Varieties of Disturbance by Lydia Davis Page B

whole loaf of bread this morning, and I think he’s farting.” But if it was him, and not the dog, this would embarrass him. Although maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe he was already embarrassed, if it was him, and this would give him a way out of his embarrassment. But by now the smell was long gone. Maybe the dog would fart again, if it was the dog. That was the only thing she could think of—the dog would fart again, if it was the dog, and then she would simply apologize for the dog, whether or not it was the dog, and that would relieve him of his embarrassment, if it was him.

Television
    1.
    We have all these favorite shows coming on every evening. They say it will be exciting and it always is.
    They give us hints of what is to come and then it comes and it is exciting.
    If dead people walked outside our windows we would be no more excited.
    We want to be part of it all.
    We want to be the people they talk to when they tell what is to come later in the evening and later in the week.
    We listen to the ads until we are exhausted, punished with lists: they want us to buy so much, and we try, but we don’t have a lot of money. Yet we can’t help admiring the science of it all.
    How can we ever be as sure as these people are sure? These women are women in control, as the women in my family are not.
    Yet we believe in this world.
    We believe these people are speaking to us.
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    Mother, for example, is in love with an anchorman. And my husband sits with his eyes on a certain young reporter and waits for the camera to draw back and reveal her breasts.
    After the news we pick out a quiz show to watch and then a story of detective investigation.
    The hours pass. Our hearts go on beating, now slow, now faster.
    There is one quiz show which is particularly good. Each week the same man is there in the audience with his mouth tightly closed and tears in his eyes. His son is coming back on stage to answer more questions. The boy stands there blinking at the television camera. They will not let him go on answering questions if he wins the final sum of a hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars. We don’t care much about the boy and we don’t like the mother, who smiles and shows her bad teeth, but we are moved by the father: his heavy lips, his wet eyes.
    And so we turn off the telephone during this program and do not answer the knock at the door that rarely comes. We watch closely, and my husband now presses his lips together and then smiles so broadly that his eyes disappear, and as for me, I sit back like the mother with a sharp gaze, my mouth full of gold.
    2.
    It’s not that I really think this show about Hawaiian policemen is very good, it’s just that it seems more real than my own life.
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    Different routes through the evening: Channels 2, 2, 4, 7, 9, or channels 13, 13, 13, 2, 2, 4, etc. Sometimes it’s the police dramas I want to see, other times the public television documentaries, such as one called Swamp Critturs .
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    It’s partly my isolation at night, the darkness outside, the silence outside, the increasing lateness of the hour, that makes the story on television seem so interesting. But the plot, too, has something to do with it: tonight a son comes back after many years and marries his father’s wife. (She is not his mother.)
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    We pay a good deal of attention because these shows seem to be the work of so many smart and fashionable people.
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    I think it is a television sound beyond the wall, but it’s the honking of wild geese flying south in the first dark of the evening.
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    You watch a young woman named Susan Smith with pearls around her neck sing the Canadian National Anthem before a hockey game. You listen to the end of the song, then you change the channel.
    Or you watch Pete Seeger’s legs bounce up and down in time to his Reuben E. Lee song, then change the channel.
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    It is not what you want to be doing. It is that you are passing the