245: Allure of the Mean Friend

Summary

This American Life
Episode 245: Allure of the Mean Friend
Release Date: July 27, 2025

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Overview
In this compelling episode of This American Life, host Ira Glass delves into the intriguing phenomenon of the "mean friend." Through a series of engaging stories and insightful interviews, the show explores why mean individuals often hold a magnetic appeal in various social settings, from childhood classrooms to the workplace and beyond. The episode is thoughtfully divided into four acts, each unraveling different facets of this complex dynamic.

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Act One: Return to the Scene of the Crime

Timestamp: [00:29] – [24:58]

The episode opens with a nostalgic look back at high school dynamics, focusing on Jackie Cohen, the quintessential "mean popular girl" from junior high. Jonathan Goldstein revisits the terror Jackie instilled in her classmates and reflects on her transformation into a compassionate adult.

Key Stories & Insights:

• Jackie Cohen's Reign:
  Lily Allison recounts her experiences with Jackie, describing her as "the popularist" who was both mean and widely admired. "[She] act like she the boss of people. She real boss," Lily shares at [00:59].

• Jonathan Goldstein’s Friendship with Jackie:
  Goldstein reveals that he and Jackie became roommates a year after high school, highlighting the unexpected depth of their evolved relationship. Bernard Cooper narrates their interactions, illustrating how Jackie, now a doctor working with the homeless, still bears remnants of her high school persona. At [16:33], Cooper muses, "Maybe he’d close the deal that very day, before his mood changed..."

• Maureen Cohen's Influence:
  The narrative extends to Jackie’s sister, Maureen Cohen, who exemplifies an even more formidable version of the "mean friend." Maureen admits to her past meanness without remorse, explaining, "[She] made no bones about it, and to her there was nothing to regret" at [19:16].

Notable Quotes:

• Lily Allison:
  "[Jackie] acts like she the boss of people. She thinks she got the rhythm and the gear." ([00:59])

• Bernard Cooper:
  "You come here and you tape me for your stupid friend's radio show, and then you get the hell out." ([61:11])

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Act Two: Does Niceness Pay?

Timestamp: [24:58] – [35:39]

This act investigates whether being nice truly benefits individuals in professional settings. An experiment conducted at Lula Cafe in Chicago serves as the focal point, examining the impact of niceness versus aloofness on tipping behavior.

Key Stories & Insights:

• Amy Rugali’s Struggle:
  Amy, a seasoned waitress, grapples with declining tips despite her consistent performance. Initially tipping at less than 15%, her frustration peaks when she feels her niceness isn't being reciprocated.

• The Experiment:
  Conducted in 2003, the experiment involved wiring two waitresses, Troy and Callie, with hidden microphones. Troy was instructed to alternate between being exceptionally nice and aloof with her tables, observing the tipping patterns. Surprisingly, Table 2, which received aloof service, tipped 17.6%, while the overly nice Table 5, despite being demanding, only tipped 15%. ([30:36])

• Callie Roach’s Approach:
  On a subsequent night, Callie implemented a controlled niceness strategy, limiting smiles and positive interactions to only two instances per table. This method led to consistent tipping rates of 20% or higher, regardless of the level of interaction. ([33:57])

• Conclusion:
  The findings suggest that while niceness might feel rewarding, it doesn't necessarily translate to better financial outcomes. Instead, a balanced or controlled approach may be more effective in professional environments. Troy and Amy adapted by maintaining efficiency and pleasantness without overextending their friendliness. ([34:46])

Notable Quotes:

• Amy Rugali:
  "I'm trying so hard to do everything perfect, and all of these people are tipping me below." ([26:13])

• Lily Allison:
  "I can't wait to see what Table 5 tipped." ([30:43])

• Callie Roach:
  "Friendliness not only will not pay, friendliness can cost you." ([34:28])

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Act Three: What's Going On With You?

Timestamp: [35:39] – [62:05]

This dramatic reenactment, penned by Mike Albo and Virginia Heffernan, portrays a conversation between two friends where one exhibits mean-spirited behavior masked by superficial charm. The scene underscores the complex emotions and repercussions involved in maintaining such relationships.

Key Stories & Insights:

• Undermining Behavior:
  The dialogue reveals subtle yet impactful instances of meanness, such as belittling remarks and passive-aggressive comments, highlighting how these actions can erode trust and friendship over time.

• Emotional Toll:
  The interaction leaves both parties feeling hurt and misunderstood, emphasizing the long-term psychological effects of sustained negative behaviors within friendships.

Notable Quotes:

• Character I:
  "You're so crazy. Did you throw up?" ([38:20])

• Bernard Cooper:
  "What am I gonna say to the guy?" ([12:03])

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Act Four: Keeping It in the Family

Timestamp: [62:05] – [60:20]

Bernard Cooper shares a poignant personal story about his father sending him a bill for his childhood, a metaphorical gesture that strains their relationship and underscores the lasting impact of familial meanness.

Key Stories & Insights:

• The Bill from His Father:
  At age 28, Bernard receives a $2 million bill from his father, itemizing expenses related to his upbringing. This unexpected demand forces Bernard to confront his father's controlling and emotionally abusive behavior.

• Father-Son Dynamics:
  The story explores themes of entitlement, resentment, and the pursuit of autonomy. Bernard's struggle to reconcile his appreciation for his father's efforts with the burden of his demands highlights the complexities of family relationships.

• Long-Term Effects:
  Two decades later, Bernard reflects on the enduring effects of this experience, questioning the foundation of his relationship with his father and the broader implications of treating personal relationships as transactional.

Notable Quotes:

• Bernard Cooper:
  "No parent in his right mind asks his child to reimburse him for that child's life." ([41:56])

• Father (in story):
  "Mr. Cooper, I'm going to let you drive out of here for a mere $200 over the factory price." ([60:20])

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Conclusion

This American Life masterfully weaves together narratives that examine the allure and repercussions of meanness in friendships and familial relationships. Through personal anecdotes, scientific experiments, and dramatic reenactments, the episode offers a multifaceted exploration of why certain individuals wield their negative behaviors to captivate and control those around them. The stories serve as a reflection on the delicate balance between assertiveness and kindness, urging listeners to reflect on their own relationships and the underlying dynamics that shape them.

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Notable Contributors:

• Ira Glass: Host and narrator
• Jonathan Goldstein: Storyteller
• Bernard Cooper: Author and narrator
• Lily Allison, Mary Claude, Jackie Cohen, Troy Morris, Amy Rugali, Callie Roach: Interviewees and participants
• Josh Hamilton: Reader
• Mike Albo and Virginia Heffernan: Storywriters

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Further Listening:

For more stories exploring the complexities of human relationships and social dynamics, tune into other episodes of This American Life, available wherever you get your podcasts.

Transcript

[Sponsor Announcer]

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[Ira Glass]

In a way, the story is always the same. There was this kid. She was mean. She was popular. It's such a fixture of childhood. You can just walk up to a kid on the sidewalk or at a public pool and they'll tell you.

[Lily Allison]

The popularist is this girl. She's in my grade. She's really mean and she has a lot of friends. I wanted to play with her and.

[Jonathan Goldstein]

Then she had no friends.

