MARYLEE FAIRBANKS: She threw her arms around me, and she whispered in my ear, "Thank you."

And I panicked.

What if all those kids saw her hugging me?

KAT KOPPETT: Again, I feel the earth shift beneath my feet.

My mother isn't a murderer after all!

(laughter) ALEXANDER SCOTT: Surely, these fine young gentlemen, they don't mean to mug me, do they?

I don't have a wallet.

I don't have a phone.

I don't have any money.

I've already been mugged by life.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Close Calls."

There is something so thrilling about getting right up close to the edge.

Now that feeling can come from making a daring choice, it can come from a revelation that shifts our perspective.

It can come from a moment that just allows us to see everything differently.

Tonight's storytellers are sharing their stories about that fine line between what almost was and what actually is.

♪ ♪ My name is Kat Koppett.

I'm based in Schenectady, New York, where I'm the co-director of an improv theater called the Mopco Improv Theatre.

And yeah, of course, improv involves staying present in the moment.

- Yeah.

So what do you do to keep yourself present?

I think the key to being present as an improviser and as a human being is to allow yourself to notice more.

- Mm-hmm.

I have a colleague who says improv is just loud mindfulness.

(chuckling) And I, I think it's the same for improvisers, that the first key muscle that we're exercising is just to... receive.

Both internally and externally, without blocking or judging or trying to get ahead of what's actually happening in the moment.

And so then you also have this career and practice in storytelling, so I'm wondering, like, between improv and storytelling, what draws you to the craft of storytelling?

KOPPET: What I like about it is, it has the same organic authenticity of drawing from yourself and your own voice and your own story that improv has.

But you also get to practice it, and hone it and polish it.

So what would you say to someone who wants to try out storytelling but isn't sure about, kind of, how to approach it?

We are all, inherently, as human beings, storytellers.

It's the way our brains make sense of the world.

It is how we interact.

And so, often when I'm working with people, I say, it's not a question of whether you're going to tell a story or not, it's what story you're going to tell.

How are you going to access and own your stories and where are you going to share them?

♪ ♪ I'm sitting at my mother's dining room table.

The same dining room table that I have sat at most of my life.

And I'm having the same feelings that I've had most of my life, too.

I feel love for my family, I feel an eagerness to connect and I feel a deep resentment of my mother.

(laughter) Sitting at this dining room table brings me back to our family seders, when we would go around and we would each read a part of the story, and after I would read my part, my mother would say, "Kathy, is that the best you can read?

What are they teaching you in school?"

Or at a regular dinner, when I would ask what a word meant, and she would say, "Well, go look it up.

Don't you have any curiosity?"

(chuckling) My relationship with my mother is complicated.

I know she's a good mother.

She is devoted and involved and passionate.

But interactions like this make me feel like maybe she's not a very nice person.

And I am really conflicted about my conflict around her, because I know that her mother-ness should outweigh what I feel about her as a person.

But I'm stuck.

I remember complaining to my husband once about her, and saying, "Look, I know you had an objectively "difficult childhood, and this probably sounds really silly to you."

To which he replied, "No, no, no, no.

"You can't judge other people's pain.

I mean, a stubbed toe hurts, even if it's not a broken leg."

(audience laughter) I appreciated his kindness, but really, how much sympathy can you expect for a stubbed toe?

But one day, I discovered something that my mother had done which justified how I felt about her.

I uncover the crime sitting around with my friends, talking about a "This American Life" podcast episode called "Kid Logic."

In it, people are talking about misconceptions they had when they were children.

For example, one guy was talking about how he thought the Nielsen ratings, for those of you who remember broadcast television, were gathered by polling only families whose last name was Nielsen.

(laughter) I shared that I used to think, when I was a kid, that a wading pool was a "waiting" pool, where you waited until you were big enough to go in the adult pool.

(audience laughter) And then my friend says, "Oh, I remember when our old sick dog "disappeared and I asked my parents where it had gone, "and they said, 'We've taken her to live on a farm.'"

He said, "It took me years to realize that meant they'd put her down."

So my friends keep exchanging these stories, but my heart drops into my stomach.

I'm thinking about my grandfather's pet beagle, Major.

Major was an amazing dog.

He was a spitfire, he would chase cars.

He would roll in the mud.

He would jump up on people.

I thought he was great.

And whenever I visited my grandfather, Major was definitely a highlight of the trip.

When my grandfather died, I asked my mom if we could have Major come and live with us.

