What’s this? A “new” story from Donald Barthelme? I thought this might be a week where we get some recently uncovered and formerly unpublished story from a legend (Barthelme died in 1989), but it turns out that is not the case. Rarely does The New Yorker do this, but they are reprinting a story: they originally published “Chablis” in the December 12, 1983 issue. I can’t see where they explain this decision. The only time I can recall them doing this was when Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize and they reprinted “The Bear Came Over the Mountain.” When John Updike died there was a week when there was no fiction but where they published a number of his poems. I’m not against them publishing something from the archive, though. I myself went back to their archive to read and then post on Barthelme’s “Affection,” which was originally published in the November 7, 1983 issue (lots of Barthelme at that time of year, it seems — he had also published “Sakrete” in September and “Kissing the President” in July of 1983).
You can read “Chablis” quickly (it’s less than three columns in the magazine), and Barthelme’s writing is direct, so the story reads easily, though the story itself is not so direct. Here is how the story begins:
My wife wants a dog. She already has a baby. The baby’s almost two. My wife says that the baby wants the dog.
My wife has been wanting a dog for a long time. I have had to be the one to tell her that she couldn’t have it. But now the baby wants a dog, my wife says. This may be true. The baby is very close to my wife. They go around together all the time, clutching each other tightly. I ask the baby, who is a girl, “Whose girls are you? Are you Daddy’s girl?” the baby says, “Momma,” and she doesn’t just say it once, she says it repeatedly, “Momma Momma Momma.” I don’t see why I should buy a hundred-dollar dog for that damn baby.
Perhaps a blessing to be with this narrator for only a few columns, huh? I don’t know just what to make of the story itself, though I will read it again because it was interesting and well done. But who is this narrator, really? What is he concerned about? “What is wrong with me? Why am I not a more natural person, like my wife wants me to be?” he wonders, and he makes me wonder as well.
Please feel free to share your thoughts below!
It’s an archival “comedy” issue, hence the vintage. And who better than Don B. to serve up the economical laughs? This is “late,” vaguely Carver-ian Barthelme, but it’s great for all its relative simplicity.
I’m reminded of two earlier, more uproarious stories: “The Dolt” and “Critique de la Vie Quotidienne.” Check them out in Sixty Stories.
“Romp? I can romp.”
This “Chablis” short story by Donald Barthelme is very curious. Since it is about 3 columns long, it is like a small glass of wine. A much longer short story would be like a magnum of champagne. Barthelme could write either and they’d be perfect. This story is a little ridiculous, but funny, a little emotional but ultimately poignant. It slyly makes fun of middle class values yet sympathizes with the plight of a regular guy who drinks Gallo Chablis in a glass with a cube of ice in the very early morning while trying to raise a family in a house in a suburban housing tract. He is probably barely able to afford the mortgage payments and wants to be careful not to overspend. If they had a million dollar prize for best short story in 3 columns Barthelme would win it. Also if they had one for best use of short sentences, limited effective action and consise but vivid characters and best opening inciting situation, he’d win for those too. So much in so little space. Funny but meaningful, this short story is an archival reprint among other very well chosen archival material. And whoever picked it, it is an awesome pick among a clutch of others included in this New Yorker Comedy issue which is one of their best.
I like that it’s titled “Chablis” as this is not a major aspect of the story yet perhaps is the most worrisome thing about the protagonist as typically one shouldn’t be drinking at 5:30 AM.
My question is how would The New Yorker distinguish this from a “Shouts and Murmurs” entry? Is it because Barthelme is a “literary” figure and Ian Frazier is not? I sensed more heft here and, unlike some “S&M” (joke intended) entries, this is not an overt parody or spoof.
The heft–modernist ideas of everything as an act and here it’s the opposite of Walter Mitty syndrome. Normality as pose or role.
I loved this and the economy and wit were perfect.
I’ve only read earlier more avant-garde Barthelme so this was also interesting in that respect as ‘late style.’