[Lily Allison]

So she said, yeah, the other day.

[Mary Claude]

I wanted to play with her again.

[Lily Allison]

And her friends were there and she said, get lost.

[Mary Claude]

Sometimes she be being mean to my sister, and I don't like that. She always telling somebody what they can and can't do. She act like she the boss of people. She real boss. She thinks she got the rhythm and the gear.

[Lily Allison]

I'm mostly the popular one in my.

[Jackie Cohen]

Class, but I have a lot of other popular friends.

[Lily Allison]

This boy in my class, he liked me. And every time he would come by.

[Jackie Cohen]

Me, I would tell him to get.

[Lily Allison]

Out of my way.

[Jackie Cohen]

Everybody says that he's like the nerdiest.

[Lily Allison]

Boy in our class.

[Jackie Cohen]

He'll start bothering me and me and my friends.

[Lily Allison]

I'll tell him to leave us alone. My friends even tell him, don't even look at her.

[Ira Glass]

I talked to a high school sophomore about all this, Lily Allison, 15, in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And she said, in high school, anyway, it's kind of like the laws of nature. Someone always will end up on top.

[Jackie Cohen]

Because there's always going to be the girls who are the most popular and then that the guys look at the most and that get the friends because they're so pretty. There's always going to be those girls. And I think once people get the idea that they have that power, they're gonna use it. And they know that they can be mean to people and still be loved by everyone. You have nothing to lose, so why don't you go ahead and be mean to everybody? That's not as good as you.

[Ira Glass]

In Lily's class, the girls like that, the popular ones, have been her best friends.

[Jackie Cohen]

When I became friends with them, it was in seventh grade, and there was none of that. It was before, like, it was before. The superlatives. And before there wasn't most attractive.

[Ira Glass]

Right.

[Jackie Cohen]

Like, I'll admit I was one of those girls until the first time they kicked me out of their little group. And then I saw how it really is. That's what we were. We were the four blondes.

[Ira Glass]

And what was it like to be one of those girls?

[Jackie Cohen]

It was fun, you know? I mean, the attention is kind of fun. Look at them looking at us.

[Mary Claude]

It's fun.

[Jackie Cohen]

It makes you feel powerful. I mean, like, part of being one of the four blondes is that everybody does the same thing. Shaves their legs every day, has a perfect matching outfit. You know what I mean?

[Ira Glass]

Yeah.

[Jackie Cohen]

Makeup always has to be perfect. Not too much, not too little. Suck up to the teachers. Like, I remember I went, like, two weeks without wearing a skirt, and one of them called me and was like, you have to wear a skirt tomorrow. You've worn pants too many days in a row. And if you don't fit that, then you get a. You get kicked out for a little while.

[Ira Glass]

Lily got kicked out at the beginning of the summer. She made a mistake. She didn't do what the other girls wanted at some party, so they called her up to kick her out.

[Jackie Cohen]

One of them is like, she's the mean one. It's kind of like the Spice Girls. We all have our own little. Our own little, like, identity. You know what I mean?

[Ira Glass]

Yeah.

[Jackie Cohen]

There's like, the tough one, the cute one, the smart one. You know what I mean?

[Ira Glass]

And the mean one.

[Jackie Cohen]

Yeah. And so when we all got in this fight, they called me up and they put the mean one on the phone. They'd tell her what to say. She'd say it to me, then put me on hold. Figure out what. What else they wanted her to say, then say it.

[Ira Glass]

Wait, they put you on hold? So you just sit there on hold waiting for them to come up with the next mean thing.

[Jackie Cohen]

That's right. And they didn't even realize how mean it was.

[Ira Glass]

Of course, it doesn't always end in high school. And this isn't just about teenage girls. There are popular bullies in business and in politics and very successful ones in politics. Our movies and TV shows are full of them today. On our show, the allure of the mean friend. And what is so alluring about them in the first place? Explained from WBEZ Chicago. It's this American life. Am I right, Glass? Our show today in four acts. Act one, return to the scene of the crime. In that act, Jonathan Goldstein interrogates the girls, now grown up, terrorized him and his classmates years ago in school and finds that they can be just as scary as ever. Act two does niceness pay in that act, we conduct a little scientific experiment on tape with hidden microphones about whether niceness can triumph and be rewarded in a normal business setting, a setting that will surely be familiar to you. Act three and what's going on with you? A case study in every word out of a friend's mouth, meaning its exact opposite. Act 4 Keeping it in the family in that act Bernard Cooper's amazing story about the bill that he got from his own father for, well, the entire cost of his childhood. Stay with us. Support for this American Life comes from Squarespace, the all in one website platform with features like Design Intelligence. Combining two decades of design expertise with AI technology, Design Intelligence empowers anyone to build a beautiful, more personalized website tailored to their unique needs and craft a bespoke digital identity to use across their entire online presence. Head to squarespace.comameran for 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain.

[Sponsor Announcer]

Support for this American Life comes from Indeed. Indeed's Sponsored Jobs helps you stand out. According to Indeed data, Sponsored Jobs posted directly on indeed have 45% more applications than non sponsored Jobs. Speed up your hiring right now with Indeed and get a $75 sponsored job credit to get your jobs more visibility@ Indeed.com American terms and conditions apply. Hiring Indeed is all you need.

[Ira Glass]

This summer on Planet Money Summer School, we're learning about political economy. We're getting into the nitty gritty of what government does with things like trade, taxes, immigration, and health care.

[Jonathan Goldstein]

So politics and economics, which are taught.

[Ira Glass]

Separately, they shouldn't be separated at all. I think you have to understand one to really appreciate the other. So what is the right amount of government in our lives? Tune into Planet Money Summer School from NPR wherever you get your podcasts. This is American Life. Today's program is a rerun. Act one Return to the Scene of the Crime it wasn't hard for Jonathan Goldstein to find the girl who terrorized him in high school. Up until a year ago, they were roommates.

[Bernard Cooper]