And she said, "Absolutely not.

"He is too wild a dog.

"He would never be happy living in a New York City apartment.

We've taken him to live on a farm."

(audience reacts) Up until this moment, talking to my friends, I had imagined my little friend happily frolicking on a farm.

But now I realize the truth.

My mother is a murderer.

(audience laughter) As horrible as this realization is, I also feel this wash of vindication.

Finally, I have something that justifies my feelings about her as a terrible, terrible person.

(audience laughter) Five years go by.

I travel 3,000 miles across this country.

I move there, partly to be away from her, and I see her dutifully a few times a year.

I have a daughter of my own.

I don't want to model disowning a parent... (audience laughter) But I cling to this story.

Now I am back at her dining room table with my brother and my sister-in-law, my mother, my daughter and my husband, Michael.

And Michael and I are talking about our new pet dog, Rigoletto.

"Riggy," I say, "is a wonderful dog.

"He's calm and gentle and easygoing.

Not a beagle."

Now, I'm not sure exactly why I say it.

Maybe I'm trying to goad my mother.

Maybe I'm trying to connect with her.

I understand beagles are difficult dogs.

But my mother pops her head up and says, "Well, why not beagles?"

Beagles are great dogs."

I-I'm confused.

"Mom," I say, you hated Grandpa's beagle, Major."

She says, "Oh, no, he was an amazing dog.

Don't you know that story about him?"

"What story?"

I say.

She says, "When your grandfather died, we took Major to live on a farm."

(audience laughter) I cannot believe she is doubling down on this.

(audience laughter) But then she says, "Major was so devoted to your grandfather, "that he escaped from the farm and traveled 200 miles "back to your grandfather's house, like Lassie!

The neighbors found him wandering around the house after we'd sold it, and they brought him back to the farm.

Again, I feel the earth shift beneath my feet.

My mother isn't a murderer after all!

(audience laughter) She didn't take Major to "live on a farm."

She took him to live on a farm!

(audience laughter) I can't tell you that my relationship with my mother was perfect after that-- it was not.

She still annoyed me by yelling at waiters if the service took longer than three minutes.

Or by forcing my daughter to go to the movies, even though she said she was scared.

Or by telling me that I needed therapy because my house was too messy.

(audience laughter) But it was the beginning of a softening in me, of an opening to some other version of my mom.

A few years later, when I got to spend her last few weeks with her in the hospital, I know that we both benefited from my capacity to see her as warm and generous and vulnerable.

I am very glad that my mother did not get away with murder.

(audience laughter) And I'm very glad that I didn't get away with thinking that she had.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ SCOTT: I'm Alexander Scott.

I am from Brooklyn, New York.

I'm a writer, storyteller, comedian, filmmaker, et cetera.

So you started off in comedy, I understand.

What brought you into storytelling?

In the New York stand-up scene, I would say that there's a lot of competition.

It's a lot of people vying for stage time, for audience, for eyeballs, and you try to find ways to sort of set yourself apart.

And when I came across storytelling, it just seemed like a natural fit for me.

I'm already kind of a raconteur, and why not do that on a stage?

How did you go about finding your own voice as a storyteller?

Well, coming from stand-up, you know, I was told over and over, there are certain metrics that you need to be hitting.

You need, like, a laugh every 20 seconds, and so it's, when I got on stage and I started, you know, telling stories and talking about myself, it was really freeing to know that I can say anything as long as it's true.

And I'm building an emotion and a connection and a response from the audience.

And the more that I do that and the more that I just talk freely and don't worry about having to hit a certain beat, having to hit a certain response other than just wanting the audience to feel what I'm feeling in the moment, that, you know, winds up opening a lot of doors for me.

My girlfriend was supposed to be leaving me.

That's what I thought when she calls me in the middle of my shift at the video store.

To catch you up, it's a Friday night, October 2003.

I am a clerk at Tommy K's Video in New Haven, Connecticut.

Amy, my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, is down at the New Haven train station where she should be on her way to go live with her therapist.

(laughter) In New Jersey.

Instead, Amy's on the phone, frustrated, practically in tears.

"You need to come help me."

She has too many bags, she can't carry them all on the train.

I am being asked to perform the physical labor for her to dump me.

(audience laughter) Also, she's feeling a little peckish.

Can I pick up some candy for her?

(audience laughter) All right.

I do as I'm told.

I'm 19, I'm already a college dropout.

