The Moth Podcast: Instrumental
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The Moth and Brooks are excited to bring you the next story in a series of bonus stories that celebrate community, fitness, travel, health, and more. Stick around at the end of this episode to hear from Charles Upshaw as he trains for a short walk that will take all his might.

Support comes from Zuckerman Spader. Through nearly five decades of taking on high-stakes legal matters, Zuckerman Spader is recognized nationally as a premier litigation and investigations firm. Their lawyers routinely represent individuals, organizations, and law firms in business disputes, government, and internal investigations, and at trial, when the lawyer you choose matters most. Online at Zuckerman.com.

This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows from New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more. The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Michelle Jalowski, your host for this episode. If you've only ever listened to the podcast or Radio Hour, you might not know that most of our shows feature a live musician. An instrumentalist opens each act and then stays on stage throughout the show, acting as a sort of timekeeper, letting the storyteller and the audience know when the teller is over their time limit.

We're all about storytelling here at The Moth, and music tells its own sort of story. Our musicians help set the tone for our curated live shows, and we've been lucky to work with some incredible musicians over the years. On this episode, we'll be celebrating how instrumental instruments are at The Moth, with two stories about learning how to play. Plus, stick around, we just might be sharing some music from a live Moth show.

First up, we've got Alistair Bain. He told this at a Denver Story Slam where the theme of the night was pride. Here's Alistair live at the Moth. So like a lot of queer kids in the 80s, I ended up on my own pretty young. And there were some harsh parts to that. But there were some awesome parts like that Wednesday when me and my best friend Candy were in a dive bar in New York seeing 10 local bands for a dollar.

Thanks to our new fake IDs. I was a little bit worried about mine. It said I was a 40 year old white man named Norman Schwartz. But this was the kind of bar where it was like, "Eh, we're all human." When the fourth band came on, the singer was like the second coolest person in the world next to David Bowie.

And the awesome part was the whole set, he kept looking right at me and Candy. Now because of our height difference, it's hard to tell if he was staring at her breast or my face. But when the set finished and he came to talk to us, it was my face he was liking. He ended up writing his name and number on my arm, and he said, I wrote that in Sharpie so you can't forget to call me.

And Brandy was like, "That's the most romantic thing. I think you guys are soulmates." So the next week I met him in a different dive bar and we started talking and this bar was having a drink special. 25-cent shots of peppermint schnapps. I didn't know. I had been on the street enough to be experienced in a lot of things, but peppermint schnapps not so much.

But Danny the singer ordered a dollar's worth, so I was like, "Okay, we're about the same weight, sure." I ordered a dollar's worth. We kept talking and then this thing happened where the peppermint schnapps hit my skeletal system and it turned my bones into pudding and I fell on the floor like in this big person puddle. I remember Danny saying, "Are you okay?" Being in a cab, maybe crawling on stairs.

And then it was morning and I woke up still fully clothed in a big fluffy bed that weirdly smelled like Estee Lauder perfume. And I looked to see if Danny was there but instead it was a 70 year old woman. And she was like, "Oh you're awake sweetie. I'm Danny's grandma. He was so worried that you might choke on your own vomit in the night that he asked me to watch over you."

And I was like, "This is not punk rock. I gotta get out of here." So I found my shoes. I'm like, "Okay, thanks." I was gonna bolt for the door. But when I opened the door into the main room of the apartment, there's Danny drinking coffee. He goes, "Good morning, Norman." My fake ID is sitting right on the table in front of him. I sit down, he pours me a cup of coffee and he says, "Ah, you know, it's really not cool you lied about your age."

I kind of nodded and he said, "And you know, you were like passed out drunk and not every guy would be, you know, like decent about it." And he was being so nice that somehow it just embarrassed me more and pissed me off. And I was like, "I'm not some stupid baby you have to protect in lecture. I know people aren't decent. I've been knowing people aren't decent since I was 12 and you could have done whatever you wanted to me because it wouldn't matter. You'd just be one more jerk in the world and I'm nothing."

I didn't mean that like just to sound punk rock somewhere there's some truth in it and he saw it and I saw his face and then I just burst into these big ugly so undavid Bowie so uncool sobs and I was seeing their track crying trying to get my other shoe on and I heard him say you know what you're not too young for do you want to learn to play guitar I was like what

He said, "I don't know, like I always thought if I had a little brother, I could teach him to play guitar." And so over the next year, I'd go over to their apartment, hang out with him and his grandma, learn chords. And while the rest of my life had a lot of chaos in it, that was just one like beautiful place where there was this friend that really respected me and liked me just for me.

