Host: Jenifer Hixson
[Uncanny Valley theme music by The Drift]
Jenifer: [00:00:12] From PRX, this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jenifer Hixson from The Moth, and I'll be your host this time.
At The Moth, we ask people to share their most personal stories live in front of strangers. In this hour, we'll hear about a little girl who believed a single chocolate bar was the cause of her family's greatest anguish, a documentary filmmaker who got caught up chasing someone else's dream, and this first story about a mother who loved her son so much she had him immortalized in clay.
Jay Martel is a writer from California. When he pitched this story to me, I was hooked from the very first line. Here's Jay, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Jay: [00:00:54] When I was 18 years old, my mother paid a sculptor to make a clay bust of my head. [audience laughter] Strangely enough, I don't remember thinking there was anything bizarre about the head. [audience laughter] But the head is definitely bizarre. It's big, it's slightly larger than life-size, and incredibly heavy. 40 pounds of solid brown clay. It also has these flowing Peter Frampton locks, [audience chuckles] and the smug expression that I wore through most of my teens. Imagine a bust of Alexander the Great looking really judgmental and really, really high. [audience laughter] To me, it's a reminder of everything unlikable about me at that age. Its mere existence is a monument to my youthful self-absorption and narcissism. I never liked the head.
After it was made, I went off to college and then moved to New York to try to make it as a writer. My mother spent the next 25 years moving the head around from place to place through three different marriages, nine different houses and apartments. I never really thought about the head until a few years ago, my wife Sarah and I were visiting my mother and her third husband, my stepfather, Stuart. We're chatting amicably in the living room, and then I suddenly noticed that over there on the bureau where my head used to be, there was nothing there. I asked my mom about it. She said that Stuart found the head mildly disturbing, [audience laughter] and that she'd moved it into the garage, and that since I'm here, I might as well take it home with me, [audience laughter] conveniently forgetting that I never liked the head to begin with.
So, Sarah and I walk into the garage, and we look around, and there, next to the weed whacker, there's this big brown cardboard box marked neatly with black Sharpie on the side, "Jay's Head." [audience laughter] My mother's very organized. We open it up and look down at it. And sure enough, my head looking up at us, still 18, still smug. I turn to my wife and say, joking, "So, you want it?" She says a little too quickly, "No," [audience laughter] which is the right answer, right? I mean, why would I want to be in a relationship with someone who liked my creepy clay head? [audience laughter] But I still couldn't help but feel rejected. [audience laughter] There's a piece of me in my mother's garage that nobody wanted. It's like a mutant child in the basement. Anyway, we left the head in the garage.
Then, two years after that, my mother and Stuart got divorced, and it was very acrimonious, and she moved out of the house that they shared. She called me afterwards and said, "You know, there are some things that I wasn't able to take with me in the move, and you should feel free to pick them up if you want them." And I said, "Like, what?" And she said, "Oh, those paintings that Aunt Lorna gave us?" "I don't need any more art, Mom." "There's also the big fan, your head, box of Christmas ornaments." [audience laughter] “Wait a second, you left my head in Stuart's garage?" [audience laughter]
I instantly have these fantasies of Stuart channeling all his rage against my mother into the clay bust of me as an 18-year-old, like smashing it to smithereens with a nine iron or sliding it off his roof and watching it smash on the sidewalk, or covering it with female dog hormone and putting it out on the sidewalk. [audience laughter] Anyway, I figure that's it. I mean, that's the good news. I don't have to worry about the head anymore, except my stepfather didn't destroy it. In fact, thinking he was doing me a favor, one day he drives it in his car over to my dad's house and leaves it there.
So, I get this call late one night out of the blue, and said, "Hey, Jay, it's Dad. Stuart came by with your head earlier today, [audience laughter] and we're wondering when you were going to come by and pick it up." [audience laughter] And of course, at this point, I'm thinking, like, “God, this head is like my monkey's paw. It's like the head that won't go away.” And I tell him, I said, "Dad, I got a lot of work right now. I can't just drop everything and go up and pick up the head. Can you just hold onto it for a while?" And he says, "You know, your stepmother and I are really trying to reduce clutter in our home. [audience laughter] I think we both really appreciate it if you got it as soon as possible."
