In the kitchen, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in his front yard. The mattress was stripped and the candy-striped sheets lay beside two pillows on the chiffonier. Except for that, things looked much the way they had in the bedroom--nightstand and reading lamp on his side of the bed, nightstand and reading lamp on her side.
His side, her side.
He considered this as he sipped the whiskey.
The chiffonier stood a few feet from the foot of the bed. He had emptied the drawers into cartons that morning, and the cartons were in the living room. A portable heater was next to the chiffonier. A rattan chair with a decorator pillow stood at the foot of the bed. The buffed aluminum kitchen set took up a part of the driveway. A yellow muslin cloth, much too large, a gift, covered the table and hung down over the sides. A potted fern was on the table, along with a box of silverware and a record player, also gifts. A big console-model television set rested on a coffee table, and a few feet away from this stood a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. The desk was pushed against the garage door. A few utensils were on the desk, along with a wall clock and two framed prints. There was also in the driveway a carton with cups, glasses, and plates, each object wrapped in newspaper. That morning, he had cleared out the closets, and except for the three cartons in the living room, all the stuff was out of the house. He had run an extension cord on out there and everything was connected. Things worked, no different from how it was when they were inside.
Now and then a car slowed and people stared. But no one stopped.
It occurred to him that he wouldn't, either.
-A few notes on this story. Another startling opener, on par with: "In the morning, she licks Teacher's off my belly. In the afternoon, she tries to throw herself from the window." Carver doesn't need to tell us that this man is disturbed. "Another drink" suggests that many drinks may have come before this current one. And there's no explanation given for the distressing act of having taken the innards of your home and made them external. (I see a link to Carver's writing method. "Write what you know," he said, "and what do you know better than your secrets?" The writer puts all of his inner life on the page; he makes his secrets known. But maybe a part remains mysterious; the protagonist in this story keeps a few cartons inside the house, and this makes me think of a Divided Self--a refusal to choose, finally, between going in and going out.)
-"His side, her side." A one-sentence paragraph that suggests some kind of war has occurred between the protagonist and his wife. The two halves of the bed call this metaphysical thought to mind. By not spelling things out, Carver maybe suggests that the degradation and violence could be too sad (or too banal) for words.
-The story feels, to me, like "Cathedral" or "Fat." In both of those stories, a strange man leaves a more conventional character altered. In "Cathedral," the blind visitor guides the narrator to a spiritual epiphany. In "Fat," the man with the creamy fingers provokes compassion in the narrator, and also maybe inspires the narrator to think about some of the ways in which she is trapped in her own life. In "Why Don't You Dance?" a young, rather arrogant girl meets this troubled man and is forever changed. The girl has the confidence of youth; she is incorrect just as often as you'd expect a brash young person to be. "It must be a yard sale," she says, but there's nothing to confirm that the man intends to sell his belongings. (I think he later goes along with the sale because he is so disturbed, so past the point of caring, that he thinks the give-and-take could be an amusing game.) "You're not drunk," says the girl, when the boy has clearly indicated that he is drunk. "Whatever they ask, offer ten dollars less. It's always a good idea. And besides, they must be desperate or something." How the young tend to think they understand the laws of the universe!
-There's a vibe of the older man getting his kicks from observing the young couple. Maybe he envies their sexual energy. ("Wouldn't it be funny if, the girl said and grinned and didn't finish.") "Why don't you dance?" he asks, and eventually he steps in and dances with the girl. "Let the neighbors watch." Perhaps he senses that this couple will torpedo their own future, just as he seems to have torpedoed his marriage. What happens to the girl is profound. She seems so certain about things, but the creepy Don Draper-ish enigma that is this stranger shakes the girl up. She's young: It is best to make fun of what you don't understand. So she tries that: Talking to friends, she slams the man's shitty records, his crappy record player. But, clearly, she is troubled and moved by what she has seen. In the man's company, she has had an intimation of the uncertainty of middle age. "She kept talking. She told everyone. There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying." Like Jack in "What's in Alaska?" this girl is frozen in anticipation. She might stop trying to articulate what has happened, but she won't stop thinking. She has encountered a source of wonder; her childish arrogance has been challenged. A step toward adulthood. Carver dims the lights, but we have the sense that the story keeps going (somewhere off-stage). The comfortable have been afflicted. Let's hope the older man drew some kind of courage from this encounter.
