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.