Television Set
They had been married for five years when Bill Tyler brought home a television set. Wendy stood in the kitchen of their apartment, soup ladle hanging at her side, watching as Bill lugged the cardboard box through the front door. He seemed unsure.
After Bill pushed the box and himself through the door, he put the package down on the living room coffee table. He looked at Wendy. She stirred the stew she was making.
Bill cleared his throat. He laid his hand on the box.
“Hello, Bill. Have a busy day at work?” asked Wendy.
“Um, yes. Busy. Actually, no. Not busy, not busy at all. Sorry, I answered without thinking.” Flustered, Bill shook his head slightly and began again. “It wasn't very busy at all. Sorry, I seem to be societally conditioned to answer 'yes' to your question when I didn't mean it.”
“That's all right. My asking it was a result of societal conditioning as well. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
Bill nodded and continued standing by the coffee table. After a while he said, “Aren't you going to ask me what's in the box?”
Wendy turned around and looked at the box as if she had never seen it before.
“Oh, that. I decided that when you were ready to tell me about it, you would,” she said, still stirring the stew.
“Ah. Well, it's a television set.”
“A television set. You bought a television set? You paid money for it?”
“Well, yes. I thought it was time we had one.”
Wendy looked away. Bill went in their bedroom and left the box lying on the coffee table.
Two
A few months earlier Bill and Wendy had talked about narrative. They had both finished reading a book that Wendy was editing for her job with a publishing firm. The book's plot depended on many coincidences and chance occurrences.
“I really like this book, but something about it bothered me. Everything was so happenstance,” said Bill.
Wendy replied, “But these coincidences were necessary to help the plot along.”
“Exactly. That's the problem. Everything I loved about the book-the intricacy of the plot, the beauty of it-depended on these coincidences. It's always seemed to me that stories depend on coincidences that would be extremely unlikely in my own life. It just bothers me that all narrative is based on such a flimsy premise-without a random set of circumstances, it wouldn't exist.”
“It shouldn't bother you, though,” said Wendy, picking up a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being that happened to be lying conveniently close by.
“Milan Kundera wrote,” and she quoted, “'It is wrong then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidence... but it is wrong to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.'“
Bill thought about that a moment and answered, “I see what the writer means. Maybe it all goes back to my childhood. When all the other kids were watching the simple plots and clear-cut narratives of afternoon cartoons, my parents would only let me watch the random hodgepodge of Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. I learned all the alphabet, though.”
Three
After that conversation, Bill would walk home from work and try to see if he could fit a narrative into his life; or more precisely, he would try and adapt his life to a narrative. One day, several days after he had bought the television set, it struck him that perhaps the action had been the start of a narrative. He thought about it this way: One night, for no particular reason, he had taken a different route home from work, just because he had crossed the street to buy a hot pretzel from a vender, just because he had forgotten to take lunch to work that day.
Because of that different route, he had passed by an electronics store which was still open. Seized by sudden inspiration, he had gone inside and for the first time used his new credit card (which he just happened to get because he got a flyer in the airport while his flight was delayed) and bought a new TV set with no money down.
When Bill left the store, carrying the box under his arm, he had a feeling which he tried to identify. Then he remembered. It was the sensation he had felt when he had first gotten his driver's license, and the first time he had voted. It was a rite of passage for an American citizen, when you first owned your own television set, and were able to choose exactly what you wanted to watch.
But now, looking back, Bill thought about how unlikely it was that he had ended up buying the set in the first place. A whole series of coincidences had been necessary to bring it about. If buying the TV set was really the start of a narrative-one that would inevitably end with either Wendy relenting and letting him keep it or with him bringing it back to the store-then much of the narrative, and its beauty, consisted of pure chance.
It bothered Bill that beauty was a byproduct of randomness.
Four
A week later, the cardboard box marked 'SONY' was still lying on the coffee table in their apartment. It was still sealed with tape, unopened and unexplored.
Wendy sat on the couch, reading TV GUIDE magazine, which she had subscribed to since college. Whenever anyone heard that she had a subscription to TV GUIDE but didn't own a TV, they invariably asked why.
