On the Couch

Do you need therapy? How long do you have to keep it up? Are you in love with your therapist? Or is your therapist in love with you? Actors B.D. Wong and The Daily Show's Troy Iwata help us to understand the allure and the dangers of sharing your problems with a stranger. Stay with me, Meg Wolitzer, for a session that's a little over 50 minutes. You're listening to Selected Shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung made the insides of our heads as important as what's inside the rest of our bodies. Since then, their various acolytes and descendants have crafted myriad variations and therapies designed to help us with our problems and realign us emotionally. Today, being in therapy is as common as going to the gym, and many of us are casually fluent in therapy speak. You know, those terms that get floated at dinner parties or that you might hear people casually chatting about on the subway. Passive-aggressive, narcissist, gaslighting. And inevitably, as soon as a concept becomes part of our lives, it becomes an attractive target for fiction. Like Vegas, what happens in therapy stays in therapy. Yeah, right. People definitely talk about their own sessions. To me, therapy has some things in common with fiction. In both cases, an intimacy develops between two people, whether patient-therapist or reader-writer. And also, in both cases, a story gets told. In the first appointment, or draft, it might be winding and meandering, but with a little persistence and guidance, meaning is revealed. Now, actually making therapy a premise in fiction can, of course, be deadly dull. What's fascinating to a patient and therapist might not be so fascinating to anyone reading a transcript. The best stories about therapy go off in startling directions, well past the couch and the chair that so many therapists seem to have, You know, that expensive leather swivel Eames chair with the matching footstool. And they go well past two people talking, as you'll soon hear. So we decided to devote a live, selected shorts evening to therapy and therapists. And this week's show features two stories from that show, which we called On the Couch. In the first, self-doubt and stubborn pride collide as a quiet inner debate refuses to stay quiet. In the second, therapy sessions morph into fable. And while therapy itself can be a serious subject and help people cope with some serious stuff, the stories on this week's show are both playful and serious. They tap into the juicy confessional scenarios, but also explore the idea of therapy as a trope. Our host for the live evening was the author and comedian Gary Goleman, who has opened up about his own mental health issues in works like his HBO special The Great Depression. Here he is from the stage at Symphony Space introducing the evening. I wrote a short story when I was seven years old. It was like Scrooge, but for Halloween. And it was a big hit. And then in ninth grade, I had Mr. Crean. He loved the short story, or as he put it, a brief prose narrative, so constructed in character, structure, and theme so as to produce a singular emotional effect. That's what a good student I was, that I still remember that. Oh my gosh. Do you remember the first time you read William Sidney Porter? Oh, I'm sorry. Oh, Henry. If you have not read The Gift of the Magi, please leave. You're not qualified. And then I also want you to read Telltale Heart. Edgar Allen, huh? Huh? Everybody that feels good when somebody says something that you've read. Feels really good. Just throw that right into your Goodreads profile. That's the great thing about short stories, everyone, is they count in your yearly Goodreads. Totally. Even though in some cases they're six pages long. but they count. It's just a great medium. The other aspect of this show is another thing that I've fallen in love with over the years, which is therapy. Talk therapy. I first started going in 1989. So therapy is something that saved my life, and the reason why I'm probably a lot of therapists' favorite comedian is because of a special I put on HBO called The Great Depression, which, yeah. I just wanted to give my credentials as to why I'm an appropriate host for Selected Short, where it intersects with therapy. We will hear a number of different stories about therapists and patients and themes. That was Gary Goleman speaking from the stage at Symphony Space. Our first work, Therapy, is by J. Robert Lennon. He's a Selected Short's favorite whose playful and provocative stories have often been heard on our show. He has authored 11 novels and several story collections, including Let Me Think. Our reader is Troy Iwata, a correspondent on The Daily Show, whose other credits include the Netflix series Dash and Lily and Too Much. Now, Troy Iwata reads Therapy by J. Robert Lennon. Therapy. You've been in and out of therapy for two years, and not sure if you're supposed to be in therapy. On the one hand, the specific problems you began the therapy to address have been resolved. On the other hand, the process of the resolution has prompted discussion of the forces that caused the problems in the first place, which is ostensibly enlightening and preventative. So maybe you should continue. It