As if reading my thoughts, she nodded grimly. It didn’t occur to me then that Michelle might have been staging this confession—with Ira in that bookcase like a shriver in his booth—for my own sake. That she believed it would clear my conscience to express remorse; or else make me seem—to Ira and to listeners—like the mature, compassionate, sensitive man she knew I had it in me to be. This did not occur to me. All I was thinking, at that moment, was that she was out to humiliate me. She wouldn’t quit until the bookcase story was unsalvageable, I thought. And it wouldn’t be enough for me to just admit my guilt. No, then—on top of that—I’d have to charitably consider all of Fredricka’s possible motives. Maybe she had her reasons for stiffing me seventy dollars, I would have to concede. Maybe she was broke. Maybe she was bulimic! I tried to picture Fredricka listening to TAL in a few weeks’ time, hearing my voice again as I narrated all this. Hearing me shriek—again—‘I HOPE YOUR SON ROTS IN HELL!’ If she ever told the story herself, this was almost certainly the way it concluded: That time, after my son died. And a strange young man moved into his bedroom. And terrorized me. This was the story Michelle wanted me to tell. She expected me to broadcast Fredricka’s version to the whole world, preserving it for posterity in a podcast. I gritted my teeth. The thought of just laying the story, my story, at her feet like that—I couldn’t.

Yet Ira and Michelle were both watching me, waiting. I had to say something. And here’s the thing: part of me would have been happy to confess, so long as it never left that room. Part of me really did want to be the man Michelle wanted me to be. I quickly weighed the likelihood of Ira’s ever actually airing it. He was still cramped inside the bookcase, waggling the microphone, and I remembered that mine was the story he was here to hear today. Michelle had said as much herself, q.v. prong number three: I was supposed to be the sincere, relatable narrator. TAL’s listeners didn’t want a callous bully for a protagonist. If I deviated too far from this script—if I divulged certain cruelties to Ira—he could be trusted to just edit them out in post. Any mean-spirited or unsympathetic or unflattering footage of me would be left on the cutting-room floor, along with the flubs. And to be entirely safe, I could always email him afterward, asking him to delete it.

I cleared my throat. Ira smiled encouragingly, aiming the microphone at me. The green light winked. The important thing to remember, I remember telling myself, is that I am not this story. This story isn’t me. I can confess it to Ira, and no one else will ever hear it. I breathed. ‘It was my last day in the apartment,’ I began.

5.

Well, our program was produced today by Robyn Semien and myself, with Alex Blumberg, Ben Calhoun, Jane Feltes, Sarah Koenig, Jonathan Menjivar, Lisa Pollak, Alissa Shipp, and Nancy Updike. Our senior producer is Julie Snyder. Production help from Eric Mennel. Music help from Jessica Hopper. Seth Lind is our production manager. Emily Condon is our office manager. Our website, where you can get our free weekly podcast: thisamericanlife.org. This American Life is distributed by Public Radio International. WBEZ management oversight for our show by our boss, Mr. Torey Malatia, who became very angry this morning, when I suggested we try a bring-your-child-to-work day. Nancy Updike just wanted to show her son the office, and here, here’s what he said to her: ‘I HOPE YOUR SON ROTS IN HELL!’ I’m Ira Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life.