He moved to LA the next year and we kept in touch by letters. But during those days of no internets, no cell phones, it was easy to eventually lose touch. The last letter I got from him was when I was 24. I'd written to him to say I'd gone to rehab. I had three months clean and I really saw a future for myself. He wrote back in the last paragraph of the letter. He said, I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope you've

Make sure that the people in your life value you. And I hope you still play guitar. And yeah, Danny, yes to all three of those. Thank you. That was Alistair Bean. Alistair lives in Denver, Colorado. And in addition to telling stories, he's a visual artist, quilter, and clothing designer. In his spare time, he rehabilitates feral dogs from the reservation. He says it's a much more relaxing hobby than it might sound, as long as you don't mind a tiny bit of growling. Up next is Mari Black.

She told this at a Boston Story Slam where the theme of the night was denial. Here's Mari, live at the mall. So at age six, I entered my first fiddling contest. It was the Skowhegan County Fair up in Maine, 1993. I know, right? The 90s.

And so I'd spent like two weeks picking out my outfit. It's a very, very long process, a little skirt, shirt with a fish on it. Fiddle hat, had to have the fiddler's hat with a weird brim. It's a taxi driver hat, really. I'd spent about three weeks learning how to braid my hair myself in two braids and about a week and a half wiggling furiously at my other front tooth so both would be missing on stage.

Details! They're important in the performing arts. What I had not devoted any time to was learning the three songs I would have to play on stage. So details apparently are not that important.

I wasn't, this was not something I did just like being a dumb kid. My mom is a professional musician. She's a champion fiddler. She was playing in the same contest. I'd watched her and her students and her colleagues and everybody prepare for this kind of thing. I knew what preparation was. I just, you know, kind of didn't need it. And you have to play three songs, a waltz, a jig, and a reel. I knew a jig.

And when my mom would ask me, "Hey, how are the tunes coming? Because you can't play unless you know three tunes." "Oh yeah, no, it's great, it's great. I'm getting it. I know, I'm good." Total, like, just, I was good. That was the end of it. This state of affairs persisted all the way until we got in the car to go to the contest. There's my mom, her fiddle, me, my fiddle, my brother who is along for this rather dramatic ride.

And in the car, I'm reminded again in a way that I actually hear at this time that unless you know three songs you can't play, how many do you actually know, Mari? Ah, crap. So, you know, I didn't want to waste the outfit, and I did have two holes in the front of my smile, so it's like in the car, I finally burst into the tears that should have come weeks ago and begged my mom, please, please, please, please help me. So in the three-hour car ride...

in the car. She proceeds to, while driving, teach me the reel. I don't know how we made it through. We tried to make it through the waltz. I only made it halfway, so I knew half a waltz. Awesome. But all this is fine because when we get out of the car, there's the fair and the fiddle contest. I mean, this is a big fair. We're talking rides, games, food, everything, everywhere. Hundreds of thousands of people. County fairs are a big deal up in Maine in 1993.

And the big main stage is the fiddle contest and there's the bleachers. It must have been a horse racetrack or something. And it's...

And most fiddle contests, they divide everybody up by age. This was not one of those. It's just everybody all in together. All right, so let me put this in context. There's big prize money in this sort of thing. So it brings out all the champion fiddlers, you know, the 20-year-olds, the 50-year-olds, the 90-year-old fiddlers who have been playing their whole life and are amazing. And then there's me, six. And again, like, I don't care. I'm good. I belong here.

I play about midway through the night, it was already dark. I get on stage and the MC hands me my microphone. And so here comes this big hammy intro to every tune and it was so great, the hammy intro talking all about, oh this tune and how I loved it my entire life and nobody noticed it was half a waltz.

And I get to the jig, and I tell the story about how this jig is so awesome, and I lean in, and I go, this is my favorite jig you know. And my mother at the piano to this day, when she tells this story, goes, and I was thinking, it's the only jig you know. So I get through this program, and I brought everybody along with me.

Every single person in that audience was as convinced as I was of my dedicated preparation. And they went nuts, and I loved it. And that's probably why I'm still doing this.

But, you know, we get off stage and my mom is not in denial. My mom is a pro. She knows what's up. And so she very gracefully, even though she probably did place, she very gracefully kind of ushers my brother and I like, oh, it's late. You know, we should go home. And I said, absolutely not. We have to stay because I've won a prize. And my, oh, my poor mother, my God. Someday I'm going to have a kid who does that.

as punishment. And so she couldn't get me to leave. So we get there and it's late, it's really late, and everybody's been waiting for the results and they announce third prize and it's my mother. And she's just like, "Oh yeah, yeah, smile." And she's like, "Okay, good, we're done, let's go, let's go home, it's late, oh boy." I said, "No, we can't go because I've won a prize. We have to wait for mine." And they put me second.