is also possible that your doubts about continuing therapy constitute a subject worth examining in therapy. You imagine telling your therapist this, and then you imagine your therapist's expression of mild amusement, which seems to be her reaction to most of what you say. And you wonder if, given that you've apparently chosen to remain in therapy, it's a bad idea to invest so much effort in amusing your therapist. or to assume that her look of amusement actually indicates amusement. Don't you already spend enough time trying to amuse people you aren't paying for their time? Maybe they're not amused either. Maybe your need to amuse everyone, including your therapist, is also worth examining in therapy. Your therapist's office is large, comfortable, and clean. There is a couch, but only in the waiting room, which is much larger than the consulting room, which is where the therapy takes place, which contains only chairs. Your therapist sits in a wheeled office chair. You sit in an armchair. There's another armchair that remains empty. Presumably, it's used for couples therapy. You often imagine that whomever you're talking about in therapy, you're always talking about somebody or other, and the complexities of their interface with you, is sitting there, nodding as you speak. You imagine saying things about this person in therapy, then turning to him or her there in the chair and saying, right, and him or her replying, right! You wonder if your acquaintances would be amused to know that you've created Affirmation Avatar versions of them for use in the imagined life of your therapy sessions. You think most of them would. You might be wrong. You like your therapist's waiting room more than the consulting room. You sort of wish you could talk in the waiting room. instead. The sofa is comfortable and the building's ventilation system amidst a constant gently high-pitched tone that randomly fluctuates between an A-flat and a D. You know this because he once took out your phone and opened up your electronic synthesizer app to check. These notes are actually a tritone, an augmented fourth, also known as the devil's interval. You've never told your therapist this. Maybe you should. It might amuse her. Usually the waiting room is empty when you arrive and leave, but one day, a woman you know who works in your building was sitting on the sofa when you emerged from the consulting room. And you said, hi, Susan. And she smiled awkwardly. And for the next couple sessions, you found her standing at the window, her back to the room as you departed. Presumably she moved there when she heard you opening the consulting room door and then returned to the sofa once she knew you were gone. Then long after that, she changed her appointment time, and now she won't even meet your gays at work. Another time, a new client took the slot before yours, you crossed paths between sessions, and she lingered audibly in the waiting room while you were amusing your therapist in the consulting room. And then she managed to lock herself in the bathroom, and your therapist had to go help her once the desperate pounding on the door became too distracting. Your therapist is a married woman, 20 years your senior. You like her. You share a conversational sensibility and a hobby. You think she likes you too. In fact, you often make the mistake of thinking of her as just some lady you're friends with. You really would like to be friends with your therapist. It might be preferable to, and would certainly be cheaper than your present arrangement It would also allow you to talk about your common hobby as well But it's unlikely that you would have met her outside the present context Which is to say the paid, as opposed to recreational sharing of your innermost thoughts You have a lot of friends you routinely share your innermost thoughts with which, according to your therapist, is not the norm among the rest of her clients. For some reason, this flatters you. A lot of things flatter you. This is either narcissism or evidence of a healthy interface with the world. The latter possibility, combined with the freedom you enjoy in sharing your thoughts with friends, makes you wonder what you need therapy for. Perhaps this is another topic worthy examining in therapy. You've been in and out of therapy for two years, and you're not sure if you're supposed to be in therapy. Troy Iwata performed therapy by J. Robert Lennon. I'm Meg Wolitzer. We spoke with Iwata backstage at Symphony Space about the story. My background is in comedy, so I definitely found the humor in it. I read it as a really relatable piece about the sort of ironic anxiousness that can arise when you start going to therapy and then you start overthinking everything in your life, which is kind of the opposite of what therapy is supposed to do. There's something about his work that's frequently circular and this struck me as having that kind of component. Did you feel that too? Absolutely. It literally is a circle because the first and last sentence are the exact same. So how are you imagining this person? Is there enough time for a backstory with a short story? Well, I mean, I related myself to it. So, you know, we didn't have a lot of time. So when in doubt, use