Sometimes when I'm talking with my friend Jackie Cohen, I will suddenly stop and just look at her. I look at her as though I have only just then realized who it is. I am sitting there talking with Jackie Cohen, I will say, shaking my head in disbelief, Jackie Cohen. For you see, Jackie Cohen was the meanest, most popular girl in our junior high. A shepherd among sheep. Nowadays, Jackie Cohen and I are friends. Good friends, in fact, for two years we were roommates, during which time she was a very nurturing figure in my life, cooking for me, taking care of the bills, and doing most, if not all of the cleaning. My domestic role was confined to stuff like drinking Jim Beam and keeping her up past her bedtime with my impression of Robert De Niro and Edith Bunker doing the lobster scene from Annie Hall. Alvy, a lobster crawled into my poise. Just the same. Sometimes, when I feel like it, I can see her through the eyes of my grade seven self. And when I do that and say the words Jackie Cohen, it is as though it is no longer just the name of the woman before me, but a name for something famous like a soft drink or a rock band. If I could go back in time and tell the young Jonathan Goldstein that one day he would be friends with the most popular girl at Western Laval Junior High, that young Jonathan Goldstein, taking in the utter absurdity of such a proposition, would laugh convulsively until his nose produced mucus and his eyeglasses needed adjusting. Let me explain to you the power that was Jackie Cohen's so great was her authority that in grade seven my best friend Robert Siolik wore a three piece suit to school with the intention of asking her out for Souvlacki. I'll never forget the exhilarated look on his face as he ran back to our locker bank to tell me that while Jackie Cohen had turned him down, she did say that they could be hi bye friends. This meant that when they saw each other in the halls they could nod to each other hi and bye. Robert loosened his necktie like a middle aged ad exec who had just closed an important account. Another thing was that Jackie Cohen didn't like bad smells. She liked nice smells like perfumed fancy erasers or freshly mimeographed sheets of paper. So if someone's smell was not to her taste, she would leave a note on their desk. The note would read use smell. Use deodorant. Jackie Cohen would call it being honest. Jackie Cohen was also the only 13 year old girl in school who could actually pull off a successful withering look. There was a month where I sat behind her and one time during a French dictation, I was seized with an uncontrollable attack of coughing. It would later be diagnosed as a whooping cough that would leave me in bed for a week with a fever of 103. But at that moment it was nothing more, nothing less, than a nuisance to Jackie. She let me know this by whipping her head around her straight Brown hair lashing about like a thousand throwing stars and witheringly looking me straight in the eye. Jackie turned back around and I grit my teeth, vowing not to allow a single cough to escape my mouth. My eyes tearing, I clenched my fists and I trembled. I knew, objectively speaking, that Jackie Cohen's dictation was more important than my own health. I knew that the teacher, finally seeing my condition, sent me out to get some water at the fountain. Just as I was about to drink, my knees buckled and I began to throw up. I wasn't the kind of kid who vomited much, and the experience felt very personal, sort of like crying in your underwear. The special ed teacher in the room next to the bathroom came out and walked me back to my class. Jackie, who sat beside the door as was the want and responsibility of the most popular, let me in. Seeing me, she gave me this look. Not the withering look I had grown accustomed to, but another look. A look that until then, I had only seen on the face of adults. It was a look of profound pity. I saw in that look a sorrow for everything she had ever put me through. And for years, I held that look close to my heart.

[Mary Claude]

Jackie had really good hair.

[Bernard Cooper]

This is Mary Claude. She was Jackie's best friend all through school, and they're still best friends now.

[Mary Claude]

Very good hair, nicely layered, kind of feathered. And. And she had a special technique. Well, first of all, she always walked around with a comb in her back pocket that stuck out for all to see. And we'd go to the bathroom. A big part of the day, of course, was going to the bathroom. And she had a special technique. She'd bend her head over. She'd count 1, 2, 3, and then take her two index fingers and say, flip and flip her hair back. And then it would fall. Like, the feathers would all fall beautifully in place.

[Bernard Cooper]

What was Jackie Cohen's allure? Did people like her despite the fact that she was mean, or did they like her because she was so mean?

[Mary Claude]

I think it was a bit of both, because when you were with her, you felt really alive. And she was so fun and she was so full of life. So it was great being with her. But then before you knew it, you were on the outs. She was looking for a certain quality, and if you didn't have it, you got kicked out, you know? So it was also maybe like the. The fun excitement of never knowing when your turn was gonna come to be on the outs, you know, and you were always trying to do your best to stay on the inside. So it's pretty exciting.

[Bernard Cooper]

Did she ever. Did, I mean, did my name ever come up in junior high? Did she ever mention my name?

[Mary Claude]

Oh, yeah. I remember a time you were new to school, you were the new kid and I wanted to go over to talk to you and Jackie said, no, don't go talk to him, Mary. Don't. Don't talk to him. He looks dirty.

[Bernard Cooper]

She thought I looked dirty?

[Mary Claude]

Yeah, she did.

[Bernard Cooper]

That was how my name came up.

[Mary Claude]

Yeah, that. You looked dirty. You were the dirty looking new kid.

[Bernard Cooper]

Okay, first of all, the new kid, the party Mary Claude is referring to was in grade six. I had been going to that school since grade three. I was in the same school as them, evidently, completely unnoticed for three years. And second of all, dirty. Although my boyhood toilette was second to none, and although I was facially hairless, for some strange reason I gave off the distinct impression of having a five o' clock shadow all over my body. So I decided to confront these slanderous accusations at their source. Ladies and gentlemen, Jackie Cohen. Jackie Cohen.

[Mary Claude]

John, please don't tell me the whole interview is gonna be like this.

[Bernard Cooper]

I asked Jackie Cohen if she remembered calling me dirty and new to Mary Claude, and she said she did. I then asked her to repeat the very line to me right to my face.

[Mary Claude]

You know what I said? Come on, why don't you say it?

[Bernard Cooper]

All right, I will. All right, fine. You said don't talk to him because he's dirty.

[Mary Claude]

Yeah.

[Bernard Cooper]

Well, maybe I was dirty.

[Mary Claude]

You were and you still are.

[Bernard Cooper]

Jackie Cohen and I spent a very combative hour talking, during which time she would not admit to any actual meanness. The furthest she would go in making any kind of concession was in acknowledging that back then she, quote, took care of business. A whole lot of business. Listen, no one's on trial, okay? We're here just two friends chatting. No, Jackie Cohen did not think she was mean in school. Take the whole story of Robert Siolik asking her out in junior high. You know, Mr. High. Bye. And she stood firmly behind her actions.

[Mary Claude]

Jonathan, he was wearing a three piece suit and his voice was like several octaves too high. What am I gonna say to the guy? Yes, and. And not only did I tell him no, but I left him with his dignity. I actually had him thinking that we had a good thing going. We were gonna be high by friends.

[Bernard Cooper]

So what you're saying is that you're defending it. You're saying it was actually. It's a nice thing that you did.

[Mary Claude]

It was very nice. Wasn't he very happy when he came into the room.

[Bernard Cooper]

He was happy, but, I mean, he didn't know any better.

[Mary Claude]

Exactly. You want me to go on a date with that guy?

[Bernard Cooper]

Feel the way that laugh shivers you down to your toes. The way it taunts as it entices. That is the effect of a popular mean girl's laughter. The truth is that Jackie Cohen is no longer a popular mean girl at all. She's actually a doctor who works with the homeless. She's a really good person, but I still can't help relating to her as though the old Jackie Cohen is still somewhere buried inside of her. Let me ask you this.

[Mary Claude]

Mm.

[Bernard Cooper]

What happens to the mean girl? Is the mean always there?

[Mary Claude]

John, these questions are boring, man.

[Bernard Cooper]

No, you don't like that one? That's okay. Okay, let's. Let's say. Okay, okay, let's do a little bit of role playing, shall we? Okay. Now, you're gonna be the. You're gonna be the grade eight Jackie Cohen, and I'm gonna be the grade eight Jonathan Goldstein. Okay? And I'm in the. You know, I'm in the Western Laval Junior High Radio Club, and I'm sitting down to interview you. All right? Okay. Here we go. Jackie?

[Mary Claude]

Yeah?

[Bernard Cooper]

Can I. Can I have. Can I have a bit of your time to interview you?

[Mary Claude]

No.

[Bernard Cooper]

Why?

[Mary Claude]

I'm busy.