And now I'm embarrassed by this. And I'll tell you what, to this day, I still don't know the second half of that waltz. Every now and then I go and take a look in my brain, see if it's there. No, it's still gone. And the even further epilogue to this is the one thing that was great about that night was not only the huge prize money and the big fair and the crowd and the microphone, was they were supposed to give us trophies. And that to me was like...

the greatest thing in the world. But they didn't have them that night. They said, we're so sorry. Something got mixed up in the mail. We'll send them to you. Now, as a pro, I know that in the music business, when they said it's in the mail, you're never going to see that thing. And my mom knew this, so she's like, oh, it's fine. For weeks, I checked the mail every day. I was waiting for the postman. Do you have my box? Do you have my box? Do you have my box? Do you have my box? It must have been six weeks, and my mom could not believe I wouldn't give up.

And finally, one day, much to her huge shock, but not to mine because I knew, a huge box shows up. It's addressed to both of us. Inside there are two gigantic trophies. They are purple, they are gold, they're sparkly. They say Skowhegan Fair 1993, and at the top is a golden fiddle.

And they are identical except for one thing. One of the trophies has the neck of the fiddle snapped off. It got bumped in postage and it turned to my mom and it's totally serious. I said, oh mama, I'm so sorry. Yours is broken. That was Mari Black. Mari is a professional multi-style violinist who was raised by a mighty clan of dynamic storytellers. Through them, she inherited a passion for living the kind of life where anything can become an adventure worth retelling. And so far, she's succeeding. Find her music at mariblack.com.

We wanted to end this episode by featuring some of the music from a recent Moth mainstage. Maz Swift has been performing their improvised violin pieces with the Moth since 2006, and they've become a beloved part of the Moth family. This is from a Moth mainstage in Harlem where the theme of the night was back to life. Here's Maz. ♪

. . .

That was Maz. Maz Swift is a Juilliard-trained violinist as well as a composer, conductor, singer, bandleader, and educator. They engage audiences worldwide with their signature weaving of improvisation and composition. They've performed with the Moth countless times, and their ongoing work, the Sankofa Project, is centered around protest songs, spirituals, and the Ghanian concept of Sankofa, looking back to learn how to move forward.

A special thank you to Maz Swift, along with all of the musicians that have performed at Moth shows throughout the years and throughout the world. If you'd like to see one of those musicians live, accompanied by some great stories, go to themoth.org slash events to find more information about our story slams and main stages.

That's it for this episode. Remember, if you like the stories in this episode, be sure to share this podcast with a friend and tell them to subscribe so they can take a listen as soon as it comes out. From all of us here at The Moth, have a musical week. Michelle Jalowski is a producer and director at The Moth, where she helps people craft and shape their stories for stages all over the world. This episode of The Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Glucce, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Caza. The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash giveback.

All Moth stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange. Helping make public radio more public at prx.org.

This story is brought to you by Brooks and told by Charles Upshaw. Stick around, give it a listen, and should it inspire you to move toward your own finish line, remember that Brooks has the gear to take you to that place that makes you feel more alive. Enjoy! Jesse Owens, Michael Phelps, and Chuck Upshaw. Jesse Owens ran so fast that in the 1936 Berlin Olympics...

he wiped that smirk right off of Adolf Hitler's face. Michael Phelps, for the past 10 years, has been the fastest man in the pool. Now those of you who are pretty perceptive and have been paying attention have probably realized by now that I'm in a wheelchair. And I've been using a wheelchair since 1987. So I know some of you are thinking, there can't possibly be much in common between Chuck and those Olympians. Well, it started...

the day that my neurologist told me about a new medication for MS patients. A miracle drug, really. It was supposed to help MS patients walk 20% faster. And he asked me if I'd be willing to try it. 20% faster? Hell yes. Sign me up right now. What do I have to do? He said, the only thing I had to do was complete a 25-foot timed walk. Wow.

I understood what they were trying to do. They were going to establish a baseline. They were going to see how fast I walk before the meds and after the meds. 25 feet? I can do that in my sleep. 25 feet doesn't sound very far. It's a distance from here over there. Most of you could probably walk 25 feet in six or seven seconds. It's not far unless you have multiple sclerosis. Then it feels like you're walking across the Sahara Desert.

And that's how it turned out for me. Late one Friday afternoon in July, I took my walker to the neurologist's office and started to walk. The first two steps were great. I was strong. I was strong like a bull. That third step started to get a little harder. It got progressively harder the further I walked. By the time I finished, I was out of breath and I was soaked through with sweat. My shirt was just wringing wet. And I asked the nurse how I did.

