873: Got You Pegged

Ira Glass

OK. As adults, it's pretty rare to have a moment where you're talking with somebody in your own country, in your own hometown, in your own language, and you have no idea what is actually happening, where things become confusing and not in that "oh, what did he mean by that?" sort of way, but in an I Love Lucy, "how did I get myself into this situation?" kind of confusion.

Like, for example, Amy was back home in Indiana on a break from college. And she was accompanying her brother's high school class on a trip to this health and science museum they have in South Bend called the Healthworks Kids' Museum. And just to give you a sense of who the characters are in this story, Amy's brother is autistic, and he is developmentally disabled.

Ira Glass

As for Amy, aside from the fact that she's very close to her brother, you can get a good sense of who she is by the conversation that she had with Ben's teacher on the bus with all the developmentally disabled kids driving to this museum. Amy was talking to the teacher about her schoolwork, which, frankly, seems very, very hard. Amy was majoring in physics and studying in Germany.

Ira Glass

So they get to the museum. And after some videos and some science experiments where they blow things up, it was time to walk around the exhibits.

Ira Glass

Now, for a second, it seems a little weird that he would ask one of the adults to make an ID card. But Amy figured it's new. They're excited for everybody to try this thing, kids and adults. So her brother ambles off, and she sits down and starts answering the questions on her computer screen. And the guy doesn't go away. He keeps finding ways to help her.

Ira Glass

Which would make sense, but the help that he's giving her keeps getting stranger and stranger. He's giving her instructions for things that no fully functioning adult would ever need instructions for. And Amy wonders, does he think that she is one of the developmentally disabled kids who are wandering all over the museum? But at the same time, Amy thought it was completely obvious that she wasn't-- the way she moved, the way she expressed herself. And the guy's manner, his tone of voice was unmistakable. He talked to her like a peer.

Ira Glass

And then luckily, the very next question that comes up on the computer screen is one that Amy realizes can resolve all of this confusion once and for all, definitively, for the both of them.

Ira Glass

But she is not near the end of the questionnaire-- far from it. It continues for pages and pages. Then there's a set of paragraph-length questions, which require actual concentration.

Ira Glass

And then the truth pours out. There begins a flurrying of apologizing on all sides, Amy apologizing to the guy, the guy apologizing to Amy, both of them, she says, clutching their own hearts as they do this. Turns out, he's so careful not to talk down to developmentally disabled students because he himself had a learning disability. And so she had misread what he was doing and why he spoke the way he did, and he misread who she really was. And in this case, they both discovered the truth.

But just as often, people meet and walk away and never straighten this stuff out. They assume. They get it all wrong. And that is the subject of today's program. From Chicago Public Radio, it's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Today's show, I've Got You Pegged-- stories of people assuming all kinds of things about other people, usually in error. Our show today in four acts, and it is quite a lineup-- Richard Price, David Rakoff, Shalom Auslander, and Nancy Updike. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

It's This American Life. Today's show is a rerun. Act 1, The Fat Blue Line. We begin today with a story about something that happens all the time in all kinds of places, something that is so common that it's not even big enough to make it on the local news. Richard Price tells the story, the novelist and screenwriter. He often writes about cops and crime. He wrote Clockers. He wrote Sea of Love. He wrote for the TV show The Wire. He told this story on stage at The Moth in New York back in 2008. He describes it as a tale taken from real life and dramatized.

Richard Price

In the last novel I wrote, I spent a lot of time on the Lower East Side. And as is my wont, I wound up in the back of police cars a lot. And the Lower East Side is a very low-crime area right now. It used to be the worst. But Giuliani and real estate pressure took care of that. And now they basically have nothing to do down there in terms of crime.

So what they do is they sort of sit in fake taxis. Four beefy white guys sit in a fake taxi by the side of Williamsburg Bridge, and they eyeball what's coming over from Brooklyn. And if the car looks like a $200 shitbox or somebody's got an Afro or a ponytail, they pull up, pull in behind the car, and they wait to see if the guy's going to go all polite in his driving, like put on lane change signals. Then they know he's dirty.

[LAUGHTER]

And so worst comes to worse, it's fishing, really. It's a big fishing hole, Delancey Street. And so I spent all night in this bogus taxi with about 850 pounds of white beef.

[LAUGHTER]

And it's the end of the night. They made their collars. And there are two cops up front, and I'm sitting in the back. When I ride with these guys, I don't really comment about what they do. I don't engage them in any kind of debates. It's like, I'm there to bear witness and then see what I can do with it in my work. Anyways, they're riding up Essex Street. It's kind of Miller time.

[LAUGHTER]

And as they're going up, they pass a Black guy about 30 years old with dreads on a bicycle. And on the crossbars, he's got a white kid about 9, 10 years old. And the Black guy and the white kid, they're kind of chatting. The kid's looking up at the guy. They look like they're sort of familiar with each other.

