A Very Personal Review: “Short Cuts” by Raymond Carver

Short Cuts: Selected Stories by Raymond Carver
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What can anyone say that hasn’t been said? It’s Carver, who is now becoming a cult figure. Regardless, he was a great writer. How can I capture the essence of a Raymond Carver story? It is a difficult proposition. Let me try this: a small vignette.

It is a bright spring morning in Seattle. The neighbors are going about their business; tending to flower beds, mowing their lawns. I’m standing at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, stairs that lead to what is soon not to be my house. The woman who is soon not to be my wife is at the top of the stairs. The front door is open. There are a few brown paper bags sitting on the landing outside the door. The bags are misshapen, bulging with belongings haphazardly packed. Paper grocery bags make lousy luggage.

The woman at the top of the stairs is wearing a bathrobe, one hand clutching it at her throat. Her voice is ringing out over the quiet street, but I cannot hear the words. There is only a chanting sound, volume rising and falling. The chant has wings, carrying it across the morning. The neighbors keep their heads down, try not to hear. There is poison in the chant, an easily caught infection, darkness that could seep into an unguarded crack.

A bare foot flashes in the sunlight, kicking one of the paper bags. The bag tumbles down the wooden steps, ripping open on the second bounce. Books, CD’s, balled-up socks; they cascade down the worn wood, landing around my feet. I gather up the detritus as best I can, cradling it in my arms. As I turn away, the chant hits me in the back of the neck. I throw the armload of junk into the bed of my pickup, joining it with the rest. Behind me, I hear the slam of a door.

The boards creak under my boots as I reach for the last crumpled bag. The chanting is gone now, the echoes of it having chased the neighbors inside their safe havens. I carry the bag, gentle against my chest, place it intact on the floorboard inside the truck. There is a bare mattress leaning against a concrete wall. I heave it over the pile of junk in the bed of the truck. I am sweating in the sunshine as I tighten down the straps. As I look up and down the empty street, I realize that my life has become a Raymond Carver short story.

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And, in a quick pause for the cause…

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