Skip to main content

Loving Raymond Carver

Here is how Raymond Carver opens a story:

Carlyle was in a spot. He'd been in a spot all summer, since early June when his wife had left him. But up until a little while ago, just a few days before he had to start meeting his classes at the high school, Carlyle hadn't needed a sitter. He'd been the sitter. Every day and every night he'd attended to the children. Their mother, he told them, was away on a long trip.

Debbie, the first sitter he contacted, was a fat girl, nineteen years old, who told Carlyle she came from a big family. Kids loved her, she said. She offered a couple of names for reference. She penciled them on a piece of notebook paper. Carlyle took the names, folded the piece of paper, and put it in his shirt pocket. He told her he had meetings the next day. He said she could start to work for him the next morning. She said, "Okay."

I don't generally love short stories. I find that the work required to sink into the world of a story isn't always "repaid." You have to pay such close attention, right away, and then--poof!--it's over. But one purchase I don't regret is the Raymond Carver anthology, "Where I'm Calling From."

It's a thick, beautiful paperback with a rusty car half-visible on the cover, and with some ominous, naked, wintry trees, and a glowing sun, obscured by fog. I bought it from a bookstore that no longer exists--a crazy, cluttered mess in Cobble Hill, a real fire hazard, with a disgruntled, sloppy, possibly insane owner who--himself--resembled a Raymond Carver character. People would dump their used books on this man's doorstep--all the wealthy residents of Cobble Hill, like Emily Mortimer and Keri Russell--and then the books would make their way to ungainly, disorganized piles, plopped down all over the floor of the store.

I love Raymond Carver's stories because--although I'm not heterosexual, or a struggling parent, or a heavy drinker--I always "feel for" the protagonists right away. The guy in "Fever," quoted above, has not been a great captain of his own ship. He maybe doesn't examine his own behavior too closely. Why has his wife left him? Is there any intention of coming back? Is it wise to feed the kids a lie? (One can imagine what is happening in their addled, tiny heads.)

I particularly love the bullshitty behavior in paragraph two: Carlyle accepts the references and folds the paper, as if really concerned about its safekeeping. As if he has any intention of calling the phone numbers. The "fat girl" says she is "great with kids," but where is the evidence? Does Carlyle press her for evidence? We're seeing the beginnings of a bad-faith relationship, and sure enough, by the end of the second page, Carlyle will catch the girl with her blouse unbuttoned, entertaining some pot-clobbered young men, while the children cry in the front lawn. "I can explain! I can explain!"

Carver doesn't judge his messy protagonists--and I appreciate this, as well. As Amy Bloom has noted, people tend to recognize that they themselves are not perfect--while failing to extend the same courteous consideration to others. In other words: "I have torpedoed relationships lazily and without explanation, but when someone else fails to respond to *my* e-mail, then I have every right to be incensed and aggrieved."

It seems to me that Carver could see--more clearly than most people--that we're all flailing, and that it's generally a good idea to take a deep breath and be kind. (A thought I'm borrowing from Anne Lamott.)

Reading a Carver story, I can remember that advice--at least momentarily.

It's not news to praise the guy--he is venerated basically everywhere--but maybe it doesn't hurt to put out a little reminder. Money-for-Carver is money well-spent.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...