yourself. So I found myself in the story and I sort of visually imagined it as this is a person who's kind of talking to themselves in the mirror. and just maybe having a little, not dangerous spiral, but just a silly spiral. And this isn't your first time with us. I remember working on another story. Yes, I was here last year for the Band Books show. What's it like reading to a live audience? Oh, there's nothing like it. You get the energy from them, even though this is just like a short story. It's not a full play or anything, but performing in front of a live audience, there's really nothing like it. That was Troy Iwata backstage at Symphony Space. Lennon has talked about his interest in how language can be shaped like music. And you can hear that therapy has a theme and variations, and that Lennon is clearly poking fun at the way certain kinds of narcissism have a sort of repeating pattern. Lennon uses the second-person you voice to uncannily get at the way our inner monologues actually sound inside our heads. But using the you voice is also apt because there a generic quality to self It all about you even when the whole point of the enterprise is for you to get over yourself When we return, once upon a time at the therapist's office. You're listening to Selected Shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. On this week's program, we're on the couch, fictionally speaking. Our two stories take some liberties with the idea of therapy, but we're absolutely confident that one boon to mental health and well-being is good fiction. Find a wealth of touching, restorative, and empathetic works on our website, selectedshorts.org, where you can also hear recent episodes of the podcast. And whether you want to enjoy all this while lying on a couch is up to you. You've just heard some great short fiction. Now it's your turn. It's time for the 2026 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize. We're very excited that this year's guest judge is one of shorts' favorite funny mainstays, Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in spring 2026 and published on Electric Literature. The winning writer will receive $1,000 and a free 10-week course with Gotham Writers. You have until March 6th to submit your story, which you can do by going to SelectedShorts.org and scrolling to the bottom of the page. We can't wait to read your submission. Our second story, Fable, is by Charles Yu, author of the novels Interior Chinatown and How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, as well as two short story collections. He writes extensively for film, television, and streaming services, including Amazon. Reader B.D. Wong performs frequently at Selected Shorts. He is a Tony Award-winning actor and activist whose many television credits include 11 seasons of Law & Order SVU, Oz, and All-American Girl. applause applause applause applause applause applause applause Once upon a time, there was a man whose therapist thought it would be a good idea for the man to work through some stuff by telling a story about that stuff. The man lived in a one-bedroom efficiency cottage all by himself in a sort of dicey part of town. One day the man woke up and realized that this was pretty much it for him. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either and not likely to improve. The man was smart enough to realize this, yet not quite smart enough to do anything about it. He lived out the rest of his days and eventually died the end. Happy now? the man could see that his therapist was not amused. A rather unsatisfactory ending, the therapist opined, and suggested that the man could do better. The man thought, is she really serious about this? But he didn't say anything out loud. The man was not convinced that he needed to be talking to the therapist at all, but he had tried so many other things, potions, spells, witches, and spent so much of his copper and silver with absolutely nothing to show for it that he figured, why the hell not? So how do I do this, he said. Why don't you start again, the therapist replied, and instead of rushing to the end, try to focus on the details. Okay, the man said. Once upon a time, there was a man who did not know how to use a sword and was also very afraid of dragons, so he took the LSAT. did pretty well and ended up getting into a decent law school there he learned useful skills skills that would allow him to earn a living in the village and to court the women of that village but what the man came to find soon after graduation was that in this particular village there were many people with the same skills. Many, many people. Really hard to overstate how many lawyers were there in that village. Accordingly, despite the man's efforts, the local maidens were not overly impressed. And after all that schooling, the man was ashamed to admit the sad fact that he still did not know how to use a sword. But the man was fine with this. Totally cool with it. Did not feel inadequate whatsoever. He landed a job with a medium-sized firm. The pay was a bit below market, and the position wasn't exactly his first choice. Top three, maybe. Top five-ish, somewhere in there. Nevertheless, again, the man could have done worse. Competently