I lost all my friends, my parents are barely speaking to me.

I was so lonely, I moved in with a girl I had been dating online.

Oh, yeah.

And now that she knows who I really am, she's leaving me.

Clock out early from the video store, she wants candy.

I use my employee discount to buy some Everlasting Gobstoppers for her, some Snow Caps for myself, throw them into my messenger bag, hop in a cab, head down to the train station.

Somewhere along the way, I left my wallet back at the store.

Oh well, Amy picks up the tab for the car and the train because, you know, least she could do.

I schlep her crap across state lines from Connecticut to New York to New Jersey overnight.

We arrive in the Garden State on Saturday morning and find out for some reason the trains are not running back to New York until Sunday night.

I don't know, that's Jersey for you.

That means I am stuck with her at her therapist's house for a two-day-long awkward goodbye.

In New Jersey.

And Amy didn't even eat the candy.

48 hours from that phone call, I am back in New Haven.

It is late Sunday night.

Everything is hitting me all at once.

I'm alone.

I don't have any friends, I don't have a girlfriend, I don't have an education.

I'm about to lose my dead-end job.

I let down my mom.

All I have are this messenger bag and the clothes on my back.

I don't even know if I have a future.

I also don't have my wallet, which means I need to walk home alone at night through a bad part of town.

Because I live in the bad part of town.

I almost don't notice when from the shadows emerge three youths.

I sense them coming up behind me and so I walk a little faster just to give them some space.

(audience laughter) They walk a little faster.

I quicken my step a little more.

So do they.

I think to myself, this must be in my head, right?

Surely these fine young gentlemen, they don't mean to mug me, do they?

One of them says to the others, "We need to jump this guy."

(audience laughter) You hear that and you think, time to run, right?

I'm doughy, I'm asthmatic, I will not get very far.

To try to fight them off would be absurd, but also, I don't have a wallet.

I don't have a phone.

I don't have any money.

I've already been mugged by life.

(audience laughter) Now self-preservation is kicking in.

I'm speed walking like I'm trying to make it to the Starbucks restroom.

My chest is tightening, if not from the fear, then definitely from the asthma.

They're almost within arm's reach.

I start rooting through my messenger bag.

I've got to have something, anything that will give me a tactical advantage.

What, do I distract them?

Do I have something they want?

One of them starts to come up alongside me, and I know it's his life or mine.

But as I see him in my peripheral view, I notice he's, he's a larger fellow.

He's, he's the heaviest of the group.

And as a large American myself, I feel like I know this man.

I've got this.

Before he can say or do anything, I steady my breath as much as I can and I ask, "Hey... do you want some candy?"

(audience laughter) He says, "Yes."

From my messenger bag, I take out the unopened box of Everlasting Gobstoppers.

My ex's trash is my treasure.

Pop it open, offer him a Gobstopper.

He takes it graciously-- now, this is no time to get cocky.

I've got to seal the deal.

"Hey, man, I don't need them.

Take the whole box, have a great night."

He takes it, he thanks me.

Falls back in line with his buddies.

They stop dead in their tracks, stunned and confused.

(audience laughter) That is my opportunity to beat it.

The last thing that I hear behind me is one of his pals asking, "What was that?

(audience laughter) You were supposed to get him!"

My new friend tells him, "Screw off!

He gave me candy."

(audience laughter) My man.

In a flash, I'm back home.

My asthma is wheezing.

I have returned to an empty apartment.

I don't know how I just pulled that off, but somehow I managed to keep myself alive.

To reward myself, I opened up my box of Snow Caps.

(audience laughter) Because I got those for me.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ FAIRBANKS: My name is Marylee Fairbanks.

I live here in Massachusetts, and I am a performer and a podcaster and a Broadway producer.

Tell us a bit more about your Broadway involvement, like, which shows have you been in?

What work have you done?

Well, I started out as a performer when I was younger, in my 20s.

I did that for many, many years.

Then when I got married and had my child, I was so much older.

I thought maybe it was time to just slow it down a little, because it's hard to be on the road and raise a child and then after he started to get older, I realized I needed to get back to my roots, to the theater.

I called a couple of girlfriends, we started "Stages" podcast, and then I started Tima Productions with another friend.

And we won the Tony last year for "The Outsiders."

So it's been off to a great start and I'm really enjoying it and being back in that world because I just, I love theater people.

What have been some of the lessons or challenges that have been brought to you through storytelling?

