sad is. And I'm ashamed about what I was expecting to happen. And I can't help it, but I'm disappointed. And that makes me ashamed again. And she says she's not saying we have to stop our work right now. She doesn't want to. Maybe it's selfish, but some work is good for her. Because it helps her forget and sort of stay centered. But even though the treatment's pretty successful now, things could change any time without much warning, and I'm the one who has to decide what to do to stay or go. And I look at her, trying to figure out what to say, still tongue tied, and she says, it's up to me. She hands me a list of other therapists in case I decide that she can't help me anymore, and I say, when have you ever helped me before? And she laughs, and it's great, because she gets one of those human looks again, and I can't believe how much I would miss her if I left. And she looks happy about that when I say, I'm not going anywhere. And she looks at me again for a second and says, you're the only client I'm seeing right now. And my heart explodes. And she says, well, you and one other person, on and off, and I ask if it's the handsome guy with a cell phone, and she says, that's none of my business, but no. And then she looks at the clock and she says, well, I have to stop now, like as any other session, but I'm not ready to stop, and I'm just beginning to think of things to say. So I ask her, you know, if she has anybody to talk to, and she looks at me funny and says, you mean like a therapist? And I feel like it's the stupidest question in the world. And she says, I'm fine. I have plenty of friends and family. And I get this kind of quick flash of her real life when she gets up to show me to the door. For the first time, I see how really thin she's gotten. Her pants are just hanging from these thin hips in these loose folds so that her legs barely touch the material when she walks. When I get to the door, I hug her. I've never done that before, but she doesn't act surprised and she doesn't let go before I do. And it feels the way I would imagine it would feel hugging a duckling. These kind of small, fragile bones under a soft coat. But her hair doesn't feel soft. It feels coarse and artificial, because it is. It's a wig they all wore. Then she kisses me on the cheek and she says, I'm sorry this has all been so weird, and I tell her, you know, I'd sit through anything for a kiss. And I wonder if she kissed the other guy. So we go on every Monday and Thursday. Every once in a while, her hair changes, but I Stop telling her how nice it looks, because I don't want her to even notice that I'm looking at her at all. Because she'll think I'm looking for changes, because I am. And after a while, I stop asking her how she feels. Because I just want her to feel like nothing has changed. So she sits there, kind of being dissolved from the inside by chemicals. And I talk about how my girlfriend left the dishes for me to do again. Sometimes we quit early because she's tired. Then she calls, leaves a message to cancel an appointment. And I call back, but I get her voicemail. And I keep calling back for a couple of days until I get a phone call from this man with a European accent. And he says his name is Morton. He's Phyllis's husband. I find out she is married, and without any kind of preamble, he says, she died the night before. And I knew it was coming, but it feels exactly like it felt when I was five and dad said that he was leaving. You know, where will you be? Where will I be? And I tell him how unbelievably sorry I am for his loss. And I tell him how much I'll miss her. And he just grunts. And I can tell that he is sick of hearing how much strangers are going to miss his wife. But I don't feel like a stranger. I knew her. She knew me every Monday and Thursday. And I'm sorry now that I stopped asking how she felt. I wonder if she thought I just didn't care. Or maybe, you know, she enjoyed the kind of escape from reality twice a week the way I did. And I'm sorry I stopped telling her she looked nice. Morton tells me that she left a list of people that she wanted notified about the service, and I'm on it. And that's why he called. The next day, my girlfriend is ready to go to Riverside Memorial with me. But I tell her, go to work instead. I'm fine, because I just want to go alone and be alone with Phyllis one last time. I think when I get there, for about 45 minutes, like the length of a therapy session, people get up one after the other and talk about her. And I finally find out little bits about her life now that she's gone. She married Morton three years ago, when she was 52, right around the time I started seeing her. He was the love of her life. It was her first marriage. Almost every Friday, they went to the theater together. Everybody who goes up there and talks about him calls him Morty, not Morton, because they're all friends and family but me. He's sitting in the first row, sobbing through the whole thing, devastated. And there's an empty seat next to him. And I think that if this were a theater and last week even, that's where she'd be sitting. Then this guy walks up to the front with a guitar. And he's about 35, mid-30s, nervous looking. And he says he's grateful for the opportunity to be here, for the invitation that he's not a friend or family. He just knew Phyllis as one of her patients. And he just saw her a few days ago. And it's the guy, it's the other patient. And I wonder which one of us saw her last. And he says he's going to play a song that he wrote himself. And I'm jealous. I play guitar, I write songs. And he kind of apologizes and says he's not very good. And he starts and he's not very good, and I'm less jealous and I'm kind of embarrassed for him. And a couple of lines into it, I realize, along with everyone else, this song isn't even about Phyllis. It's about this guy's wife, who apparently is sitting in the back of the room because he's kind of singing over everyone's head. My song would have been about physical Phyllis. But he keeps playing and singing as people are like, kind of like shuffling and whispering all around me. What's going on? What's up with this guy? He keeps going, and the guitar is a little bit out of tune, but it's kind of okay because it sounds like a church organ, the way a church organ is out of tune. And he keeps going, and gradually the whispering kind of subsides. Everyone gets quiet. And by the time the guy is done, everyone is either crying or smiling to themselves. And I'm jealous again. And he says he had to come to say thank you to Phyllis, that she was the reason he and his wife were here together. I told my girlfriend to go to work because I didn't want my real life and my imaginary life mixing up in the same room. I mean, this kind of nervous, earnest guy saw her to work out his life, whatever problems he had. You know, I saw her to escape from my life, to kind of skip out on it. I saw her for almost three years to work on a fantasy with someone that I loved because she was so real. I squandered her. The list of therapists that Phyllis gave me on the day she told me she was sick. I had six names on it. They were all men. And I thought back then, with my last shred of fantasy, you know, maybe she just can't imagine me seeing another woman. But now I know that she knew, especially with her life getting realer and shorter enough make believe. And I want to tell her that I can kind of see that and we can work on that now. But I can't because it's too late. Because our time is up and we have to stop now. Thanks.
- [52:44]
Kathryn Burns
That was Andy Christie. Andy is creative director of the New York City animation studio Slim Films. I wrote to Andy and asked him if he had ever called any of those therapists from Phyllis List. He said, I was in group therapy with a new therapist after Phyllis, but they dissolved the group after about a year. I found out later that they reformed with all the same people, minus me. And how did that make me feel? It made me feel like I was done with therapy. Andy's story appears in our first book, a collection of 50 stories from our main stage. To share any of the stories you've heard in this hour, go to themoth.org where you can send a link to your friends and family so they can stream any Moth story for free. You can also find the Moth on twitter @the moth that's it for the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
- [53:44]
Production Voice
Your host this hour was the Moth's artistic director, Kathryn Burns. Kathryn also directed the stories in the hour along with Leah Tao. The rest of the Moth directorial staff and clothes includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jeunesse, Jennifer Hickson and Meg Bowles. Production support from Jenna Weiss Berman and Brandon Echter. Moth Stories are True is remembered and affirmed by the Storytellers. Moth events are recorded by Argos Studios in New York City, supervised by Paul Ru West. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Tony Mirena, Baja man and Bill Frizzell. The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, with help from Vicki Merrick. This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the John D. And Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation. Committed to building a more just, verdant and peaceful world, the Moth Radio Hour is presented by the public radio exchange prx.org for more about our podcast podcast. For information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website themoth.org.