Now, this rejection of the head hurts me more than any of the other head rejections. More than my wife scoffing at the mere idea of taking it home, or my mother leaving it in her ex-husband's garage, because my father left us when I was 10. As a result, his approval has always been something that I desired more than anyone else's, because it's been so elusive. And so, this really sticks with me. And I say, "Dad, this is going to sound completely ridiculous, but it hurts my feelings that you don't want my head." [audience laughter] And he says, "I know exactly what you mean." I think for a second, “This is great. We've reached this whole new level of father-son understanding.” And then he says, "There's a painting of me in the downstairs closet that nobody wants." [audience laughter]
And I know immediately the painting he's talking about. It's a portrait that my grandmother had made of him when he was 20 years old. [audience laughter] She had it hanging over her fireplace until she died. “I don't want it, you know?” [audience laughter] And so, it seems like we've reached this standoff where neither one of us wants to take each other's crappy art. So, I say, "Look, Dad, do whatever you want with it. Okay, throw it away. I can't deal with it," and I hang up the phone, I go to sleep. I have a very fitful night's sleep, tossing and turning. I wake up the next morning, and I think, “I'm going to go get that head [audience laughter] and I'm going to drive it to my dad's and get it.” My rationale is, if somebody's going to throw this thing away, it should be me.
And so, I get up there. By the time I get up there, my dad's already put it in his basement. And to get into the basement in my dad's house, there's this little door in the back of the house. You have to crouch down to get through the door, and I do that. I go in there. I'm in the basement, and there's the head staring smugly at the water heater. I go over and I pick it up, and it's even heavier than I remember. It's like, it gets its gravity from Jupiter or something. It really weighs a lot. I'm carrying it across the basement, and I hunch down to get back through that little door, and part of my spine just goes, "Ping." It's just like my back just says, "Screw it. I hate you. Die." [audience laughter] [audience laughter]
I stagger out of this door into the sunlight, blinded by pain, and smack my head. My actual head on this tree branch and I drop it. I drop the head. And for a moment, I think, "Thank God, I'm free, it's over." [audience laughter] But then, I look down and the head is perfectly intact. [audience laughter] I don't know, it's made of kryptonite or something. Staring up at me with that smirk. It's like, it's saying to me, "You're old, dude." [audience laughter] So, I pick it up and I put it in the car. My first impulse is to go straight to the nearest dumpster or garbage can and throw it away. But no, there's just something about imagining the head piled under these dirty diapers, and coffee filters, and banana peels.
I mean, it is still me as an 18-year-old, I got to figure out what to do with it. So, I take it home, and I walk in the house, and I put it on the kitchen counter, and I hear this low, unearthly growling. [growling sound] [audience laughter] I look down and my dog, Walter, [audience laughter] is glaring at the head, all the hair on his back standing on end. [audience laughter] I've never heard a noise like this. It's like that scene in The Omen when the animals all go crazy on the devil child. And then, my wife walks in, she goes, "Hey, what are you doing with that?" I say, "Throwing it away, I guess." She goes, "Okay," and walks out. I want her to say, "No, don't throw that away. That's a valuable family treasure. That's a part of your history." I am so desperate for one person to like my head, which is crazy, because I don't like it and it's me. [audience laughter]
So, I call my mom. If I can figure out why the head was made in the first place, I can figure out what to do with it now. So, I call my mom and I ask her. And she says, "Well, you were leaving home, and I was surprised how much that upset me. After your dad left, you were my anchor. You were the only person I could count on. I thought that maybe having a piece of you would help me get through that time. And it did. At some point, I just didn't need it anymore." And then, she adds, "It's very heavy." [audience laughter]
So, what I got from this, is that the head is the product of a really difficult time in my family's life. My mother basically dealt with my father leaving by creating a cult of personality with me as the personality and her as the cult. [audience laughter] Finally, she'd been able to leave, which is a good thing. I mean, cults are very hard to leave. My wife and my dad had never been part of the cult, which is also a really good thing. Although, to be honest, I wish my dad had spent a couple years at the ashram. [audience laughter]
I don't think I really understood the head fully, though, until a few months after that call when our daughter Cleo was born. I realized when I held her that I'd started my own cult, basically, it was happening to me. I heedlessly and recklessly loved this individual for no other reason than that she was alive. And as for the head, I found a place for it in my garage between some fertilizer and a bag of dead batteries. I think I've finally come to accept my place in a long chain of children destined to hold on to crappy art commissioned by their parents. [audience laughter] Cleo's going to have it a lot easier, though. We're going to keep her head digital. [audience laughter] Thanks.
[cheers and applause]
Jenifer: [00:13:30] That was Jay Martel. He's a comedy writer, and won an Emmy for his work on the Comedy Central show Key & Peele. He also works in print, and you may have read him in The New Yorker, Spy, or Rolling Stone. Or, you can also check out his novel Channel Blue. To see a picture of Jay with Jay's head, go to our website, themoth.org. Personally, I think the head is cute and would be tempted to buy it at a garage sale.
