Transcript of 873: Got You Pegged

A quick warning. There are curse words that are unbeaped in today's episode of the show. If you prefer a beeped version, you can find that at our website, thisamericanlife. Org. Okay. 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? 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. Just to give you a sense of who the characters are in this story, Amy's brother is autistic, and he is developmentally disabled.

If you had to picture Ben, I would say, picture this really handsome star athlete-looking guy who has an age of maybe 5 to 8 years old and loves dinosaurs.

Sir 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.

In Germany, not only were the classes in German, but we were also using all of these graduate textbooks. But But she was really nice, and she just listened to me the whole way over.

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.

During all of this, one of the things that they had been really pushing, they had these new computers that were installed. They were computers designed to walk kids through making a really neat identification card. They were all really excited about this. I think they must have just gone live the day before we came because they were all just, make sure you use our ID computers We're so excited about this, and you get to print out your ID and pick it up at the front desk. When we walk out onto the actual museum part, my brother and I walk around, and he shows me some of his favorite exhibits. This staff member comes up to me and he says, Have you made your ID yet?

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

Then it occurred to me, Oh, well, maybe he's hitting on me a little bit.

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.

I mean, I almost wonder if maybe that was why I was almost paralyzed with confusion. It's really rare to meet people who don't use some special voice with the mentally disabled. This slightly higher-pitched, slightly, I know you're a special person, a voice. So it was so strange.

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.

So the question is, type in your age. Okay, so I'm 21 years old at the time. So I'm thinking, I can type in 21 and he'll realize that I can't be a student and we can just both pretend like we understood what was going on this whole time. So I type in 21. And he looks at me and he looks at the age and he says, Oh, Amy, if your age is a number that ends in teen, then that number starts with a one.

So he just assumes you've typed wrong.

Yeah. But I haven't. So at that point, I decide that instead Instead of saying, Okay, actually, I am 21, and then letting that fold out however it would have, I erase what I typed, and I type in 18.

Why?

I don't know. I mean, I thought, how many more questions could there possibly be? I've already told them everything about myself, how much I weigh, and I thought, well, this is just going to be a couple more questions, and then it'll take a photo of me, and then it'll be done. And then he'll never have to know.

He's a stranger. You're in a museum. This will be over in a minute. You can walk away. Who cares?

Exactly. I felt like it was the lesser of two evils at that point.

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.

And while I'm fast as I can, I'm skimming these questions, trying to get through these. He starts reading them to me out loud, word for word. I'm melting into my chair, and I'm thinking, This is too much. This is way too much of a deception. I have to somehow stop him. So I did. I said, Oh, I can read. And he looks at me. He puts his hand on my back and he says, is, your parents must be so proud of you. So as you might imagine, I'm working really hard to skim through these questions. It's this quick... I'm a blur of activity. I'm just trying to get through these questions so I can get out of this room and escape. And as I'm working through these questions as fast as I can, I see my brother's teacher walking towards me, and she says, Hey, Amy, how's it going?

And you're thinking like, Oh, my God, what's going to happen?

Oh, yeah. And then it happens. He points to me and he says, again, voice full of admiration and pride. And he says, Amy was just telling me that she can read.

And how does the teacher take this news?

Oh, my gosh. So this teacher who I'd been complaining to about these graduate-level classes in German. She looks at him and she says, Of course, Amy can read.

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 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 Book Radio, It's This American Life. I'm Eric 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 FourX, and it is quite a lineup. Richard Price, David Rackoff, Shalom Al-Slander, and Nancy Opdijk. Stay with us. This message comes from Wise, the app for using money around the globe. When you manage your money with Wise, you'll always get the mid-market exchange rate with no hidden fees.

Join millions of customers and visit wise. Com. T's and C's apply.

Our Common Nature is a musical journey with Yoyo Ma and me, Ana Gonzales, through this complicated country.

We go into caves.

Onto boats and up mountain trails to meet people, hear their stories, their poetry, and of course, play some music, all to reconnect to nature and get closer to the things we're missing.

Listen Listen to Our Common Nature from Wnyc, wherever you get podcasts. This is American Life. Today's show is a rerun, Act One, 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.

In the last novel I wrote, I spent a lot of time on the Lower East Side. And as is my want, I wound up in the back of police cars a lot. And 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. What they do is they 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. If the car looks like a $200 shit box or somebody's got an Afro or a ponytail, they 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. And so worse comes to worse. It's fishing, really. It's a big fishing hole, DeLancy Street. And so I spent all night in this bogus taxi with about 850 pounds of white beef. And it's the end of the night. They made their collars.