And the cops drive by, and they're dead silent. After about a block, one guy says to the other, says, hey, big guy, does that look fishy to you? He says, it's fucking midnight. What's going on here? They said, well, what do you want to do, big guy? So I'll tell you, big guy. All right, make the light. Pull over. Let's see what's what.

So they pull over. Bike's coming up Essex. One of the cops steps in the road, puts his hand down, and says, hey, how you doing? Get off the bike, please. And the Black guy gets off the bike, and he goes, hey, officers, like it's an unexpected treat-- you know, hi, what's up?

[LAUGHTER]

And he says, did you ever hear of helmets? Oh, yeah. Gee, I'm really sorry. At which point, the other cop says to the little white kid, he says, hey, big guy, what's your name? He goes, um, Noah Rosenberg? Like he's not sure. He says, hey, Noah, come here, buddy. Come on over here. And he separates the two. And I'm sort of hopping in between the two conversations at this point.

And the Black guy tries to follow the white kid, and the other cop puts his hand on his chest and he says, no, you stay over here. Let me see some ID. He says, what? He says, some ID. He says, don't look at him. Look at me. He says, no, no, I was just picking him up from a play date. Did I ask you that? No, no. You don't understand. I work the bar at Schiller's.

And again, did I ask you that? Well, no. He said, why are you trying to divert me? He said, go down the same road as me. He goes, OK, OK. And he gives him the ID, and at which point, he sort of waves to the kid. And he goes, oh, what did I just say to you? He says, no, no, I'm really sorry. It's Noah. He's kind of wound a little tight. He says, oh, really? He says, have a seat, and he points to the curb. He makes the guy sit on the curb with his feet in the gutter.

And he says, so where are you going? He says, well, I had the late shift. And he says, it's kind of late to be driving around with a kid on a bike, isn't it? At which point, I leave those two, and I go over to Noah and the other cop. And he says, so your name's Noah, huh? And the kid says, yes. And for the millionth time, I don't have an ark.

[LAUGHTER]

And the cop says, boy, you must get that a lot. The kid goes, oh, my God, you have no idea. And he says, so Noah, how old are you? He says, well, next week, I'll be a decade old. Well, that's great. Great. And where do you live? He says, 333 Avenue B. He says, and you go to school around here? He says, yes, I go to the Earth School. And he says, oh, cool. And who do you live with? He says, I live with my mom. And he goes, who's that over there?

He says, well, I don't know who your friend is, but my friend is Cleve. And he says, oh, do you know what Cleve's last name is? He says, yeah, Carter. Cleve Carter. Sometimes I call him Coca-Cola. Sometimes I call him Carbon Copy.

[LAUGHTER]

He says, oh, do you know him for long? I said, well, yeah, like 1, 1 and 1/4 years. He's kind of like my godfather since my other godfather died. Oh. And what do you guys do? Well, he was taking me home from a play date to my mom's. Says, so he knows your mom? And he says, well, yeah, he and my mom are kind of like friends. He says, well, kind of like? Well, they have sleepover dates.

[LAUGHTER]

And he says, so your mom knows that you're with him now? He says, well, my mom sent him to pick me up. My dad lives in Woodstock. He said, OK, at which point, I'm going, OK, let's see what's happening with Cleve. I walk over there. Cleve's sitting on-- he's sitting on the curb, and he's got his feet out there. And he's trying to make it look like it's natural. So he's massaging his deep thigh muscles like he's limbering up for the marathon or something. It's just humiliating as shit.

And he's kind of smiling because you can't win. You got to play through. And he's sitting there. And the other cop is hitting his driver's license with a mag light, one of those big powerful flashlights. And he goes, so Cleveland, I see you're from Ohio. And he says--

[LAUGHTER]

He says, yeah. He says, Cleveland from Ohio. He says, well, actually, it's from Oxford. And the guy goes, oh, Miami College. And he goes, yeah, yeah, that's where I went. And the cop goes, oh, Wally Szczerbiak, who's this big basketball player. And he goes, well, yeah, Wally was a little before my time. He said, oh, did you play ball for them, too? He said, well, not basketball, I played soccer. Oh, that's amazing because I teach soccer. I coach soccer out on the island, the kids' league. And he says, that's amazing. I keep waiting for that sport to blow up. But I don't think it's-- you know.

And Cleveland's going, yeah, yeah, that's amazing, sitting just like this, at which point a Mustang comes by with two Black guys in it and-- up Essex. And the guy in the shotgun seat looks out the window, and he sees Cleveland sitting on the curb. And he starts yelling out, homeboy to base, homeboy to base. We got a Black man down. I repeat, a Black man down.

[LAUGHTER]

And he's laughing his ass off. And the Mustang floors it. And Cleveland's kind of squinting, and he's kind of looking the other way. He's just like, mortified. And hopping back to the other cop with the kid, he says, so Noah, does Cleveland live with you? He goes, no, Cleveland lives at 444 Avenue D. We live at 332 Avenue B.