His side, her side.
He considered this as he sipped the whiskey.
The chiffonier stood a few feet from the foot of the bed. He had emptied the drawers into cartons that morning, and the cartons were in the living room. A portable heater was next to the chiffonier. A rattan chair with a decorator pillow stood at the foot of the bed. The buffed aluminum kitchen set took up a part of the driveway. A yellow muslin cloth, much too large, a gift, covered the table and hung down over the sides. A potted fern was on the table, along with a box of silverware and a record player, also gifts. A big console-model television set rested on a coffee table, and a few feet away from this stood a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. The desk was pushed against the garage door. A few utensils were on the desk, along with a wall clock and two framed prints. There was also in the driveway a carton with cups, glasses, and plates, each object wrapped in newspaper. That morning, he had cleared out the closets, and except for the three cartons in the living room, all the stuff was out of the house. He had run an extension cord on out there and everything was connected. Things worked, no different from how it was when they were inside.
Now and then a car slowed and people stared. But no one stopped.
It occurred to him that he wouldn't, either.
-A few notes on this story. Another startling opener, on par with: "In the morning, she licks Teacher's off my belly. In the afternoon, she tries to throw herself from the window." Carver doesn't need to tell us that this man is disturbed. "Another drink" suggests that many drinks may have come before this current one. And there's no explanation given for the distressing act of having taken the innards of your home and made them external. (I see a link to Carver's writing method. "Write what you know," he said, "and what do you know better than your secrets?" The writer puts all of his inner life on the page; he makes his secrets known. But maybe a part remains mysterious; the protagonist in this story keeps a few cartons inside the house, and this makes me think of a Divided Self--a refusal to choose, finally, between going in and going out.)
-"His side, her side." A one-sentence paragraph that suggests some kind of war has occurred between the protagonist and his wife. The two halves of the bed call this metaphysical thought to mind. By not spelling things out, Carver maybe suggests that the degradation and violence could be too sad (or too banal) for words.
-The story feels, to me, like "Cathedral" or "Fat." In both of those stories, a strange man leaves a more conventional character altered. In "Cathedral," the blind visitor guides the narrator to a spiritual epiphany. In "Fat," the man with the creamy fingers provokes compassion in the narrator, and also maybe inspires the narrator to think about some of the ways in which she is trapped in her own life. In "Why Don't You Dance?" a young, rather arrogant girl meets this troubled man and is forever changed. The girl has the confidence of youth; she is incorrect just as often as you'd expect a brash young person to be. "It must be a yard sale," she says, but there's nothing to confirm that the man intends to sell his belongings. (I think he later goes along with the sale because he is so disturbed, so past the point of caring, that he thinks the give-and-take could be an amusing game.) "You're not drunk," says the girl, when the boy has clearly indicated that he is drunk. "Whatever they ask, offer ten dollars less. It's always a good idea. And besides, they must be desperate or something." How the young tend to think they understand the laws of the universe!
-There's a vibe of the older man getting his kicks from observing the young couple. Maybe he envies their sexual energy. ("Wouldn't it be funny if, the girl said and grinned and didn't finish.") "Why don't you dance?" he asks, and eventually he steps in and dances with the girl. "Let the neighbors watch." Perhaps he senses that this couple will torpedo their own future, just as he seems to have torpedoed his marriage. What happens to the girl is profound. She seems so certain about things, but the creepy Don Draper-ish enigma that is this stranger shakes the girl up. She's young: It is best to make fun of what you don't understand. So she tries that: Talking to friends, she slams the man's shitty records, his crappy record player. But, clearly, she is troubled and moved by what she has seen. In the man's company, she has had an intimation of the uncertainty of middle age. "She kept talking. She told everyone. There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying." Like Jack in "What's in Alaska?" this girl is frozen in anticipation. She might stop trying to articulate what has happened, but she won't stop thinking. She has encountered a source of wonder; her childish arrogance has been challenged. A step toward adulthood. Carver dims the lights, but we have the sense that the story keeps going (somewhere off-stage). The comfortable have been afflicted. Let's hope the older man drew some kind of courage from this encounter.
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