I remember reading John Cheever’s story “The Swimmer” in high school and being somewhat amused by its unlikely plot, a hero who seemed to love a glass of gin, and its twist ending. But rereading it as an adult, I can see that it is undoubtedly a story about the nature of alcoholism. In fact, it feels like a cry for help from Cheever. The story could aptly be called “The Drinker.” Whether he was aware of it or not, artistically Cheever drew a startlingly accurate portrayal of the disease on a number of levels. I think he wrestled with drinking for so long (he finally got sober at age 55) that he understood, in a painfully confessional way, the nature of his malady. What he lacked was the gift of surrender.
Critics have pointed out the mythic parallels of “The Swimmer” to The Odyssey. At their core, both stories involve men who are trying to get home. Cheever’s story turns Homer’s adventure on its head in a kind of “mock-epic,” with the hero, Ned, swimming his way home from a friend’s house by way of the pools of the local residents. Along the way he drinks with various people, none of whom he has a relationship with any substance, and who have a better understanding of his state of being than he does. The story gives a microcosmic portrait of the decline of the alcoholic. At its start, Ned is high in spirits, feels youthful and strong. The air is electric, it is a beautiful summer day, and he feels confident in his pilgrimage across town.
And then, at the halfway point in Ned’s adventure, Cheever drops the ominous three-word sentence, “It would storm.” Cheever knew that there was only one direction in which things could go for his hero and it is down. He also seemed to know that the alcoholic, at some point during his drinking, crosses a threshold which he cannot undo: “He could not go back… in the space of an hour, more or less, he had covered a distance that made his return impossible.” A common analogy used to describe this phenomenon is that once a cucumber becomes a pickle, it can never be a cucumber again.
The other element of alcoholism in Cheever’s story is denial. At one point, Ned comes across a neighbor-friend, who says to him, “We’ve been terribly sorry to hear about all your misfortunes, Neddy.” To which he replies, “My misfortunes? I don’t know what you mean.” She continues, “Why, we heard that you’d sold the house, and that your poor children…” He cuts her off abruptly, saying, “I don’t recall having sold the house, and the girls are at home.”
This level of denial is so deep that it gives the story a kind of surreal, almost ghost-like quality. It is not just the denial of how bad the alcoholic’s situation is, or that he has a problem with drinking in the first place. It is not a matter of degree; it is a complete departure from reality, as if the crucial and painful information that Ned needs in order to move closer to surrender is simply being blocked by his mind. In this way Cheever highlights to great effect how deep the denial of an alcoholic goes.
Cheever also seemed to understand the progressive nature of his disease. As the story unfolds, things only get worse for Ned. It is the first time in his life that “he ever felt so miserable, cold, tired, and bewildered.” The first three adjectives in that list could apply to many, but it is the last that is one of the distinguishing qualities of alcoholism. The alcoholic who has not surrendered fights and fights and fights against a force so powerful that he will never win, and it leaves him in a state of utter bewilderment. How could my strength, my resilience, my intellect fail against this thing, this annoyance? he thinks. And he is almost forced to continue swimming the alcoholic river until he is lifted from its grip by an act of grace.
Thus Ned arrives home, a place usually associated with warmth, love, and connection, and finds the opposite. “He shouted, pounded on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking in at the windows, saw that the place was empty.” This final image of the story is hauntingly appropriate for the plight of the alcoholic: he is cut off from God, himself, and the people around him. He is thoroughly alone. He is desperate for connection, and what he wants more than anything is to go home.
When an alcoholic surrenders, a great miracle happens, something that goes against the nature of things. Somewhere deep inside his heart, he whispers a tiny prayer asking for help. And it is precisely at that moment that God enters his life. It is a moment Cheever himself would experience 10 years after writing “The Swimmer.” I like to think that Ned, pulling on the rusty doorknob of his family’s home, now a place of empty shadows, is right on the verge of reaching that point. But the story ends there. And it unfortunately is the end of the story for many, many alcoholics. But those who are graced with surrender find a house with the lights on, and people inside, and hear the familiar sounds of cheerfulness and laughter.
Notebook in the Rain 