He says, well, you ever been over to his house? He says, only about a million times. And he says, mostly with your mom, I guess, huh? He says, and by myself. He said, oh, really? What do you do there? And he says, well, sometimes we walk his dog. It's a Rhodesian Ridgeback named Mars. And one time, he tried to teach me how to make scrambled eggs. But I don't really like his oven because you light the pilot match, and it goes, fwoosh. And it scares me.

And he says, one time, my mom had to go to court in Woodstock, and I stayed with Cleveland for three days. And he said, in court, huh? He said, yeah. Three days? He said, yeah. He said, but mostly, I'd say 82 and 1/2% of the time we watch television. You and Cleveland? He said, yeah, me and Cleveland. He goes-- and the cop said to him, do you ever do anything else with him? And he goes, what? What do you mean? He goes, do you do anything else with him?

And all of a sudden, the kid's eyes get really big and kind of wet, like steel. And the kid starts kind of-- kind of breathing kind of heavy. And the cop starts shaking a little bit. And the cop says to him, he says, hey, Noah, look at this. And he pulls his jacket back, and he shows him his detective shield on his belt. He says, do you know what that is? He says, yeah, it's a police badge. He says, you know what this means? He says, what? He says, that means you can tell me anything you want, and you'll be perfectly safe. Do you understand that?

And the kid looks at him, and he goes, oh, my god, are you going to arrest him? And the cop-- his heart's pumping Kool-Aid, and he starts moving over. And he says, why? And the kid goes, if you fucking assholes arrest him again one more time just because he's Black, and I'm not, I'm going to kill myself.

You came into my apartment and dragged him out because the crazy lady next door said he was a rapist. You put him in handcuffs when he came to pick me up at school. You pulled him away from me at the street fair and made me wait for my mom. I swear to God, I'm going to lose my mind.

And the cops go, whoa, easy, easy, easy. At which point, both cops are looking at each other like, well, what's going on? And all of a sudden, Cleveland sees the kid's losing it, and he goes, hey, Noah, buddy. And the cop goes, what did I just say to you? Stop talking to the kid. And at which point, Cleveland says, Officer, do you want to put this to rest? I tell you what. I'm reaching for my cell phone in here. He says, why don't you call-- why don't you call the kid's mom and just see what's going on?

He says, I'll call the kid's mom. He says, what's her name? She goes, Idina. And he calls across to the other cop, get the kid's mother's name. And the kid, through sobs, is going, Idina. And Cleveland gives the cop the mother's number. The cop calls, and he says, hey, how you doing? This is Sergeant Daley from the 7th Precinct. Who am I speaking to? And she goes, oh, my god, Idina Rosenberg. What happened?

He goes, nothing happened. I just need to know, do you know where your son is right now? At which point, she freaks. She goes, where is he? What happened? He's supposed to be with Cleveland. He's supposed to be taking him home from a play date. What happened? What happened? What happened? Well, no, no, no. He's fine. OK. At which point, the kid goes, my mom says, if I get any more nervous, I'm going to have to live with my father in Woodstock, you fuck!

[LAUGHTER]

And the cops are going, no, no, no, the kid's great. The kid's fine. The only thing is, they were riding without helmets. And it's a serious safety violation. And she's just going, oh, my god. Oh, Jesus. She says, no, no, no. OK, don't worry about it. All right. All right. All right. Good night. Have a good night, and hangs up. At which point, they bring Cleveland and Noah together again, and they give them this half-assed lecture on bicycle safety.

And he says, I'm supposed to write you up, but I'm going to give you a pass this time. And Cleveland's still kind of smiling, but the smile doesn't go past here. It never reaches his eyes. And he gets back on the bike, and the kid gets on the handlebars. And the kid's going through that post-crying jag, shudder withdrawal. And Cleveland's kind of talking him down as he sort of pushes off, and they go disappear up Essex.

And we get back in the police car. And I'm sitting in the back. I'm not saying a fucking thing. And they go in dead silence for about two blocks. And one cop finally says to the other, he says, you know something, big guy? And the other guy says, what's that, big guy? He says, still feels fishy to me.

[LAUGHTER]

And the other cop says, hey, we gave it a shot, man. That's all we can do. Thank you.

[APPLAUSE, CHEERING]

Ira Glass

Richard Price. His latest novel is called Lazarus Man. The story was recorded by The Moth, which, of course, is a podcast with all kinds of stories like the one you just heard at themoth.org, or find it wherever you get your podcasts.

Ira Glass

Act 2, Yes, No, or Baby. Well, there's a simple rule designed to help us all fight the urge to pigeonhole other people based on a first impression. And I speak, of course, of don't judge a book by its cover. But this axiom, this adage, this maxim, is deeply flawed, and not just because of its annoyingly scoldy self-righteousness.