[Lines on My Face by Peter Frampton]
When we come back, a child's burden of guilt carried for over 40 years.
[Lines on My Face by Peter Frampton]
Jay Allison: [00:14:31] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
Jenifer: [00:14:39] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jenifer Hixson. This next story is from Alexandra Rosas, who we first discovered on The Moth pitch line. She's from the Milwaukee area, but told this story for us at a show in Oklahoma. Here's Alexandra, live at The Moth.
[applause]
Alexandra: [00:15:00] It's Thanksgiving, 1965. I'm barely five years old, and my family has just immigrated to the United States from Colombia, South America. All right, Colombia. It gets better. [audience laughter] My mother wants to assimilate quickly, and she hits the ground running. Her English is strong, and she gets a good job right away. My father spends his Sunday afternoons at Brown Deer Park. It's a bicycle racetrack. My father has this beautiful silver Cinelli bike. It's the only thing that he's brought from Colombia with him, and he races there.
Now, my mother wants to do what all Americans are doing on that day. She wants to celebrate Thanksgiving. My father doesn't understand, but when my mother asks him to go to the store and get groceries, he does. As he's about to leave, I hear them having a loud discussion, something about his job. Now, I love my father. But with five brothers and sisters, I have to find a way to get him to myself. So, I become his voice, his translator. And he takes me everywhere. We're getting ready to go, and I'm so excited because errand day with my father means that I get him to myself, and we also both get our special treatment. We stop at a tavern.
Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, I'm from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. You take your kids to taverns. And in the 1960s, there's a tavern on every corner, and there are places that feel more like living rooms than anywhere else, and they have fantastic names like Chuck's Place, George's on the Tracks, Ted and Betty's. My favorite, The Office. Because you can lie about where you are, [audience laughter]; but you're still telling the truth. [audience laughter] So, I love that place. I love taverns. My dad gets his special treat, a tap beer, and I get my full-size Hershey candy bar.
Now, in a house with six kids, candy bars don't happen, especially full-size candy bars. And if a candy bar does come into our house, it's divided into six pieces. Six teeny-tiny pieces, one for every kid, but not on errand day. So, we go to the store. I'm flying through it. I know where everything is, and I'm, "Come on, Papa, come on." Because I want to get to that tavern. We go up to checkout like we usually do, but this time something happens. My dad reaches in his pocket to get his wallet, but then he puts his wallet back in, and we have to leave our groceries there.
Now, I don't understand what's happening, but as long as the tavern happens, I don't care if we have food at home. [audience chuckles] I also don't want to question it, because I want to get to the tavern. So, we get to the car and we're driving. I'm hoping, hoping, hoping that we get to the tavern. When I see my dad slow down in front of a white sign with black letters with a picture of a typewriter underneath, I know we're at The Office.
So, my dad parks the car, and he takes my hand and we walk in. And our usual plan is, he takes off my coat, he sets me up on the bar, and I smell this wonderful, yeasty smell of beer. I love the whole dim light, and the way the sunlight barely comes in, and the dust motes are swirling in the air, and there's all this yeast from beer, I love it. So, we sit down at the bar, and my dad orders his tap beer, and I'm waiting for him to give me the clue to ask for my candy bar. But he doesn't say anything. So, I lean in closer and I say, "Papa, mi dulce. Papa, my candy.” But he just takes this long pull on his cigarette, and he doesn't say anything. So, I have to get bolder. "Papi, mi chocolate." Nothing. He says nothing.
There's an older man nursing his beer. He's up a few bar stools away, and I see that he's watching us. The older man motions to the bartender to get me a candy bar. So, the bartender reaches from behind, and he sets the candy bar right next to me, and it sits between me and my dad. Now, I stare at the brown wrapper. The first thing, the number one rule that every kid learns growing up, is never take candy from a stranger. I know what I'm about to do is wrong, but I take that candy bar, I keep my eyes down on my lap and I unwrap it and I shove it into my mouth as fast as I can. I don't look up, because if I look up, I know my father is going to make me stop eating it, and I am not taking this candy bar home to share. [audience laughter]
So, this chocolate wads up in the back of my throat like a piece of peanut butter. I keep waiting for my dad to say something, but he says nothing. Instead, he just sets his full glass of beer down on the bar, he lifts me off the counter, he helps me put my coat on, and we walk out. Now, we drive home, total silence. All I feel is that chocolate balled up in the middle of my chest. We get to my house. I know he's not going to come in. He leans behind me, he pops open my car door, and I slide out. I walk up the front steps to my house, and I stand on the front porch, and I watch my dad drive away.
