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by T.T. Tarski
Last week, we were discussing the types of joke that have characters and a plot. Because of my interest in the way we tell and receive stories, I have always been interested in jokes and songs that tell a story. Jokes are especially interesting because our reactions to them are neurologically complex. Why do we laugh out loud at a joke? Why can't you tickle yourself?
A sudden laugh at an unexpected punch line is almost like a hiccup or a sneeze - all simple human acts, but difficult to explain in terms of our complex neurologies. But why don't we laugh out loud at a funny story? We appreciate the humor of a story, but we usually don't laugh out loud. Let's look at the following "story" joke.
After a year, the man appears before the head monk. For an entire year, he has been breaking his back in the vineyards, thinking about what he should say. He says: "bed hard."
"Well, thank you for your input," says the head monk. "We always like to know what is on the minds of our novices. You may go back to work now."
Another year passes and he has grown very thin. He stands before the head monk and says, "food bad."
"Well, thank you for your input," says the head monk. "We always like to know what is on the minds of our novices. You may go back to work now."
Another year passes and he once again is before the head monk. "I quit," he says.
"Well, I'm not surprised," says the head monk. "You've done nothing but complain since you got here."
The joke has a protagonist, stereotypical straw characters (the other "implied" monks), and the chief monk. It has a story that unfolds gradually, and it comes to a resolution at the end. But does it have a plot? Or is it merely the outline of a plot? How developed must a plot be to qualify as a plot, or, even better, as a "good" plot? This is a question we should all ask ourselves every time we write a short story.
What if we retold the joke as a story? Let me try a quick version.
In his 29 years, Charles Thwain had seen some pain. Forced to drop out of college when his national guard unit was called up to go to the war in Iraq, he was one of the many who suffered lung damage when his gas mask failed. Luckily for Charles, he was miles from the front, typing up death reports, when the gas attack came. Therefore, he was close to the field hospital and got immediate treatment, and within hours he was flown back to the states where, by the ninth month of the war, they had quite a bit of experience in treating lung damage. He was still laid up in that Army hospital in Mississippi when, on a warm and sunny day at the farmer's market back in California, his wife and daughter were killed in one of the many suicide bombings that occurred after the invasion.
For nine long years, he stayed in that hospital, watching the never-ending series of middle-east wars on TV. When he was finally released, he wandered, unsure where he should go or what he should do. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, he found no inner peace. He missed the security and serenity of the hospital. Everywhere he went, there was trouble: the war went on and on, everyone had lost their jobs, the homeless were everywhere, wandering, like himself. One day he found himself in northern California and he heard about a mountaintop monastery that made wine. It was said they grew their own food and had almost no contact with the outside world. Why not join a monastery? he thought. After all, he had no place else to go . No one was waiting for him at home; in fact, he had no home. He could hardly remember a time when he had stayed in one place for even a week. And he had already been forced to withdraw from the world for nine years, so why not just live out the rest of his life in seclusion, in dedication to God?
Asking people along the way for directions and a morsel of food, he searched for the monastery. Many people suggested a place to look, and, surprisingly, many even shared the tiny amounts of food they had. After nine years of depression, they had given up on the government and began to form their own rules of existence. With their help, he eventually found his way to the monastery. There was no one at the gate so he walked up the hill to the cluster of small adobe buildings. He was immediately struck by the peace and quiet there. Monks in heavy brown robes moved alone or in pairs from the old adobe buildings to the fields without a sound. When he asked some of them the way to the main office, they seemed startled by his question and hurried away without answering. He finally found the abbot's office and introduced himself. The Abbott didn't ask him any questions, but just sat back in his chair and stared at him. After a few minutes of this uncomfortable silence, the abbot said: "Yes, you may join us. You have pain in your eyes and in your heart, but it will fade here, with time and hard work."
The Abbott led him to a tiny room with a stone floor and a single stone bench. The Abbott explained that this was to be his room and the stone bench was to be his bed. For a moment, in the semidarkness of the room, Charles thought he saw the faint outline of a body impressed into the stone surface of the bench. It was as if the outline was of a small man, curled into the fetal position. But he decided it must be merely a trick of light and shadow in the room.