The fact is, there are times in life where you must judge a person based on woefully little information crammed into some cover letter, or something like that, that they have put together. One of our show's producers, Nancy Updike, visited somebody in this very judgy situation.

Nancy Updike

Anyone who's not a megalomaniac feels daunted by the prospect of having to separate a group of strangers into a yes pile and a no pile. Kim Schwary is seven months pregnant, and she's facing on her coffee table in Seattle dozens of one-page letters from couples who want to adopt her baby.

Individually, each letter seems like not enough information, and collectively, they are way, way too much. The first time she read through them, they melted into an indistinguishable mass of thoughtful, intelligent, fun-loving, mutually supportive, healthy, active, outdoorsy couples.

Nancy Updike

Kim's doing an open adoption, which means that she will have a relationship with the family who adopts her child for the rest of her life. The cover letters are just the beginning of a long, long process. The whole thing is sort of like super high stakes online dating. Judging people is required. Kim goes back and forth between practical considerations and pure gut checks.

Nancy Updike

Kim ends up liking a different couple that already has a little boy. She likes the idea that her baby would have a sibling. She weeds out a family that seems to her too religious. And later, she frowns on a couple who both have high-powered jobs that they write about at length. She wonders if they'd be home enough for the baby.

Nancy Updike

A few pages later, Kim makes a face when a couple says they're "relational people."

Nancy Updike

Just like Kim's having to quickly peg these families, extrapolating all sorts of important things from just words on a page and a few pictures, she's finding that as a single woman, pregnant, people are making all kinds of assumptions about her. Co-workers assume she's married and starting a family. Those are awkward conversations. And if she tells someone what's really going on, that she's putting the baby up for adoption, she better be prepared for a lecture.

Nancy Updike

She says some people are utterly convinced that adoption is just a bad idea all around, which Kim takes personally since she was adopted. It's one of the reasons she didn't want to get an abortion.

Nancy Updike

I waited till just about the end of my interview with Kim to confess that I'd had her pegged all wrong before I spoke to her. I thought she'd be a teenager, confused. But Kim is 27, has her own apartment, a good job.

Nancy Updike

Kim doesn't go into her reasons with most people, so they make assumptions about her that she doesn't bother to correct. And she flips through dozens of letters from couples and makes assumptions about them that they'll never get a chance to respond to. It's the way of the world. Everyone's a judge, and everyone's the accused. And every day, things aren't going the way they were supposed to or as planned.

[ENGINE REVVING, PAGES FLIPPING]

Ira Glass

Nancy Updike is one of the producers of our program.

Ira Glass

Act 3, Isn't It Romantic? Well, our show today is about people jumping to conclusions about what others are like. And what we turn to now is corny, stereotyped ideas people have, and in this case, put into Broadway shows.

This story is about a kind of iconic, old musical, the show Rent. And when that show came out in the 1990s, one of our contributors, David Rakoff, was not a fan. That show-- maybe you've seen it, or you've seen the movie-- was about New Yorkers in their 20s. David Rakoff had been a New Yorker in his 20s during the same era depicted in that show, and he thought the play made some mistakes.

David Rakoff

There are 525,600 minutes in a year.

[LAUGHTER]

I learned that from watching Rent.

[LAUGHTER]

From watching Rent, I also learned that the best way to mark the passing of these 525,600 minutes would be to measure them out into something Jonathan Larson, the writer of the musical, called "seasons of love." What does that even mean, "seasons of love"? In Rent, the characters live out their seasons of love in huge lofts. Some of them have AIDS, which is coincidentally also the name of a dreaded global pandemic that is still raging and has killed millions of people worldwide. In Rent, however, AIDS seems to be a disease that renders one cuter and cuter.

[LAUGHTER]

The characters are artists, creative types. They have tatterdemalion clothes. Some of them are homosexual, and the ones who aren't homosexual don't even seem to mind. They screen their calls, and when it is their parents, they roll their eyes. They hate their parents.

[LAUGHTER]

They are never going back to Larchmont, no way. They will stay here, living in their 2,000 square feet of picturesque poverty, being sexually free and creative. Here are some ways to broadcast creativity in a movie. Start plinking out a tune on a piano. Scratch a few notes on some music paper. Plink some more. Suddenly crash both hands down on the keyboard. Then bring them quickly up to your head, and grab the hair at your temple, screaming, it won't work!

Or sit at a typewriter, reading the page you've just written. Realize that it's shit, and tear it from the platen and toss it behind you. Cut to wastepaper basket overflowing with crumpled paper. Here's what they do in Rent to show that they are creative-- nothing! They do nothing!

