[“Charlie on the MTA in D” plays.]
[“Charlie” fades out.]
[Train/station noises in Red Line.]
Well, good morning, Wanda!
[A cat purrs.]
And there’s little Delilah. How are you this morning, Delilah?
Ain’t nothing good about morning. It’s shit. It’s a shitty morning. And now you’re bringing me bills that I gotta pay. Gotta send off my hard-earned money that I earned workin’ at the bowling alley. That seem good to you?
Well, now, it’s not all bills. Look, you got your Cat Fancy magazine, and you got yourself a letter.
A letter? You stupid or something? Nobody sends me letters. Must be a scam.
Says here it’s from a Michael Tate feller. Now, isn’t he the guy I saw on the TV? Got himself locked in an office somewhere?
Yeah, I saw that. Used to work with the guy, same office. Funny that he ain’t dead. Thought for sure… lost fifty bucks on that. He sent me a letter?
You betcha. Got his name right here in the corner.
Fine, gimme the fucking mail.
Absolutely! Here you go.
Now get the fuck off my stoop… platform… whatever the fuck you want to call it.
Sure thing, Ms. McIntosh. Have a good one!
[Bernie exits. Door shuts.]
[Wanda opens envelope.]
Michael Tate—James Oliva
You’re probably surprised to be hearing from me. If things go the way I expect them to go, I will already be dead by the time you receive this letter. I have spent these past months locked in the secret office of the publisher atop the ThirdSight offices. There is a secret elevator behind the kombucha machine, but I don’t know the passcode.
You’re probably confused as to why I would send you one of my farewell letters as I sit here waiting to die.
We were never close. We only ever spoke to each other a few times, usually when I had made some minor mistake that inconvenienced you. Your descriptions of my flaws and failings were always colorful and very, very loud. This hasn’t stopped with the end of our time working together at ThirdSight. I saw you on the news, speculating about where I might be, how I might have ended up. I want to assure you that, although it seems likely that I am going to die, I did not, in fact, drink myself to death. I did not fall into a dumpster. I was not eaten by rats. I am simply alone. Alone and sober.
[Introspective music plays.]
And yet, I have always appreciated your forthrightness, if not your lack of kindness. You are brutal in your summations of the character of the people in your life. But it was a brutality that washed harmlessly over me, unlike the unkind remarks of so many kinder people in my life. I have genuinely wondered why that was. Why you, of all people, have so little power to hurt me. And I think I’ve figured it out. For all that you can always spare an unkind word for those around you, you are no less unkind to yourself. You are an unhappy person, and you are committed to maintaining your unhappiness. I think you take pride in it. Or at least take comfort in letting go of the desire to change it. I expect most people would say that you are the source of your own misery and therefore undeserving of sympathy. And that would be fair. No one owes you any kindness, and you certainly haven’t earned any.
And yet, I still wish you happiness. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of everyone else around you, who would benefit if you were to cease sharing your own misery with the world. But no—for your own sake too.
I wish you happiness, Wanda. I want that for you. I hope you’ll open yourself to the possibility of it.
If I have not already been found, I hope you will take a moment to alert the authorities that my body can be found in the secret upstairs office at ThirdSight Media.
I love you, Wanda.
[Introspective music fades. Red Line noises fade back in.]
Huh. Well, what the shit was that about? Jesus mother-loving Christ. This guy. What does he know about me? Happiness. Like there’s ever anything to be happy about. I bet he’s never even seen the inside of a bowling alley, or he wouldn’t be going on about freakin’ happiness.
And what does that even mean, that I ain’t earned any kindness? Like I’m some kinda bad person or something. I ain’t no bad person—I go ta’ church! What, because I say things how they are, that’s a problem? Telling the truth is a sin now? Nah—lying! Lying is the sin. And who’s the liar here, me or the guy who says he’s dying, but I seen him on my TV not two days ago? He wasn’t dying. Probably just drunk. That’s why he couldn’t get out of the office—too drunk to work a doorknob. Secret kam-bucha door my ass. Right?
Right. Fuckin’ alchy.
Oh, that reminds me, Christmas is coming. I oughta get Bernie a bottle a’ something. Maybe some a’ that Frangelico. Do Jews drink Frangelico? Are has-elnuts kosher?
Yeah, whatever. He can drink it or he can shove it up his ass, what do I care?
Yeah, Delilah, I know his ass is real cute. So what?
No, you like him.
[More insistent meow.]
Shut up. Fuckin’ cat. Jesus!
[Introspective music fades in.]
Greater Boston is written and produced by Alexander Danner and Jeff Van Dreason with additional support from Jordan Higgs, TH Ponders, Bob Raymonda, and Jordan Stillman. Recording and technical assistance from Marck Harmon.
This episode featured:
- Josh Rubino as Bernie
- Tanja Milojevic as Wanda
- and James Oliva as Michael Tate.
“Charlie on the MTA” performed by Emily Petersen and Dirk Tiede.
Transcripts available at GreaterBostonShow.com
We’ll be back on the first Tuesday of next month with another mini-episode as we continue to work on Season 4.
An update on our Patreon—we have decided to start it back up again and make it a monthly charge rather than a per-creation charge for regular episodes. There are several reasons for this, including that we’ve expanded our writing team and are moving to pay actors per performance rather than after the season.
The bottom line is: this show costs money to make and has become more expensive as we’ve grown, so for it to be sustainable, we need to bring in regular income to pay musicians, writers, staff, and actors year-round.
So if you support us on Patreon, please keep an eye on changes in the beginning of June to the tiers. We are restructuring them, and you’ll need to select a new tier before July. Thank you for your continued support.
[Introspective music fades out.]
Secret Kombucha door ass, right?