Why Aren't I Famous? with Jed Wolf
Sep 27, 2026 · 40 min · 9 segments
A neglected toddler is found in a storm drain. It isn't the most promising start to a life, but it turns out to be a useful one for a boy who will spend a lifetime trying to be heard. This is the…
Though I vaguely remember the pipe incident and witches, I mostly recall the skewed parallelogram of light from the single window in my bedroom climbing the walls.
Twelve years later, my mother broke her silence as we rolled to a stop in front of the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Hospital.
Practiced at remaining remote, especially in close quarters, red lights made Katzmann's claustrophobic.
How much further, Dick? 20 minutes, my father said, as if he'd been tracking every mile of my exile to boarding school.
The vehicle's scent mirrored his Manhattan firm's lobby, where his receptionist, Lila, in her razor-sharp charcoal suit, plied shopping mall developers with cocktails.
With her Jackie O sunglasses and elegantly jeweled fingers clutching her Paco Rabanne, my mother turned around, eyes narrowed.
Did you remember your parka? No.
Well, I told you.
At 14, I could slice under pool water like a knife.
But when my parents chuckled at a friend's suggestion that I had a future at Weeki Wachee, Florida's mermaid show, I'd wanted to cut off my arms and began responding with single words, tapping louder and faster.
Thanksgiving.
We don't know that yet, Ruby, my father shushed her while turning up the Manson murders on NPR.
Breathing a cocktail of colognes, sheepskin, and cigarettes, with my window cracked only two inches because my mother didn't like feeling her hair move, I recalled ski trips where I'd force my father into skidding stops so I could puke in the snow.
Since turning 13, I'd lost my ability to vomit at will.
If I really concentrated, I could still see animals galloping alongside the car, leaping fences and navigating ravines.
Surely at 14, I was old enough to roll down my own window and breathe early autumn air.
So I dared press the button.
Sitting up like an adult, I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror, then slumped back down, repulsed.
What are you doing? My mother said as I waved to a busload of hospital patients emptying onto the sidewalk.
Close his window, will you, Dick? For Christ's sake, Jed, my father snapped.
Stop teasing them.
Let me out, I muttered as my window rose.
Though I vaguely remember the pipe incident and witches, I mostly recall the skewed parallelogram of light from the single window in my bedroom climbing the walls.
Twelve years later, my mother broke her silence as we rolled to a stop in front of the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Hospital.
Practiced at remaining remote, especially in close quarters, red lights made Katzmann's claustrophobic.
How much further, Dick? 20 minutes, my father said, as if he'd been tracking every mile of my exile to boarding school.
The vehicle's scent mirrored his Manhattan firm's lobby, where his receptionist, Lila, in her razor-sharp charcoal suit, plied shopping mall developers with cocktails.
With her Jackie O sunglasses and elegantly jeweled fingers clutching her Paco Rabanne, my mother turned around, eyes narrowed.
Did you remember your parka? No.
Well, I told you.
At 14, I could slice under pool water like a knife.
But when my parents chuckled at a friend's suggestion that I had a future at Weeki Wachee, Florida's mermaid show, I'd wanted to cut off my arms and began responding with single words, tapping louder and faster.
Thanksgiving.
We don't know that yet, Ruby, my father shushed her while turning up the Manson murders on NPR.
Breathing a cocktail of colognes, sheepskin, and cigarettes, with my window cracked only two inches because my mother didn't like feeling her hair move, I recalled ski trips where I'd force my father into skidding stops so I could puke in the snow.
Since turning 13, I'd lost my ability to vomit at will.
If I really concentrated, I could still see animals galloping alongside the car, leaping fences and navigating ravines.
Surely at 14, I was old enough to roll down my own window and breathe early autumn air.
So I dared press the button.
Sitting up like an adult, I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror, then slumped back down, repulsed.
What are you doing? My mother said as I waved to a busload of hospital patients emptying onto the sidewalk.
Close his window, will you, Dick? For Christ's sake, Jed, my father snapped.
Stop teasing them.
Let me out, I muttered as my window rose.
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