[LAUGHTER]

They hang out. And hanging out can be marvelous, but hanging out does not make you an artist. A secondhand wardrobe does not make you an artist. Neither do a hair-trigger temper, melancholic nature, propensity for tears, hating your parents, nor even HIV. I hate to say it. None of these can make you an artist.

[LAUGHTER]

They can help.

[LAUGHTER]

But just as being gay does not make one witty, you can suck a mile of cock, it does not make you Oscar Wilde. Believe me, I know. I've tried.

[LAUGHTER]

The only thing that makes you an artist is making art. And that takes the opposite of hanging out. So when they sing the anthem of the show, that's a lie, really. Every song in the show is an anthem delivered with adolescent earnestness. It's like being trapped in the pages of a teenager's diary. So when they sing the title anthem of the show, "We're not going to pay this year's rent," followed by a kind of barked cheer of "rent, rent, rent, rent, rent, rent, rent," my only question is, well, why aren't you going to pay this year's rent?

[LAUGHTER]

It seems that they're not going to pay this year's rent because rent is for losers and uncreative types. Rent is for suits. By contrast, they are the last bastion of artistic purity. They have not sold out, and yet their brilliance goes unacknowledged. So fuck you, yuppie scum. I know what it's like to feel angry and ignored. I lived in Brooklyn a long time ago, about a block away from a prison.

[LAUGHTER]

During the day, the neighborhood bustled with lawyers, judges, criminals, bail bondsmen, private detectives. I lived on a block in a little two-story building that had once been a coach house in the 19th century, and the basement had a red dirt floor. On the ground floor below me was an office that did what exactly? Resumes? I can't remember.

What I do remember is the man whose office it was. Raul was knee-bucklingly handsome. If my life had been different, like-- I don't know-- if I were like a hot girl with a driver's license, I could have put on a tube top and gone outside to wash my car in slow motion or something. But alas.

Once, during the day-- it must have been the weekend because I was at home-- I could hear Raul having sex in the office downstairs. I skittered around my apartment like a cockroach on a frying pan, trying not to make any noise while desperately looking for a knothole in the crappy floorboards.

[LAUGHTER]

Eventually, I just lay down flat against the tile of the kitchen floor, listening. Lying flat against the tile of my kitchen floor listening to someone else have sex is essentially my 20s in a nutshell.

[LAUGHTER]

I was robbed in that neighborhood twice. And there were days when it hardly seemed worth it to live in a horrible part of town, just so that I could go daily to a stupid, soul-crushing, low-paying job, especially since as deeply as I yearned to be creative, for years and years, I was too scared to even try. So I did nothing. But here's something that I did do-- I paid my fucking rent.

[LAUGHTER]

[APPLAUSE, CHEERS]

Ira Glass

The late David Rakoff. His essay about the musical Rent appears in his book Half Empty. But really, you can't go wrong with any of his books. Coming up, proof that some people simply should not go on vacation. They can't hack it. They cannot handle the mellow. That is in a minute from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues.

Ira Glass

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our show, of course, we choose a theme, bring you a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program, Got You Pegged-- stories of people making grand assumptions about other people, sometimes correct, sometimes deeply incorrect. Today's show is a rerun. We've arrived at Act 4 of our show. Act 4, Paradise Lost. Shalom Auslander has our story.

Shalom Auslander

I ruin vacations. That's just what I do. In Greece, I was sure the hotel had stuck us with the worst room in the building, even though every room was identical. I know that because we switched three times the day we got there. We switched again the morning after and went home two days early. A year later, I spent four days in a Jamaican rainforest complaining about the weather. We're in a rainforest, my wife said. So? So it rains. We went home two days early.

And so last year, when my wife informed me that she had booked us a six-day vacation in Anguilla, a remote island in the British West Indies, I decided that this time would be different. It was our first trip in a while, and I'd been doing a lot of work on myself. With the money I'd spent on therapy, I could have bought the whole damn island of Anguilla. So I was anxious to see how far I'd come.

The resort was far more expensive than we could afford. I suspected that my wife was hoping that an exclusive resort would minimize the number of disappointments that could inevitably set me off. There was no need for her to worry. This time would be different. This time, I would be different.

The resort we flew to sits tucked away on the eastern end of an utterly pristine inlet of blue-green water on the southern tip of the island. The bellman brought our bags into our room, warned us not to feed the iguanas, wished us a happy stay, and left. My son started jumping on the bed. My wife joined him. And I pulled open the wooden louvered patio doors that led out to the beach.

Wow, I said, as I stepped out onto the patio. For once, the view looked exactly as it had on the website. Pelicans circled above the calm, still waters. The owner's golden retrievers slept peacefully in the shade beneath a gentle, spreading palm. My wife came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. It's Eden, she said. Paradise, I answered. Not a cloud in the sky, she said. Not a single cloud, I said.