The Abbott led him outside where he pointed out the distant hillsides with their seemingly endless fields of grape vines. "This is where you will work," said the Abbott . "The work will cleanse your mind and strengthen your soul. It is said that no one is closer to God than those who toil in the fields."
The Abbott suggested that Charles should go for a walk in the fields before supper and vespers. But before he turned away, he added, "You do understand our vow of silence?"
"Silence?" asked Charles.
"Yes, all of our novices must take a vow of silence. There is no speaking aloud at any time. Except you may come to me once a year, on the anniversary of your arrival here. At that time, you may summarize your feelings aloud, if necessary. However, we ask that you use as few words as possible. As little as one or two words is advisable, in order to maintain the purity of your vow of silence."
"I understand," said Charles.
To which, the Abbott did not reply, but instead put his finger to his lips. Charles nodded in silent compliance.
In the following months, Charles found both peace and happiness at the monastery. For the first time since the war, he was able to put the endless TV reports of death and violence out of his mind. He didn't forget his poor wife and child who had died so needlessly, but he was able to understand that in wartime many innocents die and he hoped that maybe their deaths would help the leaders realize the significance of what they had done.
But, as much as he enjoyed the sunshine and the mind-freeing hard work, he suffered physically. The monks ate only what they grew themselves, and, in the winter, they suffered along with everyone else in the country. Charles was thin when he joined the order, but he grew even thinner. When his first year at the monastery had been completed, it was time to go before the Abbott to share his feelings. He had thought about what he wanted to say for a long time. Working in the fields and praying in the chapel, he worried about what he should say to the Abbot. He tried to think of a way to explain the many epiphanies he had discovered at the monastery; he wanted to thank the Abbot for letting him join the order and he wished he could explain how valuable the year at the monastery had been for him. But the Abbott was not only their spiritual leader, he was the administrator of the order. Charles knew some of the monks had been hoarding food and he knew he could have done the same. But he felt that doing so would violate the spirit of sharing that he was sure should underlie the order. Such acts of personal avarice, he felt, might undo the grace he was discovering. He was afraid that such acts could take him further from God and back into the wilderness he had been wandering before coming to the monastery. So, in the end, he decided to use his few yearly words to speak to the Abbot as administrator. He wanted to make some suggestions about the food and their methods of storing and safeguarding it. But how to do so in only a few words?When he finally found himself standing before the Abbot, he felt pressured to speak his peace and leave. In those few seconds, he formulated many different approaches and abandoned them all. In the end, he decided to merely mention the problem of food. The Abbott was a wise and able administrator. He had kept the monastery open and functioning even as many others had closed since the isolation of the Pope and the embargo of the Vatican. Without the support of Rome, the monasteries had only their own resources to draw upon. The Abbott had somehow kept the hungry local mobs at bay without the need for walls or weapons. When the Abbot looked up from his papers, Charles decided to speak only two words: "food poor." After a year without speaking, the words came out hoarse and soft, but he hoped the Abbott would understand that he was merely sharing his feelings, sharing his understanding of the dilemma that the Abbott was faced with, sharing his knowledge that the monastery was trying to maintain its holy purpose and function despite the disintegration of the world around it.
When the Abbott thanked him for his input and dismissed him, Charles was not sure that he had been understood. He returned to the fields worried and wondering if he should have said more. But he had said his few words, keeping to the rules of the order and when a light rain began he praised God for it and hurried to his field with his shovel to direct the runoff to the new plants.
Another year passed and the world was again at war. Charles didn't even learn about it until he came across a scrap of newspaper that reported that Israel and Beth Palestine had again used tactical nuclear smart bombs against the United Emirates of Mohammed. He wondered if the other monks knew.
