Episode Seven: Michael Herzovi and Judith Harding

Welcome to the podcast! Today, we feature two stories originally performed in Tellin' Tales Theatre’s Ensemble Showcase in October of 2025. Both writers are part of our ensemble—a collaborative group of theater artists with and without disabilities who work closely together to enhance the mission of the company. Enjoy these uniquely unforgettable perspectives! 

Featured Stories

“The Wrath of Carbondale" -By Michael Herzovi 

Two students in power wheelchairs get stranded at night when a battery dies. With no accessible transit in sight, campus security "saves" them in the most bizarre way possible: loading them—still in their chairs—into the back of a bouncing pickup truck. Hear this terrifyingly funny ride unfold

“Bottom Feeder” -By Judith Harding

Ever wanted to stick it to a multi-millionaire art mogul? Working in a museum basement, a self-described "bottom feeder" spends her days packing unsold inventory. When a mountain of overpriced Jeff Koons books lands on her cart, she finds the perfect, hilariously petty way to speak truth to power. 

Transcript

Shui 0:22

Hello, Steve. Hello, Robert.

Steve 0:25

Hi, Shui. Hi, Robert.

Robert 0:26

Hey, Steve, hey, Shui. It's a time for

Shui 0:30

Tellin' Tales, Tales Told?

Robert 0:32

Isn't it always?

Steve 0:33

This is a gonna be a great show. It features two of our ensemble members.

Shui 0:37

I didn't even know we had an ensemble.

Robert 0:39

We do. It's a very select group of very, very talented storytellers and actor types.

Steve 0:43

And this first story is a tale of getting home.

Shui 0:46

Is that code for something?

Robert 0:47

Not in this case. It is actually a story about getting home that gets complicated.

Steve 0:53

Shh. Spoilers! Let's just listen.

Michael 1:04

It was a bumpy ride. Extremely dangerous. At any moment I could be thrown clear of the vehicle. If that happened, it would mean my friend Guy had already flown over the side. Not exactly the party school life I'd hoped for. A bunch of us had been to see a movie. I hung out with Guy and we went out to dinner. We were both in our power wheelchairs. The movie theater was far away on the east side of town. Guy was going to lead me back to my dorm and then go home to his apartment. He was a bit of a hero. He fit into the party scene like I never dared to. On the other hand, he flunked out his first year and moved off campus. He was smart and funny, and he wore a bowler hat. He was a huge fan of the Muppets. The sidewalks were all broken up. We rode for long stretches in the street. Lots of wheelchair folks did that back then, but it scared the hell out of me. While we were still a long way from home, Guy started slowing down. Are you okay? I think so. A block later. I hope so. A block after that. Crap. Batteries. The farther we got, the slower he went. We weren't gonna make it. This was in the days before cell phones. Problem was there was no place to call from. Eventually we came inside of the bars. Every entrance lit up, so we could see the steps at the door. Guy became very quiet. I focused on the shrinking distance between the back of his chair in front of mine. After a couple more blocks, we were barely moving. We were still riding in the street, hugging the curb when we could, panicking every time a car passed. Finally, an oasis. A bar with a parking lot right next to it. I followed an half-pushed guy under a light. Navigating around people inside would be harder in my wheelchair. Back then it was easier to walk, so I just went inside. It was loud, crowded, and full of smoke. Like there was a haze with voices in it and the crack of pool balls in the back. This is what I'd been missing. No time to soak up the atmosphere. There were payphones right by the door. Luckily, I knew the number. Security? My friend's in a power wheelchair and his battery's dead. Can you call the handicapped van service so someone can pick us up? We're at PK's. Call who? The van service. My roommate told me that you have an emergency number for the van service. You all are in wheelchairs? Yes, sir. And you're stuck. At PK's? Right. You said it's the van service. Yes. Hang on. I waited, clutching the receiver against my shoulder, trying to look casual while I practically gawked at people. If I were taller, if I were older, if Guy wasn't waiting outside. Sorry. Nobody's answering the van service phone. You all are at PK's? Yeah. Well see what we can do. Just stay where you are. I went back outside. Guy was there under the light with a what else could go wrong look on his face. They're sending security. I hope they don't try to take our fingerprints. I just did my laundry. I marveled at the line of motorcycles parked in a neat row. A biker bar. In another life, these might be my people. After about five or ten minutes, a few blocks away, a lone campus security car turned the corner, and I said to Guy, Why do I get the feeling they're coming for us? Sure enough, it stopped. And one security officer got out and said, How you boys doing? Not too well, officer, Guy said. He was trying to be polite. My my wheelchair can't hold its liquor. The cop didn't budge. So Guy did his best Fozzie Bear. Waka waka waka. No reaction. Just trying to get home. Where's that? Hayes Street? He got on his radio and had the same conversation with bass that I'd had by phone. He said, Well, I'm gonna need assistance. Send a couple of units. Backup arrived, two more cars, trying to figure out what to do with us. Two of them drove away. About five or ten minutes later, an SIU pickup truck turned the corner. And I said to Guy, Why do I think that's for us? The pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. Now, Guy was very afraid of getting hurt if he were lifted out of his chair and put into the truck. So they put his power chair with him in it, in the back of the pickup truck. They lifted me up into the back of the pickup truck and then my wheelchair behind his. That's how we rode. Me in the bed of the pickup truck, my left arm around Guy's front wheel to keep him from bouncing over the side, my ankles crossed around the front wheel of my wheelchair. Guy constantly calling out to the police that were driving us home. Go slow, be careful. We were rocking and bouncing, and it was nerve-wracking, terrifying. And again, I focused only on my arm around the front wheel of Guy's chair, my ankles clutching my own front wheel and thinking, God, please don't let anything go wrong. It's a brand new wheelchair, my parents just bought it. So we get to Guy's apartment, and they take my wheelchair down so that they can get Guy out of the back of the truck. They help him get into his apartment and say they'll take me back to my dorm. Once again, ankles crossed around the front wheel, but without Guy's warning, we were bouncing even worse. We get to the dorm, they take down my chair, and one of them says, You know, you should put some reflectors on that thing if you're gonna be out at night. I said, Absolutely, officer, safety first, and went home. And I got reflectors and a map. And I learned how to get home from the east side without riding in the street, and without any help from security.