plying his trade afforded him a very livable existence, allowed him to enjoy the company of loved ones. His parents were both gone now, and his sister lived in another kingdom on the other side of the sea. But it wasn't like he didn't have friends. He totally had friends. People he could call to get the occasional beer or catch a movie. It was just that, well, there were those nights. The moon was new and the sky was dark and the hour before dawn stretched out before him, threatening never to end. On those endless nights, he would lie in his cottage alone, looking through the window, up at the starless sky and wondering, was there a life for him out there in the world? Someone who would love him? Or could learn to love him, or at least let herself be loved by him. He thought about enchanting some young lady, but he had no talent for magic, so that was really not an option. If he was going to find a fair maiden to marry him, he would have to do it the old-fashioned way. Trick her into it. I'm kidding. No, he was going to have to find a woman with sufficiently low standards so as to give himself a fighting chance. He eventually found such a woman, the only daughter of the candle maker, a girl whom everyone thought of as plain, also sad, quite sad. Not until they had been married for many years would the man come to understand how sad she truly was. But the man was getting ahead of himself. For now, the point was, the man knew he had to marry the candle maker's daughter because unlike everyone else in the village, including the candle maker himself, the man could see one thing. The young lady was not plain at all. She simply possessed a very mild form of magic, which she used for the purpose of hiding her loveliness. The man told the girl that he knew her secret. She denied it, and he told her that he knew she would deny it. Of course, she had to deny that she was, in actuality, the most fetching maiden in the village. Maybe in the entire realm. The girl looked confused. Her face flushed with embarrassment. She searched his eyes, trying to understand. Was the man teasing her? But the man did not smile. He seemed earnest, told her that he knew why she used her magic to hide her beauty. It was in order to protect herself. But for some reason, he and only he could see through it. Now the girl started to cry because surely the man was trying to humiliate her, wasn't he? But she saw that he remained earnest. And after a while, she stopped crying. And her face slicked with tears. kissed the man softly on the lips. The man asked the candle maker for his daughter's hand in marriage. Her father asked that the man slay a dragon to prove his devotion. Even though the man was in decent shape, totally respectable shape, especially considering that he didn't have time to go to the gym, he still wasn't strong enough to swing a two-handed broadsword. So, being nothing if not practical, he sought out the smallest dragon he could find. After a long search, he found one, not much bigger than a wild fowl, possibly a baby. If we're being honest, the dragon looked sickly. He had scared, wet eyes. and as the man raised his sword above his head to slay it, his betrothed said to him, Don't. Please. That's dumb. You don't need to kill a baby dragon just to prove something to me. All right, the man said, barely hiding his relief. He lowered his sword, petted the young dragon on the head. and sent it back to the cave or wherever. The candle maker was angry, or maybe not angry. He was a fairly gentle soul, but definitely miffed. Still, he wanted his daughter married off, so grudgingly he gave his blessing. The man had found his wife. He said to her, I will provide you with a good life, pretty good at least. She said, quit talking and let's go before my father changes his mind. and so they did. And the man loved his wife. To the extent that he knew how to love, anyway, the man had a clumsiness about him. In his hands and in his heart, he fumbled words, missed chances, and despite his best intentions, was prone to mishandling fragile things. Together they shared a quiet existence that was defined by well-managed expectations. perhaps not the stuff of legends not quite deserving of once upon a time but it was comfortable and honest he wondered aloud if this was really worth his and the therapist's time but the man was coming to understand that his therapist was not going to let him out of this exercise until he had navigated his way along one, an emotionally honest path, to two, an unexpected three, yet inevitable destination. Whatever that meant, the man sighed loudly and continued. Once upon a time, there was a guy who couldn't swing a sword and nearly peed his pants whenever he saw even a toddler-sized dragon, so he went to law school where he learned a bunch of very useful skills, and when he graduated, he became a lawyer, and he was pretty okay at that, and it allowed him to build a life, try to build a life. Great. The therapist liked where this was going, but he had dreams of more. He told his wife this as they lay in their cold stone hut at night. Oh, she said, hopeful, a little surprised. What do you dream of? Being a hero? No, he said sheepishly. deep down in his heart what he dreamed