Author’s note: “Weekend Short” is a weekly profile of a short story. Analysis from the readership is encouraged in the comments section.
Welcome to the weekend.
It’s one in the morning. I started an engine tune-up at five. A stripped hex screw on the distributor rotor demanded a tirade against Swede engineers and a stop at Harbor Freight. At nine, I held my breath and started the car — spontaneous combustion of the preferred variety only ensued. I then put the car on four jack stands (for those concerned after last week’s widow-making) and swapped out the blown rear struts that refused to be parted from their posts until fed a king’s ransom in Joules. After a final test drive, cleaning up the tools, and rearranging the cars in the garage, I’m too tired to go to bed. So let’s talk about mobs.
Originally published in the New Yorker in 1933, James Thurber’s “The Day the Dam Broke” is satirical, lush, and as insightful about human nature today as it was almost a century ago. With wit and monochrome, Thurber recounts the body’s impulses when facing potential annihilation despite the lack of evidence for such an event.
Thurber writes:
My memories of what my family and I went through during the 1913 flood in Ohio I would gladly forget. And yet neither the hardships we endured nor the turmoil and confusion we experienced can alter my feeling toward my native state and city. I am having a fine time now and wish Columbus were here, but if anyone ever wished a city was in hell it was during that frightful and perilous afternoon in 1913 when the dam broke, or, to be more exact, when everybody in town thought that the dam broke. We were both ennobled and demoralized by the experience. Grandfather especially rose to magnificent heights which can never lose their splendor for me, even though his reactions to the flood were based upon a profound misconception; namely, that Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry was the menace we were called upon to face. The only possible means of escape for us was to flee the house, a step which grandfather sternly forbade, brandishing his old army sabre in his hand. “Let the sons — —- come!” he roared. Meanwhile hundreds of people were streaming by our house in wild panic, screaming “Go east! Go east!” We had to stun grandfather with the ironing board.
You can read the rest here, view Thurber’s accompanying cartoons here, and listen to Keith Olbermann smugly masticate the words here.
I especially like the sentence, “High Street, the main canyon of trade, was loud with the placid hum of business and the buzzing of placid businessmen arguing, computing, wheedling, offering, refusing, compromising.”
The sentence has so much life in it — the earthiness of the canyon imagery combined with the “nature sounds” of business make for a warmer concept than most any other description of commerce in literature. Trade depicted as a natural function instead of some whiteboard abstraction or conspiracy against the masses is refreshing.
But the point of the story, if we can agree that there is one, is that we are ultimately impressionable herd animals that will stop at nothing — including clobbering a patriarch with an ironing board — to save ourselves. When there’s real danger, our inclination toward self-preservation is forgivable, even in its violence. But when the danger doesn’t materialize, we must reckon with our beastliness without the excuse of a threat.
In no particular order, Covid, daily controversies, and the popularity of kitchen backsplashes all provide the sensation of hoofing it from one side of town to the other and hollering at one another to keep up. We see the sheepishness of Dr. Mallory in the fictions of world leaders as they insist on having done nothing of the sort as lockdowns and school closings — albeit without shame. Twitter has an entire genre of “This you?” posts, where commentators and politicians are reminded of contrary opinions they made days, weeks, and years ago.
For those of us in the news business, we see importance in every comment and event and then stampede to our keyboards to tell you about it — never mind that whatever occurred will be forgotten within a day.
Unfortunately for journalism today, we depend on a small set of outlets to tell us if the dam has broken. The second-tier outlets will then write it up as “Oh Dam, the Water Is Coming! New York Times Reports Dam Has Burst!” with very little in the way of verifying the original information. Reading through a local newspaper — what few pages now comprise such publications — the absence of local stories in favor of syndicated national reports is crushing.
But there are those doing their best to offer what was and what should be. National Review has hired some excellent news writers. I’d argue the original reporting of Ryan Mills is some of the best original work out there — offering readers stories and subjects underreported by mainstream outlets.
It’s time to get moving on. Thank you to Larry for the suggestion.
The “lunatics are in my hall. The paper holds their folded faces to the floor. And every day the paperboy brings more.” Here’s Pink Floyd’s “Brain Damage“:
Author’s note: If there’s a short story you’d like to see discussed in the coming weeks, please send your suggestion to label@nationalreview.com.