Colm Tóibín Reads Tobias Wolff
Oct 1, 2026 · 1 hr 3 min · 13 segments
Colm Tóibín joins Deborah Treisman to discuss “Awaiting Orders,” by Tobias Wolff, which was published in *The New Yorker* in 2005…
- Speakers
Colm TóibínGuest
Deborah TreismanHost
Oct 1, 2026 · 1 hr 3 min · 13 segments
Colm Tóibín joins Deborah Treisman to discuss “Awaiting Orders,” by Tobias Wolff, which was published in *The New Yorker* in 2005…
Colm TóibínGuestDeborah TreismanHost
"Awaiting Orders." Sergeant Morse was pulling night duty in the orderly room when a woman called asking for Billy Hart.
She said, "Billy Hart? You sure? He never said a word about shipping out." "I'm sure." "Well, sweet Jesus, that's some news." "And you are? If you don't mind my asking." "I'm his sister.
Hang on, I'll find it for you." "That's okay." "There's people waiting for the phone, people who don't know any better than to breathe down other people's neck." "It won't take a minute." "That's okay.
Sergeant Morse returned to the paperwork he'd been doing, but the talk of Billy Hart had unsettled him.
Hart was from the mountains near Asheville and liked to play the hick for the cover it gave him.
Hart, engaged elsewhere when there was work to be done, but on hand to fleece the new guys at poker or sell rides to town in his Mustang convertible.
Beautiful, really, with that slow cat-like way about him, cool, aloof, almost contemptuous in the languor and ease of his movements.
"Awaiting Orders." Sergeant Morse was pulling night duty in the orderly room when a woman called asking for Billy Hart.
She said, "Billy Hart? You sure? He never said a word about shipping out." "I'm sure." "Well, sweet Jesus, that's some news." "And you are? If you don't mind my asking." "I'm his sister.
Hang on, I'll find it for you." "That's okay." "There's people waiting for the phone, people who don't know any better than to breathe down other people's neck." "It won't take a minute." "That's okay.
Sergeant Morse returned to the paperwork he'd been doing, but the talk of Billy Hart had unsettled him.
Hart was from the mountains near Asheville and liked to play the hick for the cover it gave him.
Hart, engaged elsewhere when there was work to be done, but on hand to fleece the new guys at poker or sell rides to town in his Mustang convertible.
Beautiful, really, with that slow cat-like way about him, cool, aloof, almost contemptuous in the languor and ease of his movements.
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