And there are two cops up 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 debate. 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 Miller time. As they're going up, they pass a black guy about 30 years old, with dreads on a bicycle. And on the crossbar, he's got a white kid about 9, 10 years old. And the black guy and the white kid, they're chatting. The kids are looking up at the guy. They look like they're familiar with each other. And the cops drive by And they're dead silent. After about a block, one guy says to the other, he says, Hey, Big guy, does that look fishy to you? He says, It's fucking midnight. What's going on here? He says, 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. Bikes coming up, Essex. They step, one of the cop steps in the road, puts his hand down, says, Hey, how are you doing?

Get off the bike, please. The black guy gets off the bike and he goes, Hey, officers. It's an unexpected treat. Hi, what's up? And he says, Do you ever hear of helmets? Oh, yeah, gee, I'm really sorry. At which point The other cop says to the little white kid, Hey, big guy, what's your name? Noa Rosenberg. Like he's not sure. He says, Hey, Noah, come here, buddy. Come on over here. And he separates the two. I'm hopping in between the two conversations at this point. 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 said, Don't look at him. Look at me. No, I was just picking from a play date. Did I ask you that? No, you understand? I worked at the bar at Schillers. Again, did I ask you that? Well, no. He said, Why are you trying to divert me? He said, I'm not. Go down the same road as me. He goes, Okay. He gives him the ID, at which point he waves to the kid and he goes, Oh, what did I just say to you?

He said, No, I'm really sorry. It's Noah. He's wound a little tight. He says, Oh, really? He said, Have a seat. He points to the curb and he makes the guy sit on a 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 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. And a cop says, Well, you must get that a lot. The kid says, 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. I said, Well, that's great. 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? I live with my mom.

And she goes, Who's that over there? And 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. Oh, do you know him for long? I said, Well, yeah, like one, one and a quarter years. He's 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. So he knows your mom? And he says, Well, yeah, he and my mom are like friends. I said, What? Kind of like? He said, Well, they have sleepover dates? And he says, So your mom knows that you're with him now? She says, Well, my mom sent him to pick me up. My dad lives in Woodstock. Okay, at which point I'm going, Okay, let's see what's happening with Cleve. I walk over there and Cleve sitting on the... He's sitting on the 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. This is humiliating his shit. He's 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, 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, that's where I went. And the cop goes, Oh, Walee Zerbiak, who is this big basketball player. And he goes, Well, yeah, Walee was a little before my time. So, 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. He says, You know what? It's amazing. I keep waiting for that sport to blow up, but I don't think it's... Cleveland's going, Yeah, that's amazing. He's sitting, he's wiking it. At which point, a Mustang comes by with two black guys in it, and up Essex.

The guy in the shotgun seat looks at the windows and he sees Cleveland sitting on a curb, and he starts yelling out, Homeboy to base, Homeboy to base. We got a black man down. I repeat, a black man down. And he's laughing his ass off, and the Mustang floors it. Cleveland's squinting, and he's just looking the other way. He's just mortified. Then hopping back to the other cop with the kid, he says, So no, 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. He says, Mostly with your mom, I guess, huh? He says, And by myself? He said, Oh, really? What do you do there? He says, Well, sometimes we walk his dog. It's a Rodige and Ridgeback named Mars. One time, he tried to teach me how to make scramble eggs, but I don't really like his oven because you like the pilot match, and it goes, and it scares me. He says, One time, my mom had to go to court in Woodstock, and I stayed with Cleveland for three days.

He said, In court? He said, Yeah, three days? He said, Yeah. He said, But mostly, I'd say 82 and a half 100% 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 wet, like steel. And the kid starts breathing 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, You know what that is? He says, Yeah, it's a police badge. He says, You know what What does 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 a 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 kids 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, you want Can I put this to rest? I tell you what, I'm reaching for my cell phone in here. He says, 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. She says, What's her name? She goes, Adina.

