‘Unstuck’ by John Updike

Unstuck by John Updike, 1962

The magic trick:

A nuanced mix of sympathy and satire in portraying the white American suburban husband

In February of 2009, following John Updike’s death, Roger Angell joined Deborah Treisman to read Updike’s “Playing With Dynamite” on a particularly excellent and memorable episode of The New Yorker Fiction podcast.

During the post-story conversation, Angell recalls two favorite early Updike stories. This weekend, the SSMT website looks at both in a special Updike Weekend Double.

Up first, “Unstuck,” a story from 1962 featuring a young married couple in a new house. The car is stuck in the snow one morning. And just like that, Updike sees potential for a story.

One of the things that I’ve come to appreciate about Updike’s stories is the portrayal of the “man of the house” as one with great privilege but under great pressure. It’s all pretty absurd too – the stakes essentially beginning and ending with the man’s pride. But Updike does an excellent job of showing the situation without overwhelming judgment. It’s very easy to poke holes at the idiot male. It’s also easy to fall into the trap of highlighting his hero’s journey as that of some kind of American suburban god. Updike does neither. As in “Unstuck,” the man’s pride is there. He wants very much to be someone who can take care of the woman, look good in front of the neighbors, and save the day. Those instincts are comically pathetic, yes. But they’re also real. So, as he does in many of his stories, the lead in “Unstuck” and his comically pathetic needs are portrayed without judgment. It’s silly that these things are important in this world. But the story also nods to the fact that this is the world we have, so mock the silliness at your own risk.

And that’s quite a trick on Updike’s part.

The selection:

But, getting in behind the steering wheel, he found himself in a glowing tomb; all the windows were brightly sealed. The motor turned over readily and he felt absurdly thankful for this miracle of ignition. As the motor idled, he staggered around the car, clearing the windows with the combination brush and scraper the car dealer had given him. When he cleared the windshield, the wipers startled him by springing to life and flapping happily. He had left them turned on last evening. He got back in behind the wheel and turned them off. How blue, through the clean windshield, the sky looked above his neighbor’s rooftop! There was smoke rising from the chimney, a host of small brown birds were scuffling and settling for warmth in the dark bare patch in its lee, and his neighbor herself, a middle-aged woman wearing a checkered apron, came out of the front door and began banging a broom around on the porch.

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