And then she went inside. When I came in, she already had her beach bag packed and was pulling a T-shirt over our son's head. We're going to the beach, she said. You coming? I'll come down after I unpack, I said. They hurried out the door, dropped a cracker for the iguana waiting in the shade at the bottom of the steps, and headed down to the beach. I quickly put away our clothing, grabbed the room key, and locked the patio door as I closed it behind me.

Hello, said the old man. He was standing at the foot of our patio, holding on to the rail for support. Oh, hello, I said. His name was Marvin, and he'd been coming to the resort for 25 years. Oh, 25 years at least, he said. Maybe more. Such a long time ago. Let's see, I'm 81 now. Yeah, the first time I came here was in, oh, let's see, 1980, I believe. Really? I said, backing my way towards the beach.

Here's the thing about people. I don't really like them. That's why I find racism so curious. There are so many reasons to dislike people. You're going to go with color? So I avoid the people whenever possible, try to keep my distance. It's really better for everyone.

Could have been 1982, Marvin continued, or maybe even 1978, now that I think about it. No, no, it was 1980. I remember because I was arguing with my wife about Reagan. Whew, boy, did she hate him. Uh-huh, I said. I looked toward the beach and could see my wife and son running down to the water with his pail and shovel. Well, I better go. Family's waiting for me and all.

She's dead now, he said. He gently cleared his throat and looked to the ground. Damn it, I thought. I'm sorry, I said. She was a good woman, he said. I nodded. I'm sure, I said. Hotel was very different back then, of course, Marvin continued. Very, very different. The restaurant wasn't where it is now, no, sir. That building wasn't even built until 1990 or so, maybe '92 even. Fellow named Jeremiah built it with his own two hands, by gosh. Nobody builds like that anymore.

As Marvin rambled on, I began to wonder, was there any way I could switch rooms without upsetting my wife? But I stopped myself, pulled myself together. Not this time, I thought. We are having a pleasant vacation.

Is that your wife? Marvin asked. Yeah, I said, waiting for me. She's beautiful, said Marvin. Yeah, I said. Well, I better skedaddle. My wife was beautiful, too. Uh-huh, I said, with a wave. Well, I'll see you later. Marvin waved back, walked up the steps of the villa directly adjoining ours, took out his key, and walked inside. The door closed, and the expectorating began.

[COUGHING]

[HACKING, SPITTING]

[COUGHING]

Damn it, I thought. The trip had exhausted our son, so we had an early dinner and went for a short sunset stroll on the beach. Thanks, said my wife, putting her arm through mine. For what? I asked. For being so good about things. I smiled and squeezed her arm. Our son ran through the gentle surf and shrieked with joy. Soon he grew tired, climbed into my wife's arms, and we reluctantly climbed the patio steps back to the room.

Good night, said Marvin. He was sitting on his patio next door. Good night, whispered my wife. Where in New York are you from? Asked Marvin. Upstate, she whispered, as she carried our exhausted son into the room. I spent a lot of time there, said Marvin. Hudson Valley, I think it was. Might have been the Catskills. Yeah, I think it was the Catskills. My wife and I used to take our kids up there when they were younger.

OK, I whispered. We don't talk much anymore-- my kids, I mean. Not my wife. She's dead. Sure, I whispered. Well, good night. I closed the door behind me and locked it. Jesus Christ, I said. You OK? Asked my wife. I'm fine, I said with a smile. We put our son to bed, crept quietly out the back door, and lay down together on a lounge chair underneath the stars. I love you, said my wife. I love you, too, I answered.

[HACKING] came the sound from next door.

[COUGHING]

[HACKING]

[COUGH]

We lay there a while longer, holding hands in the cool tropical night breeze, watching the shimmering lights of long-dead stars and pretending we weren't listening to an old man drowning in his own phlegm.

[HACKING]

I awoke the following morning in a dark mood. I didn't want my wife to see it, so I crept out of bed, quietly dressed, and went for a walk. I made my way to the open-air restaurant that overlooked the sea and sat down for an early breakfast. OK, I thought. So there's an old man next door. Was that worth ruining our whole vacation?

I'd worked too long and too hard on myself to be derailed by this. I decided to view Marvin as some sort of a test. Maybe it was God's test. Maybe it was just fate. But I was stronger than Marvin. I was stronger than a thousand Marvins. He would not defeat me. I finished my breakfast and walked back to the room.

Good morning, said Marvin. He was sitting at his patio table, finishing his breakfast. Good morning, I said. A lovely day, isn't it? Oh, it is, he said. Mornings like this, my wife and I used to get up early and go for a long swim. That sounds nice, I said. She's dead now, he said. Hey, I said, who isn't? That's true, said Marvin. I looked out over the beach and smiled. Check and mate, Marv. I was unflappable.

Auschwitz, said Marvin. I turned around. Sorry? My wife, she died in Auschwitz. We were quite young, only married a few years. Auschwitz, I said. Marvin nodded. We were sent to Dachau at first, but after a few weeks, they sent us to Auschwitz. Auschwitz, I said.