She would always counter their questions by pointing out that many people read magazines about activities they only infrequently participated in, like mountain-climbing, water-skiing, or Far Eastern travel. No one was ever satisfied with her response, and not one was ever able to refute it.
The real reason Wendy read TV GUIDE was that she thought the short summaries of the programs were funny, and much more interesting than the actual programs themselves.
While she was seated at the couch, feet propped on the coffee table next to the beige box, Bill came home. When she heard the key jiggle in the lock, Wendy looked up and smiled as he walked in.
“Hello, Wendy.”
“Hello. It's your turn to cook dinner tonight,” she reminded him.
“I know. How was work?” asked Bill. He leaned over, kissed her and put his shoulder bag down on a chair. He looked at the box and frowned.
“You know, we should really do something about the TV,” Bill said, his inner debate on narrative still fresh in his mind. He felt compelled to force the issue to some kind of resolution.
Wendy shrugged. “What do you want to do?”
“Well, if you really object to it, I could take it back. Or we could unpack it and set it up. I know you don't think there's much value in TV.”
“Oh, I think there's a lot of value in it.”
“But you don't own one, and I've never seen you actually watch it.”
“I know. But I've never gone scuba diving, or studied archeology, or written a sonnet. That doesn't mean I think those activities have no value.”
“Well, okay. But it's still sort of silly to have an unopened television set on our coffee table. Do you think we should just leave it here?”
“Well, why not? If this were a story I was reading at work, I'd say it was a profound symbol for contemporary America. Anyway, think how much fun it would be. It's a great conversation piece.”
Bill stood there. He wanted to grab the box and make some definitive statement-either take a knife and slit it open or bring it back to the shop unopened. But he felt faintly silly insisting on either. Instead, he went into the kitchen and started making dinner while Wendy read TV GUIDE and quietly chuckled.
Five
The unopened box sat on their coffee table for the next five years, until they moved out of their apartment, at which point they gave it to Goodwill. In that time, Bill and Wendy would frequently spend nights seated together in front of the box, reading or talking.
After Bill pushed the box and himself through the door, he put the package down on the living room coffee table. He looked at Wendy. She stirred the stew she was making.
Bill cleared his throat. He laid his hand on the box.
“Hello, Bill. Have a busy day at work?” asked Wendy.
“Um, yes. Busy. Actually, no. Not busy, not busy at all. Sorry, I answered without thinking.” Flustered, Bill shook his head slightly and began again. “It wasn't very busy at all. Sorry, I seem to be societally conditioned to answer 'yes' to your question when I didn't mean it.”
“That's all right. My asking it was a result of societal conditioning as well. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
Bill nodded and continued standing by the coffee table. After a while he said, “Aren't you going to ask me what's in the box?”
Wendy turned around and looked at the box as if she had never seen it before.
“Oh, that. I decided that when you were ready to tell me about it, you would,” she said, still stirring the stew.
“Ah. Well, it's a television set.”
“A television set. You bought a television set? You paid money for it?”
“Well, yes. I thought it was time we had one.”
Wendy looked away. Bill went in their bedroom and left the box lying on the coffee table.
Two
A few months earlier Bill and Wendy had talked about narrative. They had both finished reading a book that Wendy was editing for her job with a publishing firm. The book's plot depended on many coincidences and chance occurrences.
“I really like this book, but something about it bothered me. Everything was so happenstance,” said Bill.
Wendy replied, “But these coincidences were necessary to help the plot along.”
“Exactly. That's the problem. Everything I loved about the book-the intricacy of the plot, the beauty of it-depended on these coincidences. It's always seemed to me that stories depend on coincidences that would be extremely unlikely in my own life. It just bothers me that all narrative is based on such a flimsy premise-without a random set of circumstances, it wouldn't exist.”
“It shouldn't bother you, though,” said Wendy, picking up a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being that happened to be lying conveniently close by.
“Milan Kundera wrote,” and she quoted, “'It is wrong then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidence... but it is wrong to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.'“
Bill thought about that a moment and answered, “I see what the writer means. Maybe it all goes back to my childhood. When all the other kids were watching the simple plots and clear-cut narratives of afternoon cartoons, my parents would only let me watch the random hodgepodge of Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. I learned all the alphabet, though.”