And he calls across to the other cop. Get the kid's mother's name. And the kid, through sobs, is going, Adina. And Cleveland gives the cop the mother's number. The cop calls, and he says, Hey, how are you doing? This is Sergeant Daley from the seventh Precinct. Who am I speaking to? And she goes, Oh, my God, Adina 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. Where is he? What happened? She's supposed to be with Cleveland. She's supposed to be taking him home from a play date. What happened? What happened? What happened? Well, no, he's fine. Okay, 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. And the cop's going, The cops going, No, the kid's great. The kid's fine. The only thing is like they were riding without helmets, and it's a serious safety violation. They're just going, Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus. She's, No, okay, don't worry about it. All right, good night. Have a good night.

And he hangs up, at which point they bring Cleveland and Noah together again, and they give him this half-ass lecture on bicycle safety. And he says, I'm supposed I'm supposed to write you up, but I'm going to give you a pass this time. Cleveland is still 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, shutter withdrawal. And Cleveland's talk him down as he 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? The other guy says, What's that big guy? He says, Still feels fishy to me. And the other cop says, Hey, we gave it a shot, man. That's all we can do. Thank you.

Richard Price is what his 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 heard at themoth. Org, or find it wherever you get your podcast. Act Two. Yes, no, or baby. Well, there's a simple road designed to help us all fight the urge to pigeonhole other people based on a first impression. 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 scolty 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.

Anyone who's not a megalomaniak feels daunted by the prospect of having to separate a group of strangers into a yes pile and a no pile. Kim Schwerry is seven months pregnant, and she's facing on her coffee table in Seattle, dozens 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.

A lot of the hobbies are similar, just hiking. It's couples from the Northwest, too. I'm sure that's common. You Even just this page, hiking, snowshoeing, camping.

If you turn to the next page, is there also a hiking part?

Let's see, probably. Oh, yes. Hiking. There you go.

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 like super high stakes online dating. Judging people is required. Kim goes back and forth between practical considerations and pure gut checks.

Here's something. This couple has another child, and they're talking I don't know. They use child talk when they're talking about him. It says something about kissing his booboo's or something, and that... I don't know. I don't like that very much.

Kim ends up liking a different 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.

These guys, I could see them working 50, 60 hours a week because of their careers.

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

I'm wondering exactly what that meant. There's this whole packet of information, and then I'll focus on this sentence that maybe I don't like. And that makes me feel like I'm really judgmental when I do this. And sometimes that doesn't always feel good. See, and this is something really small, but for some reason, it says, The opportunity to have a relationship with the child's biological heritage is very important, including medical history. I just... That feels weird to me.

It's a It's a little clinical.

Right. It is a little clinical. I want to be more than medical records.

So that put you off right there?

Yeah. It goes back to that judgmental thing, because I've written things, and maybe that's not how they meant to portray themselves, but it does, like you said, sound very clinical. Yeah.

Just like Kim's having to quickly peg these families, extrapolating all sorts of important things from just words on a page and a 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. 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.

I mean, you're really vulnerable when you're pregnant and you're vulnerable to judgment, I guess. People are very prone to once you say what you're doing, they tell what they would do and not do. And they want to be like, Oh, I think you're going to be really upset, and I think this, and I'm like, No, I think maybe you're the one who's upset, not me.

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.

People feel that if you're adopted, that you have this great sense of loss or you You just don't know who you are and there's some identity, there's an identity crisis and you feel abandoned. That's not how I felt with my experience. Being adopted. Being adopted, exactly. I felt very loved by my parents. Like, the baby's father told me that he thought that... I don't know why he said this, but he said that... Or he assumed and said this, that he was so much closer to his parents I was to mine, which isn't true at all. It's just that's how he felt things must be.

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 an apartment, a good job.

Right. I'm in a situation where it would be very feasible that I would raise the child on my own, so it's probably harder to understand.

Okay, so When people are making that judgment about you. What don't they know about you that would make them understand?

I don't know. I have this unusual circumstance that I was engaged in my fiancé, passed away. And after that, I think I was lonely and looking for someone, and I feel like I made a mistake, you know? And I'm... You know, I still miss my fiancé and think about him all the time, and I just, I don't feel like I'm emotionally ready to raise a child. You know, I feel like I could, but I just feel like it's not the right time. And, you know.

Especially if it's, if it's something that you guys talked about doing together and who you are.

Exactly. I mean, we're always going to have kids together and, here I single and pregnant with some guy. He's just an insignificant fellow. It certainly isn't... Things aren't going the way that they were supposed to or as planned.

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.