[Bernard Cooper]

But you're just.

[Mary Claude]

Thank you.

[Bernard Cooper]

But you're just leaning against the lock or you're not.

[Mary Claude]

But thank you. Jonathan, I'm really not interested.

[Bernard Cooper]

No, you see, you wouldn't even be that polite.

[Mary Claude]

You're right. Honestly, I would have laughed and walked away.

[Bernard Cooper]

You see, this was the Jackie Cohen that I never got to talk to anymore. She's never like this. I mean, sure, she's always eager to let me know when someone in the room smells better than me. And she's quick to point out that my pasty white gut jiggles when I play air guitar. But it always feels like a mere taste of the greatness that once was. So we continue to parry and thrust our way along.

[Mary Claude]

Is this over yet?

[Bernard Cooper]

And eventually, the. The subject came around to Jackie's older sister, Maureen. Now, let me just explain to you. Maureen, as mean and popular as Jackie Cohen was, Maureen Cohen was more mean and more popular.

[Mary Claude]

My sister definitely taught me some of the tricks of the trade by being very, very, very cruel with me. Very bossy, very demanding. She would say that really she was doing me a big favor, because without her, I would never have made it in this world that I was just such a boring, nice Little kid and, you know, she added a lot of.

[Bernard Cooper]

Spice to my life in the pursuit of my mean, popular girl scholarship. I knew I now had to talk with Maureen. I was not in the same city as her, so I asked my friend Joshua Carpati if he would be good enough to go to her house and hold a mic to her while we talked on the phone. Josh has been scared of Maureen for years. And here he was sitting with her in her living room while her seven year old played on the floor at their feet as Maureen provided a rare behind the scenes glimpse of her thoughts and actions. Josh sat just a few inches from her, a microphone gripped in his sweaty, nervous hand. And as I talked with her, Maureen acknowledged that she had been mean in high school. She made no bones about it, and to her there was nothing to regret. It was high school and that's just how people acted.

[Mary Claude]

So why you had this image of me of being really mean all the.

[Bernard Cooper]

Time, but in an alluring way, you know what I mean? Like, people crave it somehow. Like, obviously it works.

[Mary Claude]

Well, some people like to be abused and you just sort of like tap into it, you know?

[Bernard Cooper]

Right. And then you and you satisfy that craving that they're not even entirely aware of.

[Mary Claude]

That's right.

[Bernard Cooper]

Well, how do you detect that?

[Mary Claude]

I don't know. You talk to someone and you just. You feel whether or not, you know, you can play with them or not. Like, I think Josh loves the fact that I pay that kind of attention to him.

[Bernard Cooper]

Josh, the young man who's holding the microphone for you right now.

[Mary Claude]

Yeah. Who's so scared he won't even look at me.

[Bernard Cooper]

At this point, I started to get worried for Joshua. He had been reluctant even to go to Maureen's house. So I knew that at that point, as Maureen spoke his name, he was a shaky, disoriented mess. Can you ask Josh if he's nervous with you right now?

[Mary Claude]

Josh, are you nervous around me right now? He doesn't want to answer because I'm here.

[Bernard Cooper]

Can you just put him on the phone for one second so I can ask him?

[Mary Claude]

Yeah, here, hold on. He wants to ask you a question.

[Bernard Cooper]

Hello? Can you. Are you afraid to talk in front of her?

[Jonathan Goldstein]

You know you're afraid.

[Bernard Cooper]

Just say yes if you're afraid.

[Ira Glass]

Yes.

[Bernard Cooper]

Okay. Has she got you on your guard?

[Ira Glass]

Yeah, sure. Yeah.

[Bernard Cooper]

When I was finished speaking with Maureen, I called Josh up on his cell phone and he talked with me from his car.

[Josh Hamilton]

It's so hot in this car. I'm telling you, man, you know, you should be Paying me extra.

[Bernard Cooper]

So what was it like in there?

[Josh Hamilton]

I gotta tell you, it was a little intimidating. There's a certain type of woman, you know, usually either Jackie or related to Jackie, that really, you know, they know how to put me in my place.

[Bernard Cooper]

So when she says that there are some people who crave to be abused. You would be one of those people.

[Josh Hamilton]

She was looking directly at me when she said that. She was looking directly at me and she was pointing at me with her index finger. You know, not a lot of mystery there.

[Bernard Cooper]

But why this allure? Why are we so drawn to these, to these mean girls?

[Josh Hamilton]

Because they know. They look at you and they know other women who are nice or who are too timid, they try to pretend that you're not who you are, which is garbage. But someone like Maureen or Jackie, they look right at you and say, I know you're garbage. You know you're garbage. Why pretend? You know, I'm never going with you. I'm marrying the dentist. I'm not even gonna look at you. And you're gonna come over to my house, which is the biggest house I've ever seen in my entire life, and you're gonna say, you see this garbage? This is what a real man provides for me. You know, you come here and you tape me for your stupid friend's radio show. And then you get the hell out while I pick up my children, whom I got through having sex with my dentist husband in my big house. Now get the F out. Garbage out. Well, I mean, with you, she thinks of you as a harmless eccentric, you know, like a 90 year old English guy pottering about in his garden. Me, she sees like a. Like an unwelcome dog turd, you know, that somebody's trekked in from outside and it's.

[Ira Glass]

It hurts me.

[Josh Hamilton]

It really hurts me. I mean, I think it would be too strong to say that I love Maureen, but I. I love Maureen, you know, I. Yeah. Want equals fear.

[Bernard Cooper]

Wait, wait. Is it the fear that, that, that.

[Josh Hamilton]

Look, John, I'm not a sociologist. I. I don't know what's going on. I'm a piece of garbage to her. And it makes me want to just crawl up next to her, you know, like a. Like a flea on a tick on a tick on a dog. You know, I just want some of that. Some of that good, good blood, you know, Even if it's my own blood.

[Bernard Cooper]

What about when Jackie said that like, like that, like saying that you could be high by friends is actually a nice thing. What do you think of that to that guy who asked her out.

[Josh Hamilton]

Hi, bye, friends. You know what hi, bye, friends really means? It means that when that guy went home later that night and hanged himself, that's the sound the rope made.

[Bernard Cooper]

Jackie Cohen. Jackie Cohen. Do you. Do you miss that person that was able to do those kinds of things?

[Mary Claude]

No. But I think you do. I think you miss the mean Jackie Cohen. I think you really do. You inquire about her a lot. I think you do.

[Bernard Cooper]

Is the sky that unleashes a bolt of lightning into the forehead of a friendly woodsman mean? Is it mean of the ravenous lion to devour the frightened zebra as the first terrible bites sink into his legs and stomach? Does the zebra look into the lion's eyes as though to say, why are you doing this to me, friend? And why, by my very nature, have I demanded it? When I bring all this up with Jackie, I realize that only the zebra would do a story like this. The lion could care less.

[Ira Glass]

Jonathan Goldstein, his podcast heavyweight, will be returning this fall for a ninth season. Now with Pushkin Industries, there are already some new episodes in their feed. You can find it wherever you get your podcasts. Act two does niceness pay okay? Sure, niceness might not get you the most friends in high school. Niceness might not help your career in the NFL or on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange or in any super competitive line of work. But you would think that there might be a place for it somewhere. Like, for instance, waitressing. The whole point of the job is to help somebody else. Well, consider this story. A waitress in Chicago named Troy Morris was working a Friday night shift with another waitress, Amy Rugali. Here's Troy.