And she told me, and I said, well, when can I start the medication? She said, Chuck, you can't. And this was the part that the neurologist had neglected to tell me. I had to walk 25 feet within a certain time period. And the time I walked was way, way, way slower than that. Well, this was one of those WTF moments. And I'll admit that I was probably using some of those ugly words.

A time frame, it would have been nice if somebody had told me, but nobody did. At that point, I was furious. But I made a decision that I was going to show the insurance companies because they are the ones who is at that time frame. The insurance companies, the man. I was going to show them. The next day, I was going on vacations.

And while I was on vacation, I walked 25 feet twice a day in the cool of the morning and the cool of the afternoon. And by the end of the week, I had knocked off 30 seconds. But that was still a long, long, long way from where I needed to be. When I got home, I wanted to continue walking, but I didn't have a place to walk. And for two or three weeks, I thought, where can I walk? Where can I walk? And it finally came to me.

I had been a mental health therapist on the psychiatric unit of a local hospital, and they had a great long hallway, and I would walk there. The only problem was I didn't want anybody to see me walking. It was a pride thing, and I didn't want people to see me struggling and stumbling around, so I devised this great plan.

I would only walk when patients were in treatment groups or at lunch and when staff were charting in the nurse's station. Well, that was a clumsy, slow, awkward way to do it, and my times weren't coming down. So finally, I decided that I only had one solution. I would come out. So one Monday morning in a community meeting, that's when all the patients and staff got together, I let people know what I was going to be doing. Walk in the halls.

I let them know why. I needed to walk 25 feet in 45 to 8 seconds. Afterwards, two women came up to me and said they would like to help me. Two patients. Linda said, Chuck, what can I do to help? Well, I don't ask for help very well, so I didn't have any kind of plan. Finally, I said, take my watch, walk down there to where you see that strip of tape on the floor. That's 25 feet.

I will walk to you. I'll say, go when I start walking and when I get to you, you stop having me. Mary said she wanted to help too, but I didn't have anything for her to do. Now, Mary was a sister from Mississippi. So I said, Mary, here's what I want you to do. I want you to go down and stand next to Linda. I will walk to you and we maintain good eye contact and I want you to be my cheerleader. I said, Mary, I want you to pray for me. She said, Chuck, I'll do that.

So we walked for a week, nothing. Two weeks, nothing. Finally, that third week, when I got to the finish line, Linda said, Chuck, 44 seconds. And Mary said, thank you, Jesus. And I learned two important things that day. One was how humbling it is to have people who have their own problems and struggles help you. The second thing I learned was how addictive speed can be. Because even though I had

gotten within the time frame, I wanted my speed, my time to go down, down, down, down. And it did. I kept walking. Patients kept helping me. Now, at the same time we had on the unit, a young woman who had been there two weeks, and she had been completely mute the whole time she was there. She had not said one syllable. No one had heard her say boo.

I'm a pretty good therapist. I tried everything I knew how to do, and she wouldn't talk. One day before group therapy, she came into the group room with a legal pad and a pen, and she wrote, Chuck, why is 30 seconds so important to you?

Well, I was stunned that she was communicating. But I told her. I told her about the medication. I told her about the time frame. I told her that mostly 30 seconds was important to me because I wanted to stick it to the man. She smiled, but she didn't talk. After about another week, her physicians thought that she should go to a longer-term hospital. On the day she left, her parents came to pick her up. They walked to the elevator. I rolled to the elevator and told her,

Thank you, and I wouldn't miss her. And as elevator doors were closing, she looked up at me and said, "Chuck, I hope you get 30." The doors closed. "Hey, wait, wait, wait, stop!" But she was gone. My times kept inching down, slowly but surely. And I did get 30 seconds, and my time kept going down. These were my Olympic moments. It was about this time I realized that 25 feet really isn't that far.

If you have people helping you. The last time I walked was three days before I retired. The young woman who was helping me was 19, and she had more attitude than all of you put together. She started off the same way she did every time I walked. She said, ready, Chuck, walk. And I walked. I walked as fast as I could. When I got to the finish line, she didn't say anything. She looked up at me, but she didn't say anything. Finally, I said, what's wrong?

She said, "Damn, Chuck." I said, "Walk, not run." She got up, walked slowly over to me, and showed me the stopwatch. 6.7 seconds. Life's a funny old thing. It's full of irony. The first time I walked, I didn't qualify because I was too slow. The last time I walked, I didn't qualify because I was too fast. Jesse Owens, Michael Phelps, and me.

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