Dear Mr. Mulvahill,
I sincerely hope
that this letter finds you
spiritually, mentally,
and physically well.
You likely won't remember me,
so please allow me
to reintroduce myself.
My name is Jim Herbers.
I attended Franklin Elementary
from 1974 through 1979,
where you coached baseball
and taught music
to kindergarten
through 3rd grade.
I was an ordinary child who,
from an early age,
had ordinary aspirations
to lead an ordinary life.
But all that changed
when I was in 3rd grade--
when I met you.
I am hoping that you will be
kind enough to meet with me.
I have longed for many years
to meet face-to-face,
and have only recently
gathered the courage to ask.
You will receive
a second letter from me
this afternoon
outlining the specific
time and place
at which I would like
to meet tomorrow.
And while I realize
this may seem an odd
and presumptuous request,
I remind you that
as a former teacher
your primary role in life
was to profoundly impact
the lives of your students.
I can assure you that no one
was more profoundly impacted
by the short time
we spent together than me.
Sincerely, Jim Herbers.
Jim?
Mr. Mulvahill?
Yes. That's me.
I-I'm sorry, I just--
it's been so long.
It's really you?
Well, I hope I'm him.
I'm wearing his underwear.
Please come in.
I'm sorry, I just--
No, no, it's--
it's quite all right.
Well, I-- I guess
you've grown a few inches
since we last
saw each other.
You remember me?
I carry all my students
with me.
How?
I'm sorry. How?
Yes, how?
It's just a figure of speech.
I--
I...
You're all
a part of my life.
I understand.
So, I was pleased
to get your letter.
I have to confess
that I do have an appointment
this afternoon,
but I'm eager to hear
whatever it is
you wanted to discuss with me.
Mr. Mulvahill, I--
I can't thank you enough
for coming today.
You have no idea
how much this means to me.
It's no trouble at all.
Really.
Please. Have a seat.
- Oh. Thank you.
- OK.
You remember?
Do you mean
the piece of music?
It's the 4th movement
of Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
- "The Ode to Joy."
- His final symphony.
That's correct.
The year was 1978,
I was in the 3rd grade,
you were
teaching us all music.
And we were trying to decide
what to play
for the spring concert.
And all the kids wanted to play
the overture to Star Wars.
The movie had
just been released, and made
quite an impression
on all of us.
I was behind that idea
a hundred percent.
Do you remember?
No? Well, you were having
none of it, Mr. Mulvahill,
let me tell you.
You said, while the music
might be exciting to us,
it was highly derivative
and wasn't worth our attention.
Ha!
Then...
you told us...
about Ludwig van Beethoven.
His dark and fiery
compositions
made him a star,
and yet, his personal life
was filled with pain
and deeply troubled.
Which got even worse
as he lost his hearing.
Can you imagine
the ultimate tragedy?
A composer losing their hearing.
And that for
the final movement
of his final symphony,
in a stroke of irony,
he composed an ode...
- to joy.
- To joy.
He even brought in a chorus
to sing along with the music.
Yes, yes.
Well, needless to say,
the children of the class
did not approve
of your choice,
Mr. Mulvahill.
But I just wanted
to thank you
for playing "Ode to Joy"
for me that day.
For teaching me
that even though a man may live
a deeply troubled life
and come up against...
unbelievable obstacles
over which he has no control,
to which he might be
an innocent victim,
even if he's...
drowning
in darkness and fear
and despair
and isolation...
that every person
has the opportunity
to... end their life
with an ode to joy.
I desperately want
to believe that.
And, ironically enough,
it's you I have to thank
for this narrow strand of hope
upon which... I now stand.
Do you remember now?
I-- I do. Uh...
I-- I do remember it, Jim.
And, uh, I'm so glad
that... that it stayed with you.
Well, I--
I should probably--
Do you also remember
what happened after
all the other kids left?
Uh, I'm sorry?
Well, you remembered
the first portion of the day,
I'm assuming
you remember the portion
that followed after.
Hmm?
I'm not sure, uh, really.
But that's
the most seminal part
of it for me.
That's the part
that affected me the most,
you and me alone together
in the classroom.
That's what...
made me the man I am today.
Do you remember?
Let me refresh
your memory.
So, the kids
voted for Star Wars.
You were disappointed,
but you handled it well.
And then the bell rang,
and all of
the other children left.
And I came up to you
and I said
that I really loved
"Ode to Joy"
and I wanted to vote for it,
but I was afraid
the other kids
would make fun of me.
So I copped out
and I voted for Star Wars, too.
And you were very sweet
about it,
and you forgave me
for voting for Star Wars
and not for Beethoven.
Then I turned to go,
and then you stopped me
and said
could I stay for a few minutes.
Do you remember that?
I-- I'm sorry, Jim, I--
- I should be going.
- Just one-- one minute.
Please.
So...
you asked me
to take out my trumpet--
that trumpet--
and you handed me
the sheet music
for "Ode to Joy"
and asked me
to play along with you.
I was thrilled.
I never got this kind
of attention at home.
You asked me
to close the door,
and I did,
and then
we started to play,
me on the trumpet,
you on the piano.
I played terribly,
of course,
and you played brilliantly.
And the whole time you...
smiled at me
and nodded in encouragement.
And it made me
feel so good about myself.
Then we finished,
and I put away the trumpet,
and you looked me,
you smiled...
...then you put your hand
on my knee.
Can you remember
what you said?
I-- I, uh, I don't. I--
This one is important.
This...
is the most important.
Can you remember
what happened next?
I'm gonna need you
to remember.