[Lily Allison]

I work with her Friday night, and she was almost in tears because the tips just the last week have been horrible, horrible, horrible. Like she's getting less than 15%. And so she couldn't stop thinking about it. And just every check, she'd look at it and just be like, I can't believe it. And she's just like, I can't do this anymore. Look it, people hate me.

[Ira Glass]

This is Amy.

[Mary Claude]

Like, I don't know what I'm doing wrong.

[Jackie Cohen]

I'm trying so hard to do everything perfect, and all of these people are tipping me below.

[Ira Glass]

It made no sense. She'd been there four years longer than anybody knew, the menu better, gave very quick service. And on the niceness scale, here's the word Troy uses to describe Amy.

[Lily Allison]

Super helpful. She's the sweetest person and smiles and just patient and caring.

[Ira Glass]

On Sunday, Amy Worked again. And this time Amy says her attitude was different.

[Jackie Cohen]

I definitely went into it with this.

[Mary Claude]

Attitude of kind of giving up. Just like I wash my hands of.

[Jackie Cohen]

This, I'm just going to serve them and walk away because I.

[Mary Claude]

Because I was so frustrated and what.

[Ira Glass]

Happened to your tips?

[Jackie Cohen]

They were great. They were a lot of them.

[Mary Claude]

Over 20%. It was wild.

[Lily Allison]

And I came in because we switched shifts. Like, she's getting off and I'm coming on and she's just like totally beaming, really happy. I made great tips. She's like, I can't believe it. Now I know what to do.

[Ira Glass]

Now I know what to do. Not be as nice.

[Lily Allison]

Yeah, just not care.

[Ira Glass]

We can actually quantify exactly how much niceness was costing Amy. The difference between 15% tips and 20% tips works out to around $50 per shift. Is it possible that any waitress could make more money by being less nice? We decided to do a little experiment. To find out, we would wire two waitresses with hidden microphones and then have them be super nice to half their tables and cool, aloof with the other half. They'd give equally good service to both tables. We did our experiment in the restaurant where Troy and Amy work, Lula Cafe in Chicago's Logan Square. It's the kind of place that everybody always wants to have in their neighborhood. Small, wonderful food, it's not expensive. Today's show is a rerun. But back in 2003, when we did this experiment, half the entrees cost six bucks or less. There was Moroccan couscous, there was vegetarian sushi. There were lots of carefully made sandwiches. Amy had no interest in being wired for sound, but Troy was game. Like most of the staff, she's young looking. She wore a neon zebra skirt and calf high boots to work. Her arms were bare so you could see her tattoos.

[Lily Allison]

Okay, that is really good. It's a little bit of a lighter, like brighter flavor.

[Ira Glass]

Here she is with one of the tables that she's being nice to table number four, winding them off a glass of wine that she thinks won't go with her meal.

[Lily Allison]

So just so you know, it's like a little bit on the sweet side. You want like something fuller? Is that what you're thinking?

[Ira Glass]

In two minutes, Troy has their whole story. They're visiting from out of town. They seem to be falling in love. And they found this very non touristy, out of the way place. Through careful research, she praises them on their homework.

[Lily Allison]

Good job, you guys.

[Ira Glass]

Nice is her usual style as a waitress. She recommends specials, she chats, she's a sweetheart. Being aloof took a little more effort for her.

[Lily Allison]

So table two that just sat down. Normally I would have already talked to them, but I'm making wait a little while.

[Ira Glass]

When she finally goes to table two, which has three serious looking people in their 40s, she doesn't ask them how they are or if they have any questions about the menu. She doesn't recommend the sturgeon, which is her favorite, or anything else. These are her first and practically only words to table two.

[Lily Allison]

Hello. Have you guys decided?

[Ira Glass]

When they ask her to recommend a wine, she swallows and tells them, you know what?

[Lily Allison]

All those red wines will go good with what you're getting, quite honestly.

[Ira Glass]

And then there was the guy sitting at the bar alone, noticeably good looking, reading the New York Times. Troy gave me the rundown.

[Lily Allison]

This regular guy that always sits there orders a lot and he never tips great. He always tips like just exactly 15%.

[Ira Glass]

Perfect for the experiment. Usually Troy liked talking with him. If she played it aloof, would her tip go up? She walked over and he asked her what she was up to these days.

[Lily Allison]

Oh, you know, working.

[Ira Glass]

Did you change your hair? He said, is it different?

[Lily Allison]

Maybe I washed.

[Ira Glass]

And so hours pass, people finish their meals, and when Troy starts collecting their money, the early results all seem to point in one direction. Take Table 2, the table she barely spoke with. Troy handed me their check.

[Lily Allison]

How does it look?

[Ira Glass]

Okay, doing a little Math here. Table 2, 17.6% is what they tipped.

[Lily Allison]

Oh, really? And I wasn't nice to them at all. And yet they tipped over 15%, which is good. Well, I can't wait to see what Table 5 tipped.

[Ira Glass]

Table 5 was the hardest table by far. Very demanding, and she was very attentive.

[Lily Allison]

Check this out.

[Ira Glass]

Okay, Table five we were sucking up to. Like, I've never so nice. I've never seen crazy.

[Lily Allison]

I got them to go food. I picked out their wine, I helped them figure out what food they wanted. And look, it was $84 and I got $13 tip. And I was so nice to them.

[Ira Glass]

So that's just a little over 15. Wow.

[Lily Allison]

And they were the most demanding, and I spent the most time with them than anybody.

[Ira Glass]

But the biggest revelation of the night came when Troy retrieved the check from that guy who was sitting at the bar.

[Lily Allison]

I can't believe this. Look at this. Okay, remember the guy who I said, I'm always nice to him, but he always tips like the minimal most. He tipped 20%. I was mean to him for the first time. Look at. Can you believe that?

[Ira Glass]

Wow. He tips five. Five bucks.

[Lily Allison]

Over 20%. Never. That's never happened. And it totally. I can't believe it. That's hilarious. But that's really disturbing.

[Mary Claude]

I have to be mean to him now anymore.

[Ira Glass]

By the end of the first night, it seemed pretty clear. Aloofness pays. But then when I came back a second night and hooked up a second waitress with a hidden wireless microphone, I got very different results. The second waitress, Callie Roach, is 23, with super short hair. She laughs at a local restaurant reviewer referred to her in the paper as a waftress. And on her night, everyone tipped 20% or even a touch more. That was true of the regulars who she was aloof to. It was true of the man who Callie doted on, who was taking his grown daughter out to dinner. It was true of the couple who Callie joked around with about their difficult to open bottle of wine after the struggle.

[Mary Claude]

Yeah, I got like, little hand hickeys.

[Jackie Cohen]

I'm like, geez.