I think you have to give yourself permission to admit your flaws and your mistakes and your weaknesses.

For example, the story I'm telling today, my son said, "Why are you going to tell this story?

You're just a jerk in this story."

I thought, well, yeah, I am.

But I learned something from behaving that way.

And if I'm willing to expose my weak sides, it allows other people to expose theirs.

And that's where healing begins and it's where a real connection begins.

♪ ♪ Diane sat next to me in the third grade.

I don't remember her last name, but I think it started with a G, because we all sat in alphabetical order.

And that was hard.

Nobody wanted to sit next to Diane.

She rarely combed her hair, she never looked you in the eye and she was always alone in the back of the playground.

She bit her fingernails and she'd hide them up under her shirt and she'd poke her thumbs out of the holes in the sleeves.

And I always think of her every time I see those really expensive Lululemon shirts with the thumb hole for added warmth.

(audience laughter) Diane was bullied.

Now, it wasn't the same anonymous, relentless cyberbullying that kids face today, but she was alone.

And sad.

Now it was the early 1970s, and things were very different.

You could smoke anywhere you wanted-- on an airplane, in a restaurant, or my dad's favorite, in the car with the windows rolled up.

There were no seatbelt laws in place, so you could just roll around in the back of your mother's smoky station wagon and nobody gave you a ticket.

(audience laughter) Classrooms did not use words like "empathy" and "neurodivergent," and there were certainly no anti-bullying laws in place.

It was Valentine's Day.

We had spent the morning crafting mailboxes out of empty tissue box containers, covering them with crepe paper and coloring them with those markers that smelled like things-- grapes and bubblegum and cherries-- and you had the worst headache.

We took those mailboxes and stuck them on the side of our desk.

And throughout the day, kids would anonymously deliver valentines to their favorite students.

Again, it was the 1970s.

Not every kid got a valentine.

Therefore, your popularity and your self-esteem was determined by days like Valentine's Day.

The night before, I sat at the kitchen table with my mother and I was carefully printing my name on each little Snoopy and Lucy "Peanuts" valentine.

And my mother mentioned to me that it might be kind to give a valentine to every kid, including Diane.

And I understood that.

I had sympathy for Diane.

I knew what it felt like to be one of those kids that was just a little on the outside.

I was too tall-- tallest in the class.

I had to hold the door while the whole class went out.

And then I got in the back of the line.

Taller than all the boys, long and lanky and a little quiet and a little different.

I sometimes had to wear my brother's hand-me-down clothes, too.

But I had a secret.

I'm dyslexic.

In the 1970s, there weren't words like dyslexic.

We were just the kid that couldn't read.

And on those days when the teacher would make you read a paragraph per desk, she'd go down the desk and each kid would read a paragraph.

I spent the entire time trying to figure out which paragraph was going to be mine, so that I could read through it, just a few times, so that I wouldn't sound so ridiculous when I had to say it out loud.

And that nobody would discover that I really couldn't read very well.

I knew I was this close to being a Diane.

I snuck a valentine into her mailbox that day.

And when 2:15 came, it was time to tally your votes.

Everybody started counting.

Five, six, seven-- oh, one for Mark!

Mark is so cute.

(audience laughter) And Diane was not in a big rush to get to her mailbox.

But when she did, there he was.

Snoopy.

She turned to me with tears in her eyes.

She threw her arms around me, and her hair went into my face and my mouth.

And she whispered in my ear, "Thank you."

And I panicked.

What if all those kids saw her hugging me?

What if I became the next Diane?

I returned her hug, but it wasn't out of kindness.

I held her close so I could whisper something back.

And I said, "If you tell anyone I gave it to you, I will say that you're a liar."

Then I pushed her away, and I gathered up my valentines and my books and I ran, I ran all the way home.

And the confession tumbled out of me before the kitchen door could shut.

And my mother said I needed to understand that life isn't about your own experience.

Life is about the experience you offer to other people.

Fifty years later, I still think about that day.

The callousness of my words, the cowardice not to stand behind such a tiny act of kindness.

I've asked around about Diane, but she moved away sometime during that school year, and nobody else seems to remember her last name either.

I do wish I could find her.

Because I would tell her that I'm sorry.

But more than that, I owe Diane my gratitude.

Her sadness on that day taught me that I have the capacity to be unkind.

It taught me the difference between sympathy and empathy.

It taught me, when you act out of fear, you cause harm.

Diane, I am a better person than I was, because I sat next to you.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