In a house full of six kids, it's easy to get lost. So, I walk into my house and I disappear. It's getting late, and we're all watching and waiting for my dad to come home. It's Thanksgiving. My brother and I are standing in the front window watching, and the sky is turning a blue-black by then. My mother is on the sofa. She's nursing my two-month-old baby sister. My grandmother is in the kitchen with my little brother, and my uncle is sitting next to my mom on the sofa.
Now, as I'm looking out the window, this icy blue light comes in. I look at my brother. Now, this light makes him look like there's this light bulb turned on inside of him. I'm so surprised and I ask my brother, "Pachito, don't you think it's weird? Didn't you always think that the light from a police car would look red up close and not blue?" I turn around to ask my uncle about this. But my uncle has made this huge leap from the sofa to the front door. He has the front door open before the two policemen walking up can even knock. We all hide behind my uncle. I hear the two policemen say to each other, they look at all of us, and then they look at me, and they look at the kids, and they look at each other, and they say, "He did this to her with all these kids." After that, everything explodes.
My mom stands up. She drops my baby sister on the floor. My grandmother screams my dad's name, and my uncle just stands. The rest of us scatter. What my dad does after he drops me off that day is drive to Brown Deer Park, the park where he races his bicycle. He parks his car facing the track, and he shoots himself in the temple. His funeral is a few days later, and it's just a block from our house. My aunt walks us there. I get to the church and I see the gray casket in front of the church. I know my dad's in there, so I run up to see my dad. But when I get up there, his face is the deepest, darkest purple I have ever seen. I mean, it is such an unforgettable color that if he showed me that color right now, I could recognize it in a minute.
My family is sitting in the front row of the church. I start to hear people behind me whispering. They're asking, "Why? Does anybody know why he did it? Why did he do it? She's got all these kids. Why would he do that?" I get scared, because I know why. So, I run from the front of the church, and I hide in the back pew. My aunt tries to pull me out. I don't want anybody to ask me why, because then I have to tell them that I know why. It was that candy bar. I never should have asked for that candy bar.
After my dad dies, I physically stop talking. I don't use my voice again for the next five years. As I grow up, I learn more about my dad. I find out that he's an educated man, but because he could barely speak English, the only job he can find is sweeping floors. And the last job he has here, the employer cheats him out of his six months' work, saying he never worked there. I learned that he never got used to living in this country, and he never got used to my mom being the one who fed the family. As I get older, as an adult, I understand the reasons my dad did what he did. But the child in me remains in that moment when I took that candy bar and I know that day is my fault.
Five years ago, I read an article written by a hospice nurse. She says that the biggest regret that people have on their deathbeds is not living a life true to who they are. I have lived a double life ever since my dad died. I have the life that the world sees and then I have the day, the only life I know of, which is frozen in that day in that tavern. Two years after I read that article, I get a chance to be who I really am. I hear of an open call for submissions to a show called Listen to Your Mother. Now, I have never read in front of an audience before, but I drive the two hours, and I audition, and I tell the people the story of the last day with my father. A week goes by, and I make the cast.
On the day of the show, I stand in front of 300 people. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I am positive I'm going to faint when it's my turn to talk. But when I get up there, I'm so scared because I don't know what's going to happen. I'm about to tell the deepest, darkest secret of my life, and I don't know if the audience is going to understand. I get up there to talk. As soon as I start speaking, all of that disappears. I feel this unexpected strength that comes from telling my story. After the show, I feel 10-feet tall, and people are waiting to talk to me in the lobby. There are so many of us that have a candy bar moment story from somebody they know that killed themselves. We all have a candy bar moment.
Months go by, and the videos go up from the show, and I start getting emails. Somehow, I became the president of the Parent Suicide Club. And around the world, people are sending me letters. They want to talk about how they feel like their parent's suicide was their fault. One day, I get an email and it's different. It's from this young woman in Canada. She has a two-year-old boy. She tells me she's been suffering from this deep dark depression, the kind that makes you wonder about your place in this world.
