How to Start an Argument
From “The Plate,” by Roddy Doyle:
The night before, the Thursday, they’d had a fight. Another one. A fight they drank into. It was fuelled by the red wine they knocked back before they ate and as they ate. The third glass brought Jim up to date; he caught up with the state he’d been in the night before. The edges he’d carried all day were gone and he was back where he’d left off, where he’d lost interest or consciousness — he couldn’t remember. One minute they were chatting away carefully — his day, her day — and then, like that, he knew it was all shite. They sat with the plates on their laps — they didn’t have a table. He listened to something about her mother’s aunt, a fall in the shower; some old woman he’d met once, two years before at the wedding. He listened for a while — because that was what he did, that was what you did. The aunt’s broken leg equalled two of his funny incidents at work.
Roddy Doyle does some of the most interesting things with writing structure I’ve seen lately.
This excerpt from “The Plate” shows his setup for an argument between a middle-aged husband and wife, Jim and Maeve. It gives you everything you need to prepare for the battle to come. It’s so good, I felt like I hardly needed to see the argument itself; the particulars of Doyle’s brief explainer shows you the couple’s mental state, their topic of conversation, the physical setup of their room, and the societal expectations and interpersonal mores that will color their spat only a minute away.
I’ll pick a few phrases here for deeper consideration.
A fight they drank into. It was fuelled by the red wine they knocked back before they ate and as they ate.
These could be my favorite two sentences of the paragraph.
It says they started the fight before they got drunk, which implies that the subject matter is so deep-seeded that, not only did drinking accelerate the argument, it let their inhibitions reach deep into a place inaccessible to a clearer mind. This is more than a simple disagreement.
It says it escalated quickly, too, because they did more than just drink. When you “knock back” wine, either the wine was lackluster but better then nothing or you want/need it for more than just the taste. You might even guess the wine was bought with a future fight in mind — telling me this stuff is cheap, tastes bad because it’s cheap, and can be used as argument easement without a second thought.
These questions of purpose and usage also make me wonder when this incident started. Did this fight — “Another one.” — begin in earnest today, feed from yesterday, or appear as part of a grudge that’s years deep? Maybe the idea behind it has festered through numerous other fights you’re not told about. You get to hear more factual detail about yesterday; I think you’re allowed to guess about what happened in the days and weeks previous to that.
One minute they were chatting away carefully — his day, her day — and then, like that, he knew it was all shite.
The aside of his day, her day perfectly captures the sentiment all lifeless conversations. People say what’s expected and have no substance to report. Their words to each other might as well be a literal, “I had a day like all other days,” and they should be able to skate by without conflict.
This marriage, however, can’t avoid conflict even in the mundane. Even in this unremarkable back-and-forth, Jim and Maeve’s relationship deteriorates. It’s like even the most basic commonalities can’t keep them from preparing to fight and walking head first into the argument.
They sat with the plates on their laps — they didn’t have a table.
There’s nothing between them to lessen the blows either.
Doyle doesn’t show you where Jim and Maeve are facing as they hold their plates. In any configuration, though, it must be awkward. Their plates are on their laps, so their wine glasses must be on the floor or a countertop, right? Each of them must then have an exaggerated view of every drink their partner takes.
One more big reach through the empty space to the floor. One more drink. One more mundane story.
They both saw this pattern coming when the wine came out before they ate.
He listened for a while — because that was what he did, that was what you did. The aunt’s broken leg equalled two of his funny incidents at work.
That said, you can’t say that they aren’t trying at least a little to hold it together.
They made the effort of his day, her day. Jim also does listen to her day as they work through the meal. Yet Doyle makes it clear that Jim doesn’t want to do this.
Societal norms say there should be a tit for tat. He says something and she listened; therefore, she can say something and he should listen. Jim does for a while but seems to think their arrangement is unfair. Two of his “funny” work stories equal one of her serious stories. And that’s the realization that breaks the peace.
Next after this passage, they argue. It’s exactly what you expect — the mundane; short sentences; accusations of not listening; petty consideration of who’s “winning” the spat. It would be an uneventful minute, without depth, if Doyle hadn’t provided this background to prepare you.
He puts Jim and Maeve’s lives on display. He reveals their intentions and crevices and needs and misconceptions. He shows you the path they walked before arriving at their shared inevitable end, and it makes that otherwise ordinary disagreement over dinner something you’re completely invested in before it begins.