This time, as he waited to see the Abbott, he wondered if the monastery itself was going to survive. Even before he had joined the order, he knew that the Pope's infamous statement against the war, would lead to hard times for the Church. Although he had no idea of what was going on outside the walls of the monastery, he could imagine that some of the people would resent their presence in the area. For some time, the market for their wines had been shrinking as more and more people protested against any kind of support for the Pope and "his kind of peaceniks." So, this time, as he stood before the Abbott, he wanted to show his compassion with the Abbott's position, his understanding of how lucky they were to be there in that safe harbor in such times. He said: "bed hard." But he said it with an ironic smile as he folded his hands and placed them next to his head to simulate sleeping. He even stooped down a little and closed his eyes to simulate sleeping in the fetal position. In truth, he was proud that he was slowly adding his shape to the subtle indention in the stone bench. Despite himself, he still felt a little pride in having learned to sleep peacefully on such a cold hard bed. He hoped the Abbott would understand his irony. He hoped the gentle man who seemed to understand so much would know, without the need for more words, how much he had grown in two years, and the peace he had found lying on that stone bench on cold nights.
And, perhaps, the Abbott did understand. He smiled wearily at Charles and nodded as he stared at him. He walked out of the office with Charles and, with his hand on Charles's shoulder, he gestured toward the green fields. "God has blessed us with poor food to eat and hard beds to lie upon."
Charles nodded in agreement, picked up his shovel and headed for his field. Only once did he look back and he was sorry to see the worried look on the Abbott's face as he stared off into the distance. Was he praying for the innocents who were suffering and dying as they kept to their retreat, eating the poor food, and lying on their peaceful "hard" beds?
Another year passed and, as hard as if was for Charles to believe, the monastery still survived. The night they had been overrun by the angry mobs, they had been saved by their own poor food and hard beds because the mobs saw that the monks had it just as hard as they did. They had found to eat or steal at the monastery so they soon just wandered down the hill and out the gate.
After that no one bothered them, but soon a small group of young monks were caught talking in an outlying storage building. They had copies of forbidden material, email printouts that apparently represented a growing underground of malcontents who no longer accepted the need for the government's long-time martial law and military rule. Charles heard them arguing with the Abbott, speaking out loud about the role of the Church and individual responsibility. Despite their breaking the rule of silence, and despite their disobedience, the rebellious young monks were allowed to stay. Nevertheless, they were expected to repent and destroy the antiwar materials and any other representations of the troubled world outside. But the talk continued in the fields. Charles did not join in any of the discussions. They began to occur more and more often in the woods at the far places, but he understood the impatience of the young monks. The rebels whispered about the Illinois Unitarians and how they had died marching in open opposition to the wars. They spoke of the Pope himself as if he was a great political leader and they shared stories how the Pope had stood up to them all, at great cost to himself and the Church. In the spring, some of the rebellious monks slipped away in the night; one of them actually confronted the Abbott and was banished.When it was time for Charles' yearly appearance before the Abbott, he knew he had to make a decision. Of all the novices in monastery, he believed he was the only one who had personally seen war. He had heard that others at the monastery had lost family in the many terrorist attacks, but, by then, who hadn't? He was troubled by thoughts that he should be doing something, that by retreating to the monastery he was no better than those who hid in their houses and followed the government's orders. So he began to accept and read the email printouts that were being handed around at night. After reading them, he still wasn't sure the Unitarians and the Methodists were right to sacrifice their lives in the name of peace, but he wondered if everyone shouldn't be doing something more direct than just praying for peace. It was not his place to question God's wisdom, but during his years at the monastery and despite all their prayers, the situation outside just seemed to get worse and worse. And now that nuclear weapons were being used to protect the extensive Israeli-Chevron oil fields, the whole world seemed to be polarizing around the issue of oil. Could oil really be worth all of the death and suffering?
When it came time to go before the Abbott, he still hadn't decided what to do. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was almost ready to say, "I quit," and walk down the hill and out the gate. But something stopped him. Maybe the Abbott was right; maybe he could get no closer to God than in the fields. Maybe he should be satisified with simple values and simple goals. He had learned that a focus on the ego and the self could only lead him away from understanding. Maybe, he thought, his prayers, all their prayers, would be heard, eventually. But he knew that with such doubts, he could not serve the monastery well and so he just stood there, unable to speak.
"Where will you go?" said the Abbott softly.
"I don't know," replied Charles. "But I feel that they need me . . . need us. Maybe I can do something."
"Well, I'm not surprised you are leaving," said the Abbott with a broad smile. "You've done nothing but complain since you arrived here."