Now, she doesn't want to leave her boy, but she just wants this pain to stop. And one day, she's home alone and she's so scared. While he takes his nap, she locks herself in the bathroom, and she pours enough pills in her hand to kill herself. She doesn't want to leave her boy. She adores him, but she's just done. And in the middle of this moment, she is crying so hard she can't breathe. And she's terrified. She doesn't know what she's going to do. All she can think of is my story. She says, “She doesn't want my story to be the same story her son tells 20 years from now.” She's alive, and she's my friend now. We tell our stories, because they save us. Telling mine kept a little boy from losing his mom that day, and I found my voice again. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Jenifer: [00:28:58] That was Alexandra Rosas. She's an award-winning blogger, and a mother of three. To see a picture of Alexandra and a picture of her Pappy, please visit themoth.org.
Alexandra first told us about her story on our pitch line. Maybe you have a story you think we should hear. If so, go to themoth.org, click on Tell a Story, and it'll take you on a step-by-step how to. Record it right on our site, or call 877-799-M-O-T-H. That's 877-799-6684.
The best pitches are developed for Moth shows all around the country. You can find all of the stories you're hearing in this hour at the iTunes store or on our website, themoth.org, where you can also find out more about our storytellers.
When we return, two men on a desperate quest to meet a 1970s television star.
[I Will Wander by Lawless Music]
Jay Allison: [00:30:13] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
Jenifer: [00:30:21] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jenifer Hixson from The Moth.
Our final story is from Arthur Bradford. Arthur is an award-winning author and documentary filmmaker. Here's Arthur, live at The Moth in New York City.
[cheers and applause]
Arthur: [00:30:39] Okay, I’m kneeling on the floor of a cheap roadside motel somewhere in western Tennessee. And next to me, leading me in prayer, is a middle-aged man, a large man with cerebral palsy named Ronnie Simonsen. He says, "Bless my mother, my brothers and sisters, and my pastor back home in New Hampshire, and God bless Bob Hope and Cher and all three of Charlie’s Angels, especially Jaclyn Smith, especially her." And then, Ronnie says, "And Lord, please help us get to California quickly, where I know I’m going to meet my spiritual brother, Mr. Chad Everett, the star of CBS’s drama Medical Center." And here I interrupt Ron. I say, "Ron, you know, we might not meet Chad Everett. You know, we’re not sure that’s going to happen." And he says, "Yeah, I know, but keep praying. Keep praying."
I first met Ronnie about eight years before that. I was working at a summer camp for people with disabilities, and I was a counselor there. I had brought along a video camera, because I was also interested in making films. Ronnie was drawn to that camera. He came right up to me and wanted to talk about movies and TV. He had cerebral palsy in his legs, but he also had an interesting combination of mental conditions, autism and obsessive-compulsive. It manifested itself in this extreme fascination with television and movie stars from the 1970s, which is, when he was a kid. He spent most of his childhood in hospitals, and he became particularly obsessed with the people that would play doctors on television. He took comfort in their calm voices. There was one man above all who he held as like a God, and that was Chad Everett, who played Dr. Joe Gannon on CBS’s medical drama [chuckles] Medical Center.
I really liked Ron. He was really fun. He was great on camera. He loved to be on camera. We made lots of videos together at the camp. Some of the most popular videos were these newscasts we would do. We made our own news show, and Ronnie was fantastic at that, especially when we would go downtown and he would interview people on the street. He was this large man, and when he would talk to people, he couldn’t stand up for too long, so he would lean on them for balance while he was asking them questions. He would get them to do skits. He had this really real ability to bring people out. These films that we made, they had this underground popularity. And eventually, I was able to get some funding to make a film outside the camp. The idea was we're going to drive across country with five people with disabilities from the summer camp, we were going to go from their houses in New England all the way to Los Angeles, California.
Everyone on the trip had their own hopes and dreams for going to California, a place they’d never been. But Ronnie’s dreams overshadowed everybody else’s. To him, California was the Holy Land. It was the place where he was destined to meet Mr. Chad Everett, his spiritual brother. It was his biggest dream. He told everybody, "It’s my biggest dream." He took this biggest dream mission very, very seriously. It stressed him out. In fact, as we went on the trip, he had this skin condition as well called psoriasis. He would get these rashes on his arms when he got stressed out, and he would itch at them. I felt like this whole situation was mainly my responsibility as the director of this ridiculous film.
I decided I would be Ronnie’s roommate across the country. And so, every night in these hotels, I would help Ronnie apply the medication to his rashes, and then we would say a prayer. And that’s how I end up in this hotel room in Tennessee, praying with Ronnie Simonsen. And as Ronnie prays, I say my own little prayer. I’m not a very religious person. I had never really prayed much before. I’m 29 years old. But this is the first time I pray in earnest, and I say, "Please help us get to California safely. And please, when we get there, please give me some guidance. Help me to solve this problem that we’re going to have, this mess when we get to California."