of was not to be a lawyer or a hero but a blacksmith. A silly dream he knew so he had never told anyone. He waited for her to laugh but she didn't. She said that it was a lovely thing to dream of. But having said this the man was already talking himself out of it. blacksmithing was old-fashioned, and hardly anyone actually made a living at it anymore. He would, of course, keep his job as a lawyer, would always provide for her, and the candle maker's daughter said, I know you will. It was cold, so they spooned. Through the window, the man saw a single star. It hung low, twinkling at them. This was kind of how they did things for a while. talked at night, made love, and then the man would fall asleep and his wife would listen to him snore and worry about him. It turned out that she was right to feel dread. One night, as the couple slept, a sorceress from far away put a spell on their home for some reason they would never know. They would never be blessed with a child. that single star in the heavens would never fall to earth for them. The couple handled this news in different ways. The candle maker's daughter did research, read books, found a local support group that met on Tuesdays The man unsure of what to say tried not to talk about it stopped blacksmithing for a while started grinding his teeth at night A distance grew between them. The man wanted to touch his wife, to be with her, but it hurt too much. Still, they loved each other. They tried to see the silver lining and being cursed by a malevolent force. wine helped, but not much. They made a list. There was always adoption, which took time and money and patience and luck. But they were in no rush, were they? Plus, while they waited, they could enjoy each other, take more vacations. If they could save up enough copper coins, maybe even go all the way to the seashore eventually. Why not? they were staying glass half full about it all. And then out of nowhere, boom, just like that. Just when the man had given up, you know. One day the star did fall from the sky into the belly of the man's wife. And there it burned for six weeks until it had a heartbeat. At 12 weeks they told family, friends. At 18 weeks they found out it would be a boy. Their boy. and the lawyer blacksmith and the candle maker's daughter were overjoyed. They thanked the heavens and the earth and whatever little magic might be left in the world. It wasn't the easiest pregnancy. There were nights when the invisible wolf, carried along by the fire wind, would come and snatch at the child with its jaws, carry it back into the hills. The wolf came at 30 weeks, and again at 32. The elder mages had the man's wife spend the night as a precaution. Fortune was smiling, though, and they made it to 35 weeks. The mages still had concerns. They looked in their crystal balls or whatever. Behind closed doors, they talked in hushed tones. They nodded their sage heads sagely, stroked their beards, gave the lawyer blacksmith grim and ponderous looks. Ugh, the mages were really kind of awful about the whole thing. So when the child was finally born, the man and his wife wept with joy and relief. Two arms and two legs, two eyes, a nose and a mouth, color in his cheeks, head covered with wisps of soft, almost invisible hair. It was a few weeks later that the man's wife first noticed it. Well, difficult to see at first, because the boy looked fine. He acted fine, nursed, slept. For the first two months, the blacksmith and his wife would frequently stop what they were doing and look at each other, as if to say, we did it. Six months in, they stopped that. Instead, each silently studied their boy, afraid to say anything lest they make it real by uttering into the world what was day by day increasingly hard to ignore, clinging to vague expressions of hope. No reason to worry yet. Don't jump to any conclusions. At 12 months, they said nothing. It was no need to say anything. The man and his wife took the boy back to the mage who had brought him into the world. At first, the old wizard refused to see them. He shook his head gently. The man's wife begged, fell to her knees, and pleaded. The lawyer blacksmith tried to pull her up by the arms, but she wouldn't move. She cried there in front of the mage's tower for three brutally hot days and three painfully cold nights. The man watching over her the whole time. On the morning of the fourth day, the mage emerged on his way to somewhere else and was alarmed and scared as he stumbled over the candle maker's daughter, still waiting there. He could not let this go on any longer. Your son, he said, he will never be of this world. Now the man's wife broke down with fresh tears. The man stared at the mage and said, What do you mean? What does that mean? I know you're a mage, and that's how you talk. But you can't say something like that and just stand there. The boy's spirit, the mage explained, what some might call his soul. It is trapped. You can think of it as being inside a small box, and that box is inside another box and that box in another and so on. Is this because of the curse? Could be. It's hard to say. It is possible the child is afraid to come into the world or is not allowed to, owing to the dark energy attached to his