I'm gonna need you
to try harder.
OK?
No, I-- I--
I'm gonna need you
to work harder.
Because what happened
over the next four minutes
entirely changed
the course of my life.
So the least you can do
is try and remember.
Or admit-- Please.
Tell me...
what you remember...
about what happened next.
I'm sorry.
I simply don't remember.
OK.
I'm disappointed,
but what can you do?
I mean... you can't remember
what you can't remember.
Thank you so much
for coming.
And I sincerely hope
I haven't made you late
for your next appointment.
Well, nice to see you, Jim,
and I hope everything--
- Mr. Mulvahill!
- Yes?
If you scream, I'll have to
put a gag in your mouth.
You won't like that.
Plus, I rented
all the nearby rooms,
so there's no one to help you.
But I'm confident
that we can resolve this
if we just cooperate together.
OK?
I'm sorry I had
to hit you like that,
but, as you'll soon realize,
I needed to have you immobilized
for about ten minutes
while we work through this.
Now, I'm pretty sure you knew
what happened on that day
and are lying to me right now.
But there is the possibility
that you have forgotten
or, even more likely,
that what was so seminal for me
was merely commonplace for you.
So, where were we? Ah, yes.
Sitting down,
your hand on my knee,
the door was closed.
You remember
what you said to me?
You said, "Jim...
I believe...
that anything is possible
in this world."
I remember basking
in the warm glow
of your smile,
and for a moment I believed
that maybe I could
have a beautiful life,
maybe I could be a composer
one day,
like Beethoven.
And then...
just like that...
you took it away.
You erased it.
And do you know why?
You teleported.
From right over here,
to right over there.
Thirty feet.
From the piano
to behind the desk.
Whoosh!
Just like that.
And I-- I was shocked.
I-- I couldn't believe it.
So I quickly asked you
about it,
and, even more strangely,
you denied it.
And I wanted
to find the truth.
So I asked you again.
You denied it again.
Back and forth we went--
for four minutes
this conversation went on.
Well, finally, I-- I started
doubting myself.
Do you know what that's like?
When part of you
deeply believes
that something is true,
and another part of you
doubts yourself
to your very core?
Until you start to doubt...
any experience you might have.
Oh...
it's-- it's dark.
It's a lot darker than...
the life of
Ludwig van Beethoven,
I'll tell ya that.
Makes it impossible
to get close to anyone.
Because you know something
they can't,
and even if you do
get close enough
to confess it to someone,
like, say,
your college girlfriend,
oh... it doesn't go very well.
So then you keep it a secret.
But that creates a wall
between you and other people.
You talk to therapists,
to psychiatrists,
to hypnotists,
and no one believes you,
and even the medication
stops working the way it should,
which makes you
doubt yourself even more.
So what do you do?
You work a menial job, and...
you just get by.
Until, finally...
you come to
the terrifying conclusion
that even though
it makes no earthly sense...
that Mr. Mulvahill,
the baseball coach
and music teacher,
harbors the powers
of teleportation,
you know what you saw!
And you believe it--
no matter what
anyone else says.
Now, I know
what you're thinking.
Why wait 40 years
to confront you about it?
Well, that's
a very good question.
Believe me, I have been
thinking about this every day,
multiple times a day,
for the past 40 years.
Who and what you might be,
and why you did
what you did to me.
Now, ultimately,
I decided that I can live
without knowing why.
But mm-mm. What I can't stand
is the .001 percent chance
that it didn't happen.
What if I'm crazy?
What if I... blinked
or had a blackout,
and there was
no teleportation whatsoever?
That's when I knew
I needed to confront you,
I needed to speak to you,
try and get the truth.
And, well,
we went through that,
and it worked out
just as I thought: fruitless.
So then I thought, well,
why not capture him
and threaten his life
until he tells me the truth?
Well, look,
you and I both know
that if my life were threatened
unless I admitted
to something ridiculous,
like, say, I don't know,
I had 39 testicles,
I would do it. Of course.
I would lie. Wouldn't you?
Of course you would.
And that's why I've never
confronted you before.
I could never
figure out a strategy...
to come up with the truth.
Then, one day,
when I was eating Corn Pops
and listening to
This American Life,
it hit me like
a bolt of lightning.
Ha ha! Of course!
If I tell him
that he's only got
60 seconds
before I put this baseball bat
through his skull,
well, that should
give him enough time, right?
If he can teleport, he will.
Because if not...
he's dead.
- Fifty seconds.
- Please wait.
Please! Please--
D-Don't do this.
I'll do anything you want.
We're past that,
Mr. Mulvahill.
Look into your heart.
You know this is not
the right thing to do.
But I need to do it.
But you know you have doubts.
Just the tiniest
of doubts.
But what you are claiming
is impossible.
Man cannot teleport himself!
Religion is impossible,
but man believes it...
But I know you are
a man of reason!
Ah, you don't
really know me.
Thirty seconds.
In 30 seconds
you'll commit murder.
I don't believe that's true.
But you're not sure.
And if you're not sure,
- then--
- I need to find out!
If your life is dark now,
there'll be no hope for you
after you've killed
an innocent man.
I don't believe
you're innocent!
But you'll never know!
Because I'll be dead!
Please don't do this.
Don't do this to me!
- To yourself!
- Ten seconds.
Oh, dear God, help me!
- Please! Please help me!
- Help! No one can hear you.
- Six seconds.
- Oh, God!
Oh, God! Oh, God, please!
No, no! No!
- Three...
- Oh, God! No, no!
- two...
- No!
Oh!