Because I have this secret that I haven’t shared with Ron. I probably should have shared it with him, but I just can't. And that is that I’ve gotten in touch with Chad Everett’s agent before we went on the trip. And I’d asked, "Could we set up a meeting between these two people?" I knew it was going to be a fantastic moment on film. His agent made me understand that Chad Everett was a very busy man, and that he wasn’t going to have time for something like that. In fact, he didn’t really want to encourage this obsessive fan that apparently, he had. I probably should have told Ronnie that, but he didn’t take disappointment very well. I’d helped Ronnie write letters to numerous celebrities over the years. We had written to Chad Everett.
One year, he called me up. He was so excited, because he got this headshot in the mail. It was a smiling picture of Chad Everett. Ronnie memorized every word that Chad Everett had signed on this picture, which was on his wall. It said, "To Ron, life’s not meant to be lived in reruns. Watch me in the new Love Boat. [audience laughter] Walk in the light.” Signed, Chad Everett. And so, all the way across the country, as we're driving across Texas to the Grand Canyon, Ronnie would go over the contents of that letter with me. He would say, "What does that mean, life’s not meant to be lived in reruns? And what does that mean to walk in the light? I’m walking in the light, right?" And I would say, "Yeah, Ron, you’re walking in the light."
When we reached California, it was a really wonderful moment. We all go swimming in the ocean. Everybody’s really happy, except for, of course, Ron, because he’s on a higher mission. And so, Ron and I come to this agreement. Everyone else involved with the film is going to fly home, and he and I are going to stay in Los Angeles and we’re going to spend a few more days. I don’t know what we’re going to do, we’re going to hang out there in California. And so, everyone goes home, and Ronnie and I end up in this hotel room together, putting on his psoriasis medicine. I have no plan at all.
Along the trip, someone who I believe was very well-meaning in giving Ronnie this advice, had said to Ronnie, "Hey, Ronnie, you shouldn’t be so self-conscious." And Ronnie, for about the 150th time that trip, asked me, he says, "What does that mean, self-conscious?" And I tell him, "Well, Ronnie, to be self-conscious, that means to worry about yourself too much." And then, he says, for the 150th time, he asked me, "I’m not being self-conscious right now, am I?" [audience laughter] I’m fed up at this point, I just want to say, "You know, by definition, you asking me that question, that means you’re being self-conscious, right?" But I don’t say that. I know better and I say, "No, Ronnie, you’re not being self-conscious at all."
On our last day in California, we hatched this plan out of desperation. We go to this town near Malibu out in the hills where Ronnie had heard that Chad Everett lived. We go to a shopping center. Ronnie gets really excited, because he interviews this kid who apparently had bagged Chad Everett’s groceries. [audience laughter] And then, someone else tells us that they know the street that Chad Everett lives on. And so, Ronnie says, "I just want to see what his house looks like." So, we go up, and then we get to this gate. It’s a gated community. And then, I find myself sneaking past as the guard’s not looking. And then, we get to what we think is his house, and Ronnie says, "I just want to take a picture in front of his house." And so, Ronnie gets out.
It’s not until we’re hiding in the bushes, and we’ve been there for over an hour that I realize that this is a terrible idea. [audience laughter] Why are we here? What did I think was going to happen? I had this crazy idea that Chad Everett would see Ronnie, and he would understand that this was someone that he should get to know. But of course, if Chad Everett walked out of that house, Ronnie was going to rush towards him and someone was going to call the police, it was going to be a disaster. And so, it was with a certain sense of relief that I felt when a security guard came up and told us that we had to leave, and so we did leave. And that film ends with Ronnie kissing Chad Everett’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
It’s a good ending, but of course, it’s not the ending that Ronnie and I wanted for that film. As we took the film to film festivals around the country, Ronnie became like a little bit of a celebrity. It was funny, because that didn’t mean anything to him to be a celebrity himself. All he cared about was he would ask anybody in the audience at the festivals if maybe they knew a way to get this film into Chad Everett’s hands. [audience chuckles] And throughout that year, Ronnie would just call me up and he’d say, "You need to send a tape to this person, because they might know Chad Everett’s daughter."
I was starting to get annoyed, to be honest. I was like, “Man, we went all the way to California. Why can’t he just drop this whole thing?” I was annoyed with myself, too, because I had become tethered to this dream of Ronnie’s. And on top of that, I had a version of the dream that was a nightmare for me, which was that Ronnie would somehow meet Chad Everett and I wouldn’t be there. That kept me up at night. [audience laughter] If Ronnie were to meet him and I wasn’t there, I didn’t think I could live with myself for the rest of my life. I honestly felt that way. I was in this state.