Sure, my mother, too. She was sent to Bergen-Belsen. But that's not where she died. She died in Auschwitz with my father, probably of pneumonia. That's what I heard. My father was shot. The Nazis shot him. I know this from some people in Miami who knew him in the camps. Ethel, Morris Goldstein. They died a while ago.

I should have been compassionate. I know. I should have taken a pad and pen and committed his story to paper for future generations. But I didn't. Instead, I seethed. 20 minutes of genocide stories later, I went into our villa, closed the door sharply behind me, and stood in the center of the room with my hands on my hips. What? Asked my wife. I threw my hands into the air. Auschwitz, I said. Pardon? Auschwitz. What are you talking about? She asked. Au-freaking-schwitz. He's a survivor, hon, a Holocaust survivor.

I don't have anything against Holocaust survivors. Some of my best friends are Holocaust survivors. OK, that's not actually true, but I don't have anything against them. But if I want to relax and forget about life for a while, maybe hit a bar and have a drink, I'm not going to call Elie Wiesel. Hey, Elie. How's it going? I had a tough day. Why don't you come over, and we'll watch Schindler's List? Bring beer.

A Holocaust survivor, I said, pacing back and forth across the room. The place is half-empty, and the guy next door is a Holocaust survivor. I think I've been pretty good about this. I didn't let the travel upset me. I didn't let the hacking next door all night long get to me. But this is too much. It's too much. I'm standing in paradise, talking about gas chambers.

My wife was sympathetic, but she'd seen this before and insisted I was blowing it out of proportion. As usual, she said. And I said, What's that supposed to mean? And she said, You know what that means. And I said, No, I don't. And less than 24 hours after our plane touched down in Eden, we were fighting.

It's your decision, she said to me, as she gathered her beach things together. He's not ruining our vacation. You are. No, I'm not! I shouted. Goebbels is. Blame Goebbels. She walked out and stomped down the patio steps. My son began to cry. A dozen iguanas sat on the deck. Two of them ran inside and hid under the bed. Damn it, I thought.

I spent the next few hours avoiding my wife, hoping that a little time would settle things down between us. I took my son and walked over to the front office. Did you feed them? The man asked. We told you not to feed them. They're in our room, I said. They're under our bed.

I heard laughter coming from the lobby and poked my head around the corner. Marvin was sitting in a wicker chair, surrounded by a half a dozen adoring hotel employees. A waiter from the bar brought him a rum punch. Let me pay you, said Marvin. No, no, Mr. Marvin, said the waiter. No, no. If there's anything worse than hating someone, it's discovering that everyone else loves them.

Oh, Mr. Marvin, an attractive female chambermaid cried. He's terrible! The man at the front desk smiled in Marvin's direction. What a sweet man, he said, and then shook his head. And what he's been through.

At dinner that evening, Marvin sat at the resort owner's table. My wife and I sat nearby, barely talking. Marvin told funny stories, and everyone laughed. Marvin told sad stories about the Holocaust, I guessed, judging by the horror on the face of his dinner companions, and everyone hugged him. And when the bill came and Marvin reached for it, again, they refused to let him pay. That was when I decided with absolute certainty that the son-of-a-bitch was faking it.

Holocaust survivor, my ass, I thought. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish community. I've known Holocaust survivors, OK? And they don't go on and on about it. Elie Wiesel doesn't go on about it. Marvin was no Holocaust survivor. He was just an old chatterbox looking for a meal ticket.

There's no such thing as a free lunch until you tell everyone sitting next to you at lunch about your stay in Bergen-Belsen. Marvin was faking, I was sure of it. And I was equally sure that if I could just prove that to my wife, all would be forgiven. And I knew just how to do it.

We came back from dinner, and I put my son into his pajamas and read him some stories. My wife sang him some songs and put him to bed. And after that, she put on her shoes and said she needed to take a walk. Fine, I said. Good, she answered. Great, I said. Whatever, she replied.

I went outside, sat down on the patio steps, and watched the ocean, hoping it would calm me down. Suddenly, I heard a groan coming from Marvin's patio. I stood up, peeked over the fence that separated our two patios, and saw him asleep on one of his lounge chairs. This was my chance.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching, went over to his patio, and crept up the stairs. He rustled, and I froze. After a few seconds, I tiptoed over to where he was sleeping. His left arm was propped behind his head, but his right arm was stretched out along the arm of the chair. Bingo. I made my way back to our room and waited anxiously for my wife to return.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. Well, well, well, I said, as she came into the room. Well, well what? She asked. Well, well, well. I guess Mr. Auschwitz isn't such a survivor after all. What are you talking about? She asked. I held my arm out and pointed to my forearm. No numbers, I said with a smile. At last, I'd gotten a clean look at his forearm, and no numbers. What? Asked my wife. No numbers. If he was in the Holocaust, where are the numbers?