creation. Dark energy. At this phrase, the man's skin turned cold. was it his fault somehow did his wife know but if his wife had any such thoughts she did not betray them she took the man's hands in hers and pressed the mage for options tell us what to do the answer the mage said may be hidden deep within him too deep to retrieve safely you will never know him but you will care for him love him, see that he has everything a child needs. As soon as the lawyer blacksmith heard these words, he knew they were true. He wondered what insurance would cover. He worried about the large deductible, a high cap on out-of-pocket expenses. Ahead of him, the lawyer blacksmith saw many years of therapists, of special schools, of helpers, no birthday parties. No play dates or friends. No playing baseball with his son. At 16 months, the boy stood up once, clapped his hands. At 20 months, a word. Bye. Bye, bye, bye. Then at two years, more words, all in rapid succession. Mama, baby, da, sorry. Why sorry? Maybe he heard it often. At three, he said, what's that, and who's that, and where are we going? When he was five, the lawyer blacksmith's son said, dad is my best friend. He said this from very far away, from a place deep inside himself. The man could barely hear his son. The boy was sitting on the ground and looked confused And from his mouth came a terrible sound An old sound, a pain trapped in there The boy looked out the window at other boys running He wanted to run But his legs wouldn't work right His father said, they do work, son Your legs are fine, and the son said, but I feel stuck His father said, we will get you unstuck Those are nice legs, good legs. Don't be mad at your legs. Look at Mommy. We will figure this out. We gave you those legs. We are sorry. I am sorry. It is not your fault, and you will run. And the boy eventually did run, sort of. He looked funny, and other boys laughed at him. So after a few tries, the boy stopped trying. Was the man okay? Did he need a moment? The man was fine. A glass of water, perhaps? No, the man said, I'm fine. Deep breath, okay? In other ways, things were going pretty well. As it turned out, the man did have a talent for blacksmithing. Not a great talent. He would not make swords for knights and princes, but he had something, and people noticed. They started to bring him stuff to Smith, and he could Smith the heck out of that stuff. He hammered stuff and flattened other stuff and made stuff, stuck stuff in the fire and stuff. What had started out as a thing on the side turned into a little bit of a cottage industry. He had time to do this because he had quit his job at the firm and now worked as a lawyer in local government. no bonus but good benefits and the hours were so much better now the man was home most nights for dinner he and his wife and son moved to a slightly bigger cottage just outside the village the lawyer blacksmith was still no knight or lord of course but he could provide for his family they were never hungry things were fine mostly although sometimes when they went down to the village for a harvest festival other families would look at them and they hated the way they were looked at. Sympathy mixed with something else, something like, I admire you, but don't touch me or I might catch your plague of misfortune. Sympathy as in, I sympathize, my heart goes outward to you, outward to you as in, you over there. Stay over there. Don't come any closer. I will admire you from a distance. Now that was a fairy tale. The idea of selfless people. As if their lives were somehow different. As if they didn't have flaws and urges. As if having a kid like theirs made them into some kind of charmed species. People who never got bored or tired or horny. But the blacksmith lawyer, as much as he resented these strangers with their heartfelt looks, couldn't blame them. So he ignored them. He focused on work. He was up for a promotion to managing attorney of his department. By now his son was eight. No, closer to ten. Now fifteen. The years were getting away from him. the boy still had no friends, and though it hurt the man every time his son asked why not, it hurt more on the day his son stopped asking. The cottage felt small, so they bought another one. Not great timing. A month later, the man was passed over. He'd heard whispers throughout the village that the higher-ups in the department liked him, but wondered if the man could handle additional responsibility given his challenges at home, which was all maybe a nice way to avoid saying what the problem really was. Maybe they found it kind of depressing to be around him. They all felt for him, though. His lovely wife, his special needs kid, or whatever. They would never fire him. He knew he could have a job for as long as he wanted, dividing up the realm for lesser lords and vassals, assessing taxes on men far richer than he ever would be. A stable life, a life for his family. That was the right thing to do, so he did it. He was angry at his wife, even though she had never asked him to do it. He began staying out late for work at first and then not for work. His wife made ever more frequent trips to the apothecary, began to learn the trade. Soon she had perfected a potion of her