[Ira Glass]

Even the other waitress working on Wednesday, Natalie, who does not have an aloof bone in her body, was getting 20% and more from every table. And the more I talked to Callie and Troy and Amy and the rest of the staff, the more everyone agreed. The majority of their customers are just set in their ways. They'll give whatever they always give in any restaurant like this to any server. Sure, you get a handful of customers like the guy Troy waited on at the bar, who you can nudge this way or that through force of personality, but it's just a few tables every shift, and that's all Troy and I were seeing that first night. This is Natalie.

[Mary Claude]

50% of the people will tip exactly the same whether they get great service or, you know, they might tip a little less for lousy service.

[Jackie Cohen]

But most people, they tip what they're going to do. Tip or, you know, I've noticed a.

[Mary Claude]

Lot of people just look at the.

[Jackie Cohen]

First two numbers on the check and double it or round down.

[Mary Claude]

You know, there's a pattern. And people tip the same. I think generally, if you're not chatty and overly nice, you'll still get the same tip.

[Ira Glass]

Here's Callie.

[Mary Claude]

You can just tell that people are going to tip you at 18% because they got their food when they wanted it. And it doesn't matter how much you're, you know, giggling and inquisitive. Like Sundays, Sundays, I usually get tipped four or five dollars every table. Doesn't matter what I do because of this.

[Ira Glass]

She says she has a policy and she's only half joking as she says this that she tries to limit the number of times that she smiles at customers or shows her approval to exactly two times. Two times. First time, when they place their order, she always tells them what a very fine choice they made. And then she smiles. And then at the end of the meal, she drops off the check and she smiles a second time as if to say, you see, I do like you. Because done wrong, she says, friendliness not only will not pay, friendliness can cost you.

[Mary Claude]

Because if you're nice and enjoying yourself, they don't need to make you feel any better. They already think you're having a good time. That's what my theory is. They already think you're having a good time. Why are they going to tip you for having fun? You know, if you're like, you know, if you're doing it just to get through it, you know, they know that you're working.

[Ira Glass]

Troy and Amy have also decided that niceness has its limits. For the first time in their years of waitressing. Because of these discussions, in the last two weeks, they have both stopped knocking themselves out, running around for their most demanding tables. They're efficient, they're pleasant, but that's it. This is what they've learned. It's not that aloofness pays, it's that niceness doesn't pay. Thanks to the owners of the Lula Cafe who want to assure you that is this, this is a rerun you're hearing and that they no longer let radio shows conduct experiments on their customers. In fact, in 2024, they won a James Beard Award specifically for outstanding hospitality. Those waitresses, Amy, Troy and Callie, are no longer at Lula. Troy and one of the owners of the cafe, Leah Childs, were in a Chicago band called Tallulah. This song is from the band's album Step into the Stars.

[Mary Claude]

She knows where she's going, she's on time.

[Jackie Cohen]

She'S in time.

[Ira Glass]

Coming up, if you seem so nice, why do I feel so bad? And more. That's in a minute from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues.

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[Ira Glass]

This is American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our program, of course, we choose some theme, bring you a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program, the allure of the mean friend. What is it about? We've arrived at Act 3 of our show. Act 3. And what's going on with you? We have this from Mike Albo.

[I]

You're here early. Oh, my God. Do you have my scarf? Did you bring it? No, that's okay. No, it's just that I got it in India when I was there and it's just this really beautiful thing and I really treasure it. It's just really important to me. It's not like the cheaply made Barney's Co op stuff that you buy. I don't mean you buy. I mean you buy. Oh, I wish you would have remembered.

[Ira Glass]

No, that's okay.

[I]

You're so flaky. Are you sick? You look sort of tired. Is there something wrong? Oh, you went out drinking last night. It's so great how you can still do that. You're so crazy. Did you throw up? Oh, no, I just smelled throw up for a second. Okay, so I didn't want you to hear this from someone else, but I just made $2 million. Yeah. So I'm pretty happy about it. My agent's pretty happy about it. It's just really lucky because, you know, like with the recession, it's like I made my money before the apocalypse and I'll be able to live comfortably. It's just sort of locked in. And I can tell you about the details of the deal, but if you could just do me a huge, huge favor and just don't mention it to anyone. I know you have sort of a problem being discreet. Oh, order something. Oh, no, no, I'm not drinking anymore. Oh, no, go ahead, have fun. I'm just not drinking anymore. I just realized there's a little bit more to life. But go ahead, have fun. You're so crazy. So what's up with you? Oh my God. When was the last time I saw you? I am totally hanging out with Tobey Maguire and Reese and Ryan and David Blaine. We jokingly call it the Millionaires Club. Oh, you know that children's book I wrote really fast for no reason? It's a funny sunny day. Well, I just found out it's sung like crazy and can barely stay on the shelves. And I got another voiceover gig. It's weird. They just like my voice. I don't even have to leave home. I just call it in. I don't know, I just sort of fell into it. You should try it. But it's really hard to get into. But you should try it. You're looking for a place? Good luck. God, it's so hard to find a good place right now. This guy called me and begged me to take his beautiful 4,000 square foot loft space. It's $300, but he's actually paying me to live there forever. So what's going on with you? I think your body looks good. It's normal. It's a normal body. Really? Well, that's too bad. Well, I just feel like you need a little bit more confidence in yourself, you know? Like, I feel like I'm a direct person. I say what I feel. You're more.

[Ira Glass]

You're more.

[I]

I don't know what you are, but I have to say I don't know how you do it. I am so glad I'm not single. It looks so hard. Oh, yeah? Yeah, I just ran into Carl. No, he looks good. He's good. He's good. Yeah. He says he hasn't talked to you. No, he seems like he's moving forward. I mean, you guys broke up and he's just sort of moving on with his life. He's in this really good relationship right now and they just bought this huge, beautiful place upstairs and they're fixing it up together. We just had a really good time talking. And you know what? He's been working out. His body looks amazing. You know, when you and Carl were going out, I never really understood why you liked him, but now I totally do. So nothing's going on with you? No, I'm Sorry, I'm just remembering a funny joke that Carl told me.

[Bernard Cooper]

What?

[I]

No, I'm listening.

[Ira Glass]

An excerpt from Mike Albo's short story the Underminer, which he co wrote with Virginia Heffernan. Mike is also the author of the young adult novel Another Dimension of us. Act 4. Keeping it in the family. Of course, you can evade a mean friend. A mean relative, however, is forever. This next story is an excerpt from a much longer work by Bernard Cooper. This story follows Cooper's father as he eventually goes to a psychiatric hospital. But what happens in this part of the story takes place a while before that. The actor Josh Hamilton read it for us.