Three
After that conversation, Bill would walk home from work and try to see if he could fit a narrative into his life; or more precisely, he would try and adapt his life to a narrative. One day, several days after he had bought the television set, it struck him that perhaps the action had been the start of a narrative. He thought about it this way: One night, for no particular reason, he had taken a different route home from work, just because he had crossed the street to buy a hot pretzel from a vender, just because he had forgotten to take lunch to work that day.
Because of that different route, he had passed by an electronics store which was still open. Seized by sudden inspiration, he had gone inside and for the first time used his new credit card (which he just happened to get because he got a flyer in the airport while his flight was delayed) and bought a new TV set with no money down.
When Bill left the store, carrying the box under his arm, he had a feeling which he tried to identify. Then he remembered. It was the sensation he had felt when he had first gotten his driver's license, and the first time he had voted. It was a rite of passage for an American citizen, when you first owned your own television set, and were able to choose exactly what you wanted to watch.
But now, looking back, Bill thought about how unlikely it was that he had ended up buying the set in the first place. A whole series of coincidences had been necessary to bring it about. If buying the TV set was really the start of a narrative-one that would inevitably end with either Wendy relenting and letting him keep it or with him bringing it back to the store-then much of the narrative, and its beauty, consisted of pure chance.
It bothered Bill that beauty was a byproduct of randomness.
Four
A week later, the cardboard box marked 'SONY' was still lying on the coffee table in their apartment. It was still sealed with tape, unopened and unexplored.
Wendy sat on the couch, reading TV GUIDE magazine, which she had subscribed to since college. Whenever anyone heard that she had a subscription to TV GUIDE but didn't own a TV, they invariably asked why.
She would always counter their questions by pointing out that many people read magazines about activities they only infrequently participated in, like mountain-climbing, water-skiing, or Far Eastern travel. No one was ever satisfied with her response, and not one was ever able to refute it.
The real reason Wendy read TV GUIDE was that she thought the short summaries of the programs were funny, and much more interesting than the actual programs themselves.
While she was seated at the couch, feet propped on the coffee table next to the beige box, Bill came home. When she heard the key jiggle in the lock, Wendy looked up and smiled as he walked in.
“Hello, Wendy.”
“Hello. It's your turn to cook dinner tonight,” she reminded him.
“I know. How was work?” asked Bill. He leaned over, kissed her and put his shoulder bag down on a chair. He looked at the box and frowned.
“You know, we should really do something about the TV,” Bill said, his inner debate on narrative still fresh in his mind. He felt compelled to force the issue to some kind of resolution.
Wendy shrugged. “What do you want to do?”
“Well, if you really object to it, I could take it back. Or we could unpack it and set it up. I know you don't think there's much value in TV.”
“Oh, I think there's a lot of value in it.”
“But you don't own one, and I've never seen you actually watch it.”
“I know. But I've never gone scuba diving, or studied archeology, or written a sonnet. That doesn't mean I think those activities have no value.”
“Well, okay. But it's still sort of silly to have an unopened television set on our coffee table. Do you think we should just leave it here?”
“Well, why not? If this were a story I was reading at work, I'd say it was a profound symbol for contemporary America. Anyway, think how much fun it would be. It's a great conversation piece.”
Bill stood there. He wanted to grab the box and make some definitive statement-either take a knife and slit it open or bring it back to the shop unopened. But he felt faintly silly insisting on either. Instead, he went into the kitchen and started making dinner while Wendy read TV GUIDE and quietly chuckled.
Five
The unopened box sat on their coffee table for the next five years, until they moved out of their apartment, at which point they gave it to Goodwill. In that time, Bill and Wendy would frequently spend nights seated together in front of the box, reading or talking.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store
- Volume III: Helen meets Roxy for coffee at the Fremont College coffee shop
- Volume III: Tim walks back from Contemporary American Fiction
- Volume III: Helen conducts section, can’t prevent Michael from being dissed
- Volume III: Helen conducts section (HSZ version)