own, an elixir for relaxation, she called it, just to get through the day. And their son continued to grow. His body did, anyway. The rest of them, it was harder to tell. At times, he seemed like a soul trapped inside, a mind trapped inside, a brain trapped inside, a body, a body that turned into a man's body, while somewhere in there, flitting around like a moth without any direction or understanding, was a child. A baby. Their baby. Fuck, man, do I have to do this? I don't know if I can keep doing this. Keep going. This is good. What's good? the therapist said that the man was finally getting somewhere the man didn't know what else to say his armpits were sweaty, his back hurt his ass was sore from the therapist's lumpy couch he had to take a piss he was tired of narrating okay then he could have a break, drink some water and then whenever he was ready, start again Once upon a time, there was a therapist Who wasn't going to do any good and cost too much And it's not like the man was made of money He did alright, but this was not exactly in the budget And anyway, they weren't the kind of people who hired therapists That was for rich people It was his wife's idea, soon to be ex-wife, maybe And what kind of crap was this? imposing conditions on him to save his marriage, like he deserved this after all he had done. Conditions. Conditions! Like he was the only one who was broken. Like he was the only one who had maybe got a little too angry at the kid. The man-child. Never violent, but just a little mean. But goddammit, he didn't know where the meanness came from. He couldn help it really when it started rising up in him the blood and heat climbing into his face and he could feel it he was going to say something that he couldn take back he was going to say something that was the opposite of what he wanted to say when all he wanted to do was stroke the boy's cheek and say sorry Shit. Sorry. I'm all over the place. It's okay. Take a moment. Take as long as you need. I don't know. What don't you know? I don't know if I can do this. Have a sip of water. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Have a sip of water. The man took a sip of ice-cold water. Once upon a time, there was an angry guy who hated the story he was in. All right, he was angry, okay? Once upon a time, there was a guy who wasn't allowed to start a story with once upon a time, because it wasn't once upon a time. It was a specific time. And he wasn't a blacksmith. He was just a regular guy who lived in the forest. He waited maybe too long to get married, but the thing was he had his mom to take care of. Never felt it was time. All those years watching her body shrivel up, his mom, who deserved better. He worked days, and at night he looked after her, and then when she was gone, he got married. a little later in life, maybe too late, but he wanted his own story, just a simple one. That was all he and his wife wanted, and the OB-GYN told them about the elevated risks, the witch's curse and all that, but whatever. They had the boy anyway, the man and his wife, and the boy who laughed and clapped but didn't talk or run. It was a family, his family, his wife. She was good. She was a better person than he was. She showed him how to love the boy. He loved the hell out of the boy. And they moved even deeper into the forest. They wanted to be far from everything else. They didn't want to see other people anymore. The guy and his wife built their new house to be strong, fortifying it with wood, sticks, mud, stones, whatever they could find. they lived carefully, quietly, didn't even look at each other most days. They'd had enough of a living in a half-assed fairy tale, enough bloodshed, enough potions and elixirs, enough of that for a lifetime. They figured if they didn't talk, didn't try to understand it all, then the story would just go away, would stop trying to mean something, would stop trying to break their broken hearts. so they stopped thinking. At night, they stopped dreaming. From their heads, they carved out the parts that had made them dream and fed them to the wild animals, scattering their dream stuff on the ground to be pecked at, gnawed at, chewed up, waking, sleeping without dreams, working. Like this, they passed many days. Years. The boy grew, but he didn't really. And then one day, the man looked at his wife across the breakfast table. She was putting a strawberry into their son's mouth. Their son was smiling. Dumb, unknowing, a grown man's face with the eyes of a child, a smile of an idiot. This was the most beautiful thing the man had ever seen. a moment he was happy. He went out to gather wood and in his happiness walked much farther from his home than he had in a long time. He came upon a stream over which there had once been a bridge whose wooden planks had now rotted away and there he discovered a curious sight on the other side of the ruined bridge, sitting there alone, was his son. What are you doing out here? The man asked. How did you get here? The boy said he didn't know. He started to moan, a horrid sound, a grown man crying like a baby. I'm sorry. He said, I'm so sorry. Okay, the man said, okay, don't cry. Tell me, sorry for what, little dude? What are you sorry for? For all