[Jonathan Goldstein]

When I was 28 years old, my father sent me a bill for his paternal services. Typed on his law firm's onion skin stationery. The bill itemized the money he'd spent on me over my lifetime. Since he hadn't kept tabs on the exact amounts he'd doled out over the years, expenditures were rounded off to the nearest dollar and labeled food, clothing, tuition, and incidentals. Beneath the tally. In the firm but detached language common to his profession, he demanded that I pay him back. The total was somewhere in the neighborhood of $2 million, an especially hefty sum in 1978. I remember being impressed by the amount. What an expensive life I'd lived. I was shocked and insulted too, of course. Not only because my father had made such a calculation, but because my life could be added up or reduced to a single figure. To see your existence in the form of a bill gives all your loves and fears and struggles the cumulative tumult of being human, about as much poignancy as a check for a cup of coffee. It reads, your obligations to your father, the party of the first part, are considerable, and the only way to impress upon you the party of the second part, the necessity of compensating him for the fiscal burdens he bore on your behalf is to make his sacrifices evident in the form of the following, recorded herein as a legal and binding document. Should you fail to make payment in full, this matter will result in actions for which I advise you to hire counsel. I double checked his signature. It was his, all right. The letters rich with loops and convolutions. Go ahead, I thought. Let him dun me. See if I pay. No parent in his right mind asks his child to reimburse him for that child's life. I didn't ask to be born, I thought melodramatically. Besides, had I known I'd be charged for my boyhood, I might have eaten fewer snacks been easier on my shoes, more frugal with my allowance, I couldn't help but dream up a doozy of a counterclaim, its itemizations even more preposterous than my father's chronic insecurity. $90,000 narcissistic wound $75,000 edible complex $7,000 since, of course, these damages were psychological in nature, it was both difficult and whimsical to assign them a monetary value. But the punitive spirit of this counterclaim was gratifying for a while at least. Then the whole petty endeavor depressed me, and I thought, is this what we are to each other? A flurry of demands that can't be met? Hurts for which there's no restitution? During the restless days and nights that followed, I couldn't settle on a convincing or comprehensible reason to explain why my father had sent me the bill, though I suspected the catalyst might have had something to do with his offer a few months earlier to buy me a new car. He'd made the offer on a day I'd come to visit him at his Spanish house in Hollywood, the house in which I'd grown up. As I pulled into the driveway, he was busy watering birds of paradise in his front yard, sturdy orange flowers that he'd cultivated, to his constant astonishment, from a bed of drab gravel. Back then I drove a Fiat whose paint had oxidized to the overall color and texture of rust. The car sputtered as I shifted into park, and the sagging tailpipe, which I'd had to bind to the car's undercarriage with electrical tape, coughed a cloud of noxious exhaust. Just a year after I purchased the car with money from a small inheritance left me by my mother, it fell apart with an almost vengeful rapidity. The vinyl upholstery of the bucket seats began to rub off on passengers hands and thighs in sticky black patches. Soon the seats were nothing but lumps of raw foam, and even those were crumbling like sponge cake. One of the rear windows no longer rolled up, the pain trapped within the door. On cold nights, a stray dog made the back seat its home, leaving behind a legion of fleas to feast on my ankles. As I drove around town, it was humiliating to be seen inside the car, especially in Los Angeles when, idling at a stoplight beside a purring sports car with rear stabilizers, anodized hubcaps, and a leather interior, I had to force myself to remember that an automobile does not a man make, and that I was a writer who placed a higher value on word than on material possessions, which is to say that I cultivated a hollow sense of superiority around new cars. My father sauntered toward the Fiat as I got out, peeking through the perpetually open window despite my attempt to block his view. Stocky and balding, in a state of continual agitation, my father was also capable of a tenderness that seemed to light him from within and that stirred me like daybreak stirs a bird. Hey, he said. Looks like you could use a new set of wheels. I can't afford a new car, I told him. I distinctly recall facing my father, his gardening clothes stained with grass and darkened by perspiration, and shaping my tone so that I sounded neither pitiful, I'm too poor or petulant, I'll never be able to buy a new car. Before I knew it, my father and I were ensconced in his white El Dorado, gliding with the frictionless speed of a dream toward a Toyota dealership in West Covina whose ads he'd seen on tv. He pointed a stubby finger at his chest. Let me handle this, he said. I've bought plenty of cars in my life, and I know how to deal with these bastards you watch. I'll beat them at their own game. They won't know what hit them. On one hand, Dad's braggadocio made me feel invincible, as though I were in the company of a seasoned pro. On the other hand, it relegated me to the role of admiring onlooker and suggested that I was too incompetent and naive to buy my own car. Which was entirely true. I floundered when it came to the treacherous etiquette of negotiating a major sale, a feat which required, it seemed to me, a keen mistrust of one's fellow men coupled with a barely sublimated bloodlust. I'd watched my father often enough to know that such transactions excited him into what can only be described as a rapture of antagonism. He didn't mind yelling threats and pounding desks and generally hurling himself bodily into the arena of commerce. Still, if a new car required me to be embarrassed by his aggression, bring on the blushing. And so I let myself relax into the plush bucket seat, cradled and safe as the Caddy whizzed past, past slower traffic, huge and unassailable, as regal as a motorized mansion. As we walked across the asphalt lot of the Toyota dealership, triangular plastic pendants rippled and snapped in the breeze. I thanked dad in advance and told him that I didn't need white walls, an air conditioner, or a radio. Basic transportation would be just fine. He nodded and forged ahead, his stride martial, his shoulders squared. Secretly, I hoped my modest expectations might endear me to him even more. Maybe he'd close the deal that very day, before his mood changed, before I said something that would inadvertently set him off, before he said crap or bastard to the dealer. My excitement was indistinguishable from panic. I wanted a beautiful new Toyota. More desperately with every step. I wanted an end to the self consciousness I felt on the road, an end to the shameful sense that the thunderous rumbling and rank exhaust were coming from my person rather than my car. The showroom felt bracingly cool after the heat of West Covina. Highlights glittered in the flawless paint jobs of the display models. In the center of the room, a sleek new convertible turned around and around on an enormous platform, as if swooning the Muzak. The second we entered, salespeople sensing prey, rose from their desks and converged. It occurred to me that we would be the prize for the fastest walker, the one whose handshake or hail greeting reached us first. The victor was a skinny man whose snug black suit lent him an eel like iridescence. Or perhaps I was just seeing him as my father might slippery, unctuous, not to be trusted. Dad shifted his weight to meet the man's gaze. His posture erect, he kicked a tire as if to gauge through his knowing toes the vehicle's overall quality. He squinted at the sticker price. John, said my father, reading the salesman's name tag. Firstly, I'm an attorney. Secondly, when it comes to cars, I'm not some idiot off the street. A cousin of mine is fleet manager of a Cadillac dealership in San Bernardino. A complete fabrication as far as I knew. If we cut through the crap, you just might make yourself a sale, my son Here, I'm buying the boy a car. Doesn't need any bells or whistles. I'm Bernard, I said to the salesman. He shook my hand without taking his eyes off my father. Well, Mr. Cooper Edward attorney at Law. I gotta hand it to you, Mr. Cooper. It's nice to meet a customer who knows what he wants and comes prepared to do business. Makes my job a whole lot easier. My father shot me a sidelong glance as if to say, watch and learn. I'm going to make this painless, said the salesman. He spun on his heel and walked toward the glass door that led to the lot. We followed him outside to a veritable poppy field of new Corollas till we reached a red two door that John claimed was the least expensive automobile on the lot. This is the cheapest? Asked my father. Though it pains me to do so, I must add that my father's gold Star of David had loosed itself from the mid interior of his shirt to glint conspicuously in the afternoon light. The sight of which, given my father's unabashed haggling, caused a chord of shame to vibrate inside me. I felt compelled to explain to the salesman how my father had worked hard for everything he owned. He was a hoarder, a scrimper, a seeker of bargains who could never take his solvency for granted, and in this respect he was like thousands of people who'd grown up poor and endured the Depression, Jewish or not. But that was a lot to explain to a salesman, especially on the cusp of a deal that would change my life. And to put it bluntly, if my father was conforming to the cliche of the cheap Jew, I was that cliche's beneficiary. I peered at the car, feigning disinterest. Quite a performance, considering how I coveted that little red Corolla. Mr. Cooper, said the salesman, I know a shrewd man when I see one, and I'm going to do something that could put my job on the line. But before I tell you what it is, Mr. Cooper, I want you to promise that you won't say a word to my boss. I'd once heard that repeating a person's name is a way to make them feel important, to win them over. And John, it seemed, had heard the same. Mr. Cooper, I'm going to let you drive out of here for a mere $200 over the factory price. I'm going to scratch my commission on this. Frankly, I need the sales points more than I need the money. And if we can lock up this deal pronto, it'll be worth my while. And, of course, worth yours. Here. Metabolism obscures memory. My heart was running on all cylinders. My mouth went dry. You've got to be me, John, said my father. I know you can give it to me under factory. I'm not paying a penny more than factory, period. As I said, Mr. Cooper, I don't mind giving up my commission, but I can't lose money on the deal. I'm giving you the best price you're going to find in LA county in the state of California. Other customers were milling uncomfortably close to my Corolla, trying out driver seats, adjusting rear view mirrors. I wanted to turn to my father and blurt, why Would he lie? I'm not buying it, my father said sternly. It took me a second to realize he meant the dealer's story, not the car itself. I know how this game is played, and I'll play along up to a point. But we've reached that point. So let's see what kind of deal you can give me. Shop around if you don't believe me, Mr. Cooper, then come on back. The offer still stands. Better act quickly, though, because this baby isn't going to stay in the lot much longer. I guess you didn't hear me, said my father. Look at me, Mr. Cooper. I have no reason to lead you on. My father gave John the once over, then turned to me. Let's go, he said. We're taking our business elsewhere. Before we took a step, the salesman curtly thanked my father and walked away. The two of us waited a moment with the tacit understanding that his retreat might have been a strategy to provoke my father into giving chase. Sun beat down from a cloudless sky, asphalt softening beneath our feet. I think he's basically an honest man, I mumbled. Honest, my ass. My father looked at me with something like pity I'd never catch on, would forever remain a sucker. A rube. Muzak faintly wafted from the showroom as the salesman swung the door open and walked walked inside. Well, dad announced, show's over, and we trudged across the lot toward his Caddy. The drive back to Los Angeles took a good 40 minutes. My father still fumed from the encounter with the salesman, his ears and neck flushed with blood. Dad insisted that the deal was far from over. The guy's playing hardball. But you watch. The phone will be ringing when we get back to the house. It'll be him and he'll say. My father launched into an imitation of John cooing, Mr. Cooper this and Mr. Cooper that. My father promised that when the call finally came, John would apologize for being too hasty and lower the price. I'd have my car before I knew it. One day passed. Two. Three. Each day I called my father on various transparent pretexts and attempted to find out whether I'd heard anything from the salesman. On the fourth day, I steeled myself and asked him outright. Keep your pants on, grumbled my father. I said he'd call, didn't I? By the end of the week, however, my pants were sagging. The car had probably been sold. In the meantime, I'd researched the prices at other Toyota dealerships around town and discovered that John's offer was the best of the bunch and so I called my father in a last ditch effort to own the car. Dad, I said, I've done some comparative pricing, so I think we should go for the Corolla before it sold. And if it's a matter of not wanting to pay more than the factory price, and who can blame you, I'd be happy to contribute the extra $200 myself. The proposal had about it the pleasing hue of teamwork, and I wished I'd thought of it days ago. It's not about the 200 bucks, shouted my father. It's a waiting game. He's holding out, so I'll come running back and throw my money at him. If you can't sit tight for a while, if you have to have everything you want right when you want it, you might as well forget the whole damn thing. Before he hung up, he said, and don't pester me anymore. I'll call you when the car is ready. The bill arrived after a month of silence. By then I'd given up on the car, resigned to drive the Fiat until it broke down completely or until I could afford to make payments on a new car, whichever came first. I suspected my father might brood about our day at the dealership, but I wasn't prepared for the extremity of his reaction, if in fact the bill was a reaction. Whenever I tried to make a connection, the machinery of cause and effect began, Began to break down. Perhaps in the intervening month my father had become more offended by my offer to supplement the cost of the car, thinking I'd implied he couldn't afford it, couldn't pull off the deal on his own. Who was I, he must have wondered, to offer him money. And yet, even taking into account the full force of my father's volatility, it seemed unlikely that my offer of $200 would result in him suing me for 2 million. As the days wore on, my longing for the car grew dimmer, while my father's no doubt deepened. My plan should have worked. That car should be ours, thrusting him back to the deprivation he knew as a boy. The salesman's refusal to call must have undermined his notion of how the world worked, how bargains were struck by men like himself, men possessed of wile and nerve. What had happened or failed to happen defined his every paternal assurance. His promise that the phone would ring, the salesman buckle, the car become mine. How humiliated he must have been to know that I awaited his call. That he'd asked me to wait must have made it worse. My father's refusal to be in the wrong meant that I'd have to wait forever. 20 years have passed since I opened that bill, and for most of those years I'd taken it for granted that at some point during our afternoon in West Covina, my father had given the dealer his telephone number. But I've sifted through that trip a dozen times, squinting against the glare of new cars, breathing the icy air of the showroom, and I can't recall my father handing over one of his business cards or filling out a form of any sort of Even if my father had been right, after all, the salesman wouldn't have known where to reach him, what number to call.