Nancy Optec is one of the producers of our program. Act 3, Isn't It Romantic? Our show today is about people me to conclusions about what others are like. What we turn to now is corny, stereotyped ideas people have, and in this case, put into Broadway shows. The story is about a iconic old musical, the show Rent. When that show came out in the 1990s, one of our contributors, David Rackoff, 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 Rackoff had been a New Yorker in his 20s during the same era depicted in that show, and he thought the play made some mistakes.

There are 525,600 minutes in a year. I learned that from watching Rent. 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 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. The characters are artists, creative types. They have tatter de Mellian 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. 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's 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 of 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 platon and toss it behind you, cut to a waste paper basket overflowing with crumpled paper. Here's what they do in rent to show that they are creative. Nothing. They do nothing. They hang out. And hanging out can be marvelous, but hanging out does not make you an artist. A second-hand wardrobe does not make you an artist. Neither do a hair-triggered 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. They can help. But just as being gay does not make one witty, you can suck a mile of cock. It does not make you Oscar Wild. Believe me, I know I have tried. The only thing that makes you an artist is making art, and that takes the opposite of hanging out. 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. When they sing the title Anthem of the show, We're not going to Pay this Year's Rent, followed by a barked cheer of, Rent, rent, rent, rent, rent, Rent.

My only question is, well, why aren't you going to pay this year's rent? 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. 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 couch house in the 19th century. In 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, I don't know, if I were 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 to make any noise while desperately looking for a knothole in the crappy floorboards. 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. 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.

The late David Rackoff, 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. This message comes from Wise, the app for using money around the globe. When you manage your money with Wise, you'll always get the mid-market exchange rate with no hidden fees.

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It's a It's American Life, Amara Class. 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 Al-Sander has our story.

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 Anguila, 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 Anguila, so I was anxious to see how far I'd come. The resort was far more expensive than we could afford. I suspect I expected 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 outlet 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. Pelican 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 died. 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 onto 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, 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. Who, boy, did she hate him? Aha, I said. I looked toward the beach and could see my wife and son running down to the water with his pale 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. A 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 skedad battle.

My wife was beautiful, too. , 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. 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 you're 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 cat skills. Yeah, I think it was the cat skills. My wife and I used to take our kids up there when they were younger.

Okay, 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 okay, 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 the lounge chair underneath the stars. I love you, said my wife. I love you, too, I answered. Came the sound from next door. 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.

I woke 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. Okay, 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 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 Marvin's. 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 Bergenbelsen, but that's not where she died. She died in Auschwitz with my father, probably a pneumonia. That's what I heard. My father was shot. The Nazis shot him. I know this from some people in Miami 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 seathed. 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 hand 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. Okay, 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 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. Gerbels is. Blame Gerbels. 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, okay? 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 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, peaked 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, Sean, 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 prove 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 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 day break, 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 He jumped 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. It's 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 and arm to watch the sun still rising over the unspoiled beach below.

Jolanne Hauslander.

He's the author, most recently, of the memoir, Fee.

Oh, Tom can accuse and carry bad news.

Seeds of distrust, it will so.

But unless you make no mistakes in your life, you better be careful of the stones that you throw.

Our program is produced today by Robin Simeon and myself with Alex Bloomberg, Jane Marie, Lisa Pollack, Alyssa Shipp, and Nancy Opdike, our Senior Producer for today's show, Julie Snyder. Music help from Jessica Hopper. Out on today's rerun from Suzanne Gabber and Stone Nelson. Special thanks today to Kim Hevener and Katie Stahlman at Open Adoption and Family Services, the adoption agency in the Pacific Northwest that hooked us up with Kim in Act 3. Their website, openadopt. Org. Thanks also to Don Freeman and Lea Tau, Katherine Burns, and Meg McEntire 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. Tori Maletiu. He joins me right now in the studio today. Tori, get a little closer to the microphone. Okay? Hey, are you feeling okay? I'm out of a glass. Back next week with more stories of this American Life.

You better be careful.

On the snow that you throw.

Next week on the podcast of This American Life, there's a spot in Mackenzie and Isabella's house that's perfect for eavesdropping on their parents. It's a small sitting nook on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs.

So you can hear everything that's going on, or you sit in the rocking jail, it's right across the door.

So it's like they'll have the door closed and you can hear murmurs.

We're in the shadow. I know what's going on, but I don't know exact things.

What they've been overhearing for the last year and what they think of it. Next week on the podcast, on your local public radio station.