It was the first time Charles had seen the Abbott smile in a long time. And now he was sure that the Abbott had seen inside his heart and had understood quite clearly the meaning of the few words he had spoken since arriving.
The Abbott walked with him to his little cell and waited outside while he changed out of his heavy robe and into the clothes he had arrived in. The cloth felt smooth and disturbingly self-indulgent after the years in sackcloth. He left his robe on the hook in the wall and paused to take one last look around. He leaned over to trace with his finger the almost invisible outline of his sleeping position in the stone surface of his bed.
"You will miss it, that hard bed," said the Abbott from behind him.
"I know I will," said Charles without turning around. "But if I survive, I will return to this bed someday."
"It will be here, undisturbed, when you are ready to return to it," said the Abbott.
They walked together in silence to the path. The Abbott touched his arm and nodded and Charles turned to start down toward the front gate. As he walked away, he expected to hear the Abbott say something, maybe a final salutation like: "God be with you." But there was only silence and a sense of isolation he hadn't felt since he had walked through those gates three years before. He turned to look back and discovered that the Abbott was still watching him. The old man raised his hand and it seemed a very sad gesture, as if he was sending a much-loved child off to war. Charles waved in response and the Abbott turned away.
As he passed out though the gates, Charles half expected to find shell holes and mangled bodies in the road. But there was no one and the road was as he had left it three years before. He looked first to the north and then to the south, but could find no reason to choose one direction over the other. Finally, he turned to the south because that was where most of the people would be. There was a thin column of dark smoke in the distance.
In my example story, the protagonist of the joke has been given a past and a personality. We learn about him through access to his thoughts and feelings. In this type of character-driven story, the plot revolves around the character's motives, his hopes and fears; the world around him provides a backdrop against which he acts. A character-driven story often finds a resolution (plot) when the character learns, grows, or discovers something about himself.
In the joke version of the story, we know nothing of the character, so how can we be interested in it? Why should we care about the protagonist (if I can use that term) of the joke?
Some psychologists who have studied jokes say the reason we don't want to know too much about the protagonist of a joke is that we want to feel better by making fun of the characters in a joke. He is destined to become the butt of the joke. The butt of the joke is silly and dumb, but we aren't. As a result, the story, although it contains mostly the same sequence of events as the joke, is no longer funny. Hopefully, in a story, we care about the characters, and we have an understanding of why they act in the way they do.
So, what makes a plot? Or, more to the point, what makes a good plot? Although a story joke might seem to have a plot (things happen), it is more like an "almost" plot.
Let's look at another example. Let's say a man walks down the railroad tracks. Maybe he gets run over, maybe he doesn't. We have a character, and something might happen. Is there a plot? Almost. It might meet the strict definition of a plot, but do we care about the man? Do we care about what happens between the time he starts walking and the time he gets run over (or doesn't)? We don't care because the author hasn't told us anything about the man. It is only an incident, not yet a story. The incident is represented only by words on paper. The author told us about a man and what happened to him, but that is all. So do we have to care about a character to have a plot? Maybe not according to the simplest definitions of plot, but if we don't care about what happens to the people in a story, why would we read it? Such an incident may have a plot of sorts, but we don't much care about it.
But if we learn the man is very sad because he just learned that his son has been killed in the far away war, we start to get interested. And if the author introduces other characters who speculate about why he had to die (or didn't), about the concept of suicide and its morality, about accidents and fate, we start to think about ouselves as people and we begin to care.
Then if we learn that the man once hit the lottery for a million dollars but found that it didn't make him happy so he gave it all away to an orphanage in that very war-torn land where his son was eventually to die, an orphanage for kids whose parents had died in the war, well, then we will probably want to know more about this man and the other things that the writer has brought into the story. Therefore, plot, or at least good plot, is all tied up in the details. The writer's skill in telling the reader about the characters (characterization), and the scene (description), and what went before (background) is involved in plot; plot is more than just a telling of what happened. We might say that plot is only one of the threads that make up the tapestry of the story; it is an important thread, maybe it is even the main thread, the one that holds the story together, but without the other threads, we would not have a tapestry.
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