And then, one day, I got a phone call. There was a deep voice on the other end of the line, and it said, "Hello, this is Chad Everett." And I said, "No, it's not." [audience laughter] And he said, [laughs] "Yes, it is." [audience laughter] It was Chad Everett, and he had seen our film, and he liked the film. He liked it a lot. In fact, he agreed that if we could get Ronnie to California, he would meet Ronnie and he would do an interview with him. And so, I hung up the phone, and I drove three hours to Ronnie’s house. And I said, "Ronnie, Chad Everett saw the film and he wants to meet you." And Ronnie said, "Oh boy." And for two weeks straight, Ronnie just couldn’t sleep. All he could do was call me up and talk about exactly what was going to happen.
Eventually we got on a plane and we flew out to California. The whole way, Ronnie’s clapping his hands and rocking back. Everyone he meets, he tells them that he’s going to achieve his biggest dream, he’s going to meet Chad Everett. The filmmaker in me planned this out. So, I said, “We’re going to do this on a beach, because it’s wide open. It’s a big, wide-open space, and there’s lots of room.” I thought that was a good plan until we get to the beach. I’m walking with Ron on the sand. At this point, Ronnie’s legs are really giving out, and he can hardly walk on solid ground without assistance. And the sand, he can’t even stand up on. I realized it was a bad idea to do this on a beach. We sit him down on a beach chair, and I’m trying to think like, “Where else could we do this?” when this convertible pulls up and the license plate says, "SIR CHAD." [chuckles] [audience laughter]
And down at the other end of the beach, this handsome older man steps out and he starts walking across the beach. And Ronnie spots him. He’s 100 yards away, and Ronnie spots him and says, "Is that Chad Everett?" And Chad Everett says, "Yes, it is. You betcha." Ronnie hoists himself up out of this chair, and he starts running across the beach. [audience laughter] I’ve never seen Ronnie run ever in my life. He is running across the beach. He’s kicking up sand, he’s going, "Chad Everett. Chad Everett." I think he’s going to fall and wipe out. And Chad Everett’s going, "Slow down, slow down, slow down." And Ronnie’s running towards him, and he looks like a little boy. He does. He looks like a little boy. When he reaches Chad Everett, he throws his arms around him and he says, "Chad, I’m so happy to see you."
They have a wonderful time. They do skits together on the beach. Ronnie interviews him, and they say a prayer. It’s a wonderful meeting. We take the red-eye home that night. And Ronnie, he’s exhausted. He’s a man who hasn’t slept for weeks, it seems, and he says to me, "Well, Arthur, we did it," and then he finally goes to sleep. After that trip, I didn’t hear from Ronnie for quite a while. That was strange, because he would call me so often.
When I finally did hear from Ron, he had some bad news. He had been diagnosed with leukemia. His mother told me privately that he only had six months. He was given six months to live. And Ron said to me, he said to me, "Look, I know that Chad Everett’s a really busy man, but do you think you could tell him about this?" And I said, "Sure, Ron. I can let him know." And so, I did. I told Chad Everett. An amazing thing happened then. Chad Everett called Ronnie every Sunday, and they would talk and they would say a prayer. Without fail, he called Ronnie every Sunday. Ronnie outlived that diagnosis by months and months. He lived for over two years. In fact, he went back to California, and saw Chad, and had a party to celebrate. [audience laughter] And eventually, he did die of that disease.
After his death, I thought a lot about the lessons that I had learned from Ronnie Simonsen, about the importance of having a biggest dream, no matter how silly it is. I often wondered, did I spend too much time chasing this other person’s dream that wasn’t really my dream? And then, recently, we were putting together this compilation of these tapes that we’d made with Ronnie, and the editor called me up and said, "Hey, I’ve got this audio track I want you to hear. I think you’ll find it funny." And so, he plays for me this audio track, and it’s this person just breathing really like [heavy breathing] It sounds like it’s like someone who’s going up the stairs or really out of breath. And then, I hear my voice going, "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."
It’s the audio track from my camera as I’m filming Ronnie running towards Chad Everett. I’d never heard that. I’d always heard Ronnie’s mic, not my mic. And I’m saying, "Oh my God. Oh my God." And as they hug, I swear you can almost hear my heart beating out of my chest. I’m so excited by this meeting. In hearing that track, I realized that Ronnie’s dream really had become my dream, too. And those moments of excitement and joy that you have are really worth something. They’re awesome. I just have always wanted to thank Ron for sharing that with me. Thanks.