the trouble? For messing up your life? Oh, God, the man said, no. The man was the one who should apologize. How could he possibly explain? that he wasn't strong enough or good enough to be the boy's father. The boy said that he was trapped. Wasn't he trapped over here on this side of the bridge? He started to cry again. From across the distance, the man tried to soothe his son, hum to him a song from when he was a baby. The boy stopped sobbing long enough to say, Dad, tell me a story. But what kind of story could the man tell? The man wasn't a good enough storyteller. He had a kind of allegorical thing going for him once, but he'd lost the trail. No map, no legend. He no longer knew what stood for what. He looked around. He was in the darkest part of the forest. He didn't know this area. The cottage, the clearing in the woods, it was all so small and so far from everything. The sounds coming from the trees were frightening. The man realized now what he had done. He had tried to ignore the story. He and his wife had tried to go on with their days, not speaking or thinking too hard, but the story had never gone away. neglect and time had done their work. While the man wasn't looking, the place had fallen apart. He turned to see where he had come from and saw that the trail back to the cottage led nowhere. A few yards from him, it just sort of faded into the surroundings. Behind him, no way to retrace his steps. In front of him, a bridge to his son that had long since rotted. If he tried to cross, it wouldn't hold his weight. He couldn't get there. He couldn't get from here to there. So instead, he turned away from both, away from home and away from his son, and he just ran. He ran as fast as he could, flat out, running through the unknown forest, and then his wife was running beside him, and every ghoul, every beast, every horrible thing, corporeal, immaterial, everything that had ever hunted or haunted the man and the woman was now right behind him, pressing and leading them all. Was their son, their son, asking, don't you want to be my parents? Why not? Why not? Soon they couldn't remember if they'd ever done anything but run. Their lives had been one long chase. No, the man said, this isn't fair. And his wife said, we have no time for fair. And the man said, why are we running? We're in our own story. We don't have to run. And then he looked down at his body. And he saw that he was not a hero, not a blacksmith or anything else. he looked over at his wife and saw that she was not a damsel in distress, not a candle maker's daughter. He barely knew her anymore, but he knew that she was Rachel. She was whoever was inside of Rachel. She was the mother of their child, a grown-up man, now still a boy, a lovable boy trapped inside a smelly man, and he knew that he would wipe the boy's nose and ass and anything else. for as long as he needed to because that's what blacksmiths do. That's what fairytale heroes do. They become government lawyers. They buy groceries. They shave their son three times a week and feed him pudding and sing to him once in a while. This was not a dream. Not a fairytale. This was all there was. all there would be. Once upon a time, there was a fable, and maybe at one point things corresponded, one for one, or close enough, but somewhere along the way it had twisted, and now he wasn't sure what it was. The man was out of ideas. He heard the clock ticking. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. He looked at his therapist, wondering if he was already over time. The therapist didn't say anything. The man understood that he was in a new territory. He'd reached the edge of the forest. There was nowhere left to run. Time's up, she said. It's a start. A start? Yes. The man looked at his therapist wondering if she could possibly be serious. His lunch hour was over. The man got up to leave. On his way out the door, he said, See you next week. And the therapist said, Maybe. He turned to look at her. She said, Let's see where you go from here. The man went down the hall, relieved himself, splashed water on his face. As he stepped back into the hallway, he saw it. No way. Could it be? In the carpet, the faintest outline. A trail. Where did it lead? Was it a way out? Or a way in. The man said to himself, Okay then, maybe she's right. If this is where your story starts, so be it. B.D. Wong performed Fable by Charles Yu. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This story is both prankish and emotionally powerful, and the audience honored Wong's tour-de-force reading with a standing ovation. Yu's story pulls us along as if we're kids sitting on scraps of carpet in a school library during story hour. Fairy tales use reassuringly familiar tropes to lull us, and then, like all good art and often like life, they sneak up on us with their powerful, aching revelations. So if you're thinking about therapy, or if you're in therapy, our imaginative authors may have moved you to the next step. Okay, listener, we've made great progress today, and I expect you back next week. But we have to stop. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's That's the Deal, performed by the Deardorff Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Bye.