Her face dropped. What did you do? She asked. What? What did you do? I didn't do anything. Did you ask him to show you his numbers? Bloody hell, Shal. Did you ask him to show you his numbers? I didn't ask him to show me his numbers, I said. He was sleeping.

She pressed her fingertips against her eyes and shook her head. And why exactly would he lie about being in the Holocaust? Why? I asked. Free stuff. They pay for all his meals. They probably pay for his room. He's faking it. This is ludicrous. Why would he pick the Holocaust? What's he going to say, Bataan Death March? It was a hike. Get over it. You want free stuff, you go with Holocaust.

Which arm? She asked. What? Which arm did you check? I paused. The right one, I said. She looked at me. They tattooed the left? She nodded. And they didn't tattoo everyone. How do you know? My neighbors were survivors, she said, both neighbors. None of them had numbers. She kicked her shoes off and headed for the bathroom. This isn't about Marvin, she said. This isn't about numbers or concentration camps. This is about you.

All that night and into the next morning, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, imagining that I'd proved to everyone what a fraud Marvin was. I pictured finding a photo of him circa 1940, somewhere in Miami. I pictured calling the Holocaust Museum in DC. Marvin? They would say. We have no record of a Marvin.

I pictured confronting him at dinner, catching him out on some esoteric German historical fact. Wrong. Himmler didn't take over the Gestapo until 1934. Ha! But mostly, I just felt awful. A full third of our first family vacation was over, and we'd spent most of it fighting. I was sure our son sensed it, sure that he would hold it against me. Sure I was wrong, but sure I was right.

At the first sign of daybreak, I got out of bed and went down to the beach. I walked south along the entire length of the shore before turning around and heading back. As I grew closer to the beach across from our villa, I saw something dark and heavy in the shallow water. I thought it was a log or a mass of seaweed, but then I saw it was moving. It was kicking. It was a person. And as I grew closer still, I realized it was Marvin. It was Marvin, and he was struggling to get to shore.

I hate to admit it, but even as I ran to help him, I was pissed off. It was bad enough I had to put up with this pain in the ass. Now I had to save him? I grabbed Marvin around his chest, lifting and pulling as I swung his arm across my shoulder. He was coughing, spluttering, trying to catch his breath. I'm all right, he was saying. I'm all right. I helped him onto the beach. I was breathing heavily.

That, I said, was the most pathetic cry for attention I have ever seen. Marvin laughed and took a moment to catch his breath. My wife, he said. Yeah, I said. Auschwitz. He shook his head. Second wife, he said. We came here together for 25 years. We used to get up for early morning swims. As I got older, it got harder for me to get back to the shore-- undertow and all. She would stand at the edge and wait for me to come back. She sounds great, I said. She was, said Marvin.

I shook my head. Such a shame she wasted all those years with you. Marvin laughed again. We have the same sense of humor, he said. We should spend more time together. I stood up, wiped the sand from my legs and hands, and uttered the most honest thing I'd said to Marvin since I met him. That sounds awful.

Marvin smiled, and we walked back to our rooms. And after that moment, he never bothered me again. I'd wasted three days trying to be polite to someone I couldn't stand and nearly ruined another vacation. But by finally being the ass I really am, I'd saved it.

I was cordial enough. Marvin waved when I saw him in the TV room, telling Holocaust stories to the young couple who checked in that evening, and I waved back. He nodded when I saw him at breakfast the following morning, telling a pair of young waitresses about mass graves in Sobibor, and I nodded back.

And then we finished our breakfast. And my wife took my hand in hers, and she smiled at me, and I smiled at her. And together, we walked arm in arm to watch the sun still rising over the unspoiled beach below.

Ira Glass

Shalom Auslander. He's the author most recently of the memoir Feh.

["BE CAREFUL OF THE STONES YOU THROW" BY SHIRLEY CAESAR]

Ira Glass

Well, our program was produced today by Robyn Semien and myself with Alex Blumberg, Jane Marie, Lisa Pollak, Alissa Shipp, and Nancy Updike. Our senior producer for today's show, Julie Snyder. Music help from Jessica Hopper. Help on today's rerun from Suzanne Gaber and Stowe Nelson.

Special thanks today to Kim Heavner and Katie Stallman at Open Adoption and Family Services. The adoption agency in the Pacific Northwest had hooked us up with Kim in Act 3. Their website, openadopt.org. Thanks also to [? Don ?] [? Friedman ?] and Lea Thau, Catherine Burns and Meg McIntyre of The Moth.

Our website, thisamericanlife.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. Torey Malatia, who joins me right now in the studio today. Torey, get a little closer to the microphone. OK? Hey, are you feeling OK?

Shalom Auslander

[COUGHING]

[HACKING]

Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life.

Shalom Auslander

[HACKING]