[cheers and applause]
Jenifer Hixson: [00:45:48] That was Arthur Bradford. His films include How’s Your News? and 6 Days to Air. He’s also the author of the book Dog Walker and the children's book Benny's Brigade.
Here’s a bit of audio from the first meeting between Ronnie and Chad Everett.
Arthur: [00:46:14] How are you going to feel when Chad Everett comes?
Ronnie: [00:46:16] I’m going to feel good. He’s going to hug me, I’m going to hug him. He knows I’m going to be here, right?
Arthur: [00:46:23] Yeah. Oh, he does.
Chad: [00:46:26] This is going to be pleasure for me as well. Ron has been a long-time correspondent, and he’s written me beautiful letters, sung songs, and birthday tapes. He’s really a very spiritual man, and I think he’s definitely been anointed. Living proof that it’s what’s inside that counts. There's the guy. [laughs]
Ronnie: [00:46:59] Is that Chad Everett?
Chad: [00:47:01] Yeah, you better believe it, bud. How you doing?
Ronnie: [00:47:04] Chad. How are you, Chad? How are you?
Chad: [00:47:07] Hey, Ron. How you doing?
Ronnie: [00:47:08] Chad Everett.
Chad: [00:47:09] Easy, easy. How you doing, bud?
Ronnie: [00:47:11] [unintelligible [00:47:11]
Chad: [00:47:13] Good to see you, bud.
Ronnie: [00:47:15] Good to see you, my friend.
Chad: [00:47:17] All right. I’m looking forward to being interviewed by you, man.
Ronnie: [00:47:20] Hey, can we do a Medical Center act together?
Chad: [00:47:22] Yes, sure. Give me a scalpel.
Jenifer: [00:47:27] To watch the video of Ronnie meeting Chad for the first time, visit the Radio Extras page at themoth.org.
Thanks so much for listening and we hope you’ll join us again next time for The Moth Radio Hour.
[Uncanny Valley theme music by The Drift]
Jay Allison: [00:48:03] Your host this hour was Jenifer Hixson, who also directed the stories in the show along with Maggie Cino.
Ronnie: [00:48:10] Let’s see. Would you do a skit with me from Medical Center? So, I’ll be Dr. Ron and you’ll be Dr. Gannon, and I'd potentially pretend like there’s something wrong with my hand. I can never practice surgery again.
Chad: [00:48:19] You can never practice surgery. That’s the improv?
Ronnie: [00:48:22] Yeah.
Jay: [00:48:23] The rest of The Moth’s directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Jenna Weiss-Berman and Whitney Jones.
Chad: [00:48:35] You can never practice surgery.
Ronnie: [00:48:36] Well, you know what, you be Joe Gannon and I'll be Ron. Dr. Ron, okay?
Chad: [00:48:41] We’ve got to go into this surgery now Dr. Ron. You ready?
Ronnie: [00:48:44] Can I do surgery, Joe?
Chad: [00:48:47] My goodness.
Ron: [00:48:48] There’s something wrong with my hand, Dr. Gannon.
Chad: [00:48:50] Yeah, the tendons seem to be all pulled apart here.
Jay: [00:48:55] Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Moth events are recorded by Argot Studios in New York City, supervised by Paul Ruest. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour Lines on My Face by Peter Frampton. Always Departing by Brad Mehldau, and I Will Wander by Lawless Music.
Ronnie: [00:49:17] You think I need an examination, Doctor?
Chad: [00:49:20] I think you’re going to have some surgery on this hand before we can let you hold any more instruments, Dr. Ron.
Jay: [00:49:28] The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison, at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, with help from Viki Merrick.
Ronnie: [00:49:36] Do you have a stethoscope?
Chad: [00:49:39] Oh, stethoscope. There’s no heartbeat in your hand.
Jay: [00:49:43] This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the John D. & Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world.
Chad: [00:49:58] There's a pulse up here. Yeah, the pulse to your hand is pretty strong.
Jay: [00:50:05] The Moth Radio Hour is presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
Chad: [00:50:11] I think the surgery will be successful.
Ronnie: [00:50:13] You think so?
Chad: [00:50:14] We’ll schedule it for tomorrow afternoon.
Ronnie: [00:50:15] What time?
Chad: [00:50:16] 12:00 or 01:00.
Ronnie [00:50:18] 12 o’clock? What about your lunch, Doctor?
Chad: [00:50:20] Ah, I’ll skip lunch for this.
Jay: [00:50:25] For more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website themoth.org.