Shui 8:17

Security, security, we need help at a biker's bar.

Steve 8:20

Who hasn't said that?

Robert 8:21

Every Saturday night?

Shui 8:22

So, what's the next story?

Robert 8:24

The story of one woman's part in preserving capitalism . . .

Steve 8:27

and secret animus against a certain artist.

Shui 8:30

Let me guess it's not gonna be so secret in a minute.

Steve 8:32

Spoilers!

Robert 8:33

Play the story, Steve.

Judith 8:43

You know what I am? I'm a bottom feeder. Low, real low on the totem pole. Where I work, everybody's my boss, even though I've been there much longer than most of them, and am easily old enough to be a grandparent to any number of them. I'm a bottom feeder. I work in the basement, the basement of a smallish contemporary art museum, where I am an assistant shipping and receiving associate for the retail store of this museum. I pick, pack, and ship merchandise purchased by the customers. I also unpack, count, put price tags on, and shelf merchandise for the customers to purchase. Now, some of this merchandise involves books. And unlike all the other merchandise in this museum store, from say Jean-Michel Basquiat scented candles, smell this spray paint to Judy Chicago cocktail coasters. Oh my, a vagina, from Yayoi Kusama jigsaw puzzles, so many dots, to Marina Ambramovich, I masks, self care. Unlike all this other merchandise, books, if they aren't selling, can be returned to the book distributor for credit. Oh, credit, perhaps the most important cog in the cycle of life we call cha-ching capitalism. And when the inventory manager brings down a book cart groaning with book returns, well, it's my job to pack them up and ship them out. Now, speaking of capitalism, Jeff Koons, a contemporary American artist, known for those balloon animals, balloon dogs, those huge, enormous, gigantic balloon dogs rendered in stainless steel, that that iconic inflatable rabbit also rendered in stainless steel, which auctioned off for over 99-0 million dollars. And you know, well, it'd be kind of cool. In fact, it'd be pretty great if Jeff Koons himself actually made these objects, you know, molded and cast and extruded and polished them. But no, no, no, no, no, no. Jeff Koons doesn't do that. No, Jeff Koons has never done that. What Jeff Koons does is he hires a bunch of highly skilled craftspeople to execute his ideas. But are these actually Jeff Koons's ideas? Hmm, well, I don't think so. It's not like Jeff Koons invented the balloon dog. Well, I'll bet Jeff Koons never even made a real balloon dog out of a real balloon. Man, I would have so much respect for him if in his earlier life Jeff Koons had been a children's birthday party clown, cranking out balloon animals for hordes and hordes of screeching children. (blowing balloon sounds and squeak of assembly) Here, kid. A stupid balloon dog? I don't want that, you botho,. I want a gun. I want a balloon gun. I've got a score to settle. Children's birthday party clown. Now that's a profession I can truly admire, way more than that of that self-merchandising purveyor of a egregiously overpriced, oversized Tchotkes. I hate Jeff Coons. I despise him. I know, I know, I know. I don't know him. And in full transparency, I actually do kind of like that gigantic topiary terrier of his that was outside Rockefeller's Center, but goddammit, I can't stand Jeff Koons. Of course, this doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all. I'm a bottom feeder. But then came the day when the inventory manager brought down a book cart just groaning with book returns for me to pack up and ship back to the book distributor for cha-ching credit. And on this groaning book cart, almost two dozen copies of Jeff Koons' hardcover monograph. Narcissistically sized, almost two inches thick, retailing for 65 bucks. Well, no wonder they haven't sold. I mean, come on. Museum visitors who want to own a piece of Jeff Koons, why would they drop 65 bucks to schlep home a heavy book when they can buy a four-inch balloon dog replica in lightweight resin for less than 20 bucks, including tax? It's a no-brainer. Now, the entire front cover of this monograph is a vintage black and white photo portrait of Jeff Koons as a child sitting at a table holding a crayon, wearing that same plaid shirt my brother wore on Picture Day, same altar boy haircut parted on the side, looking up with a wistful expression that says, I'm a white boy child of the middle class in mid-century America, and the world is my oyster. Fuck you, kid. I'm assembling 14 by 14 by 8 inch corrugated cartons into which I am packing these monographs, nestling them in reams and reams of craft paper that I'm shoving around them. Take that, you fraud! And I'm just about to finish packing up the final carton when I realize this is it. At last, my chance to speak truth to power. I I grab a piece of crumpled up newsprint, I'll show you, and and I smooth it out, and I uncap my black sharpie and I write, Jeff Koons sucks, and I ball that piece of paper up really good, and I slam it into that carton, and I seal that sucker up with tape. (tape noises) Bottom feeder. Don't even think of messing with me.

Robert 15:36

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