[Ira Glass]

Josh Hamilton, reading an excerpt from a story by Bernard Cooper, which first appeared in the LA Weekly and is now part of the book the Bill from My Father.

[Mary Claude]

Whoa whoa.

[Jackie Cohen]

Whoa I tried not to.

[Mary Claude]

Cry I try not to cry A color of home where I could hide.

[Ira Glass]

And cry, cry, cry Special thanks Today to Adrian LeBlanc, Karen Thomas, and Jay Allison. Our website, this AmericanLife.org this American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. Thanks as always to our program's co founder, Mr. Tory Malatea. You know, whenever I send anybody over to record him, he says, you know.

[Josh Hamilton]

You come here and you tape me for your stupid friend's radio show, and then you get the hell out.

[Ira Glass]

I'm Eric Glass, back next week with more stories of this American life.

[Mary Claude]

I laugh and I lie I lie but my heart could not be denied Denied but when I got home I cried, cried cried Yes, I cried oh, yeah I tried not to cry I tried not to cry.

[I]

This message comes from Schwab. Everyone has moments when they could have.

[Ira Glass]

Done better, like cutting their own hair or forgetting sunscreen.

[I]

So now you look like a tomato. Same goes for where you invest. Level up and invest smarter with Schwab. Get market insights, education and human help.

[Ira Glass]

When you need it. Learn more at schwab.

[Jonathan Goldstein]

Com.