Where I'm Calling From

Kominski introduced me to Raymond Carver's writing sometime around 1985 or 1986 when we worked together on micro-documents to support a major banking institution's software products. Kominski would later become my boss, but that's not part of this story. We had a co-worker named Jim, an old guy who liked to drink his lunch more often than not. Jim's not part of this story, either, though I think I'll write about him at some point. Some other people, writers we worked with but who are not part of this story, are Ken, who was my boss before Kominski; Richard, who had a great sense of humor; Steve, who was an obnoxious twit with some bad habits; Suzie, who is probably instrumental in that banking institution's success; and Cliff, who must have attended the same Twit School that Steve did. Ken and Jim and Richard are dead, and I'm sad about that. There was a Deirdre, too, an Englishwoman who is now probably married to a Baron.

Raymond Carver, who also is dead, wrote wonderfully polished short stories and, to a lesser extent, poems. In fact, I sometimes use his poems when I teach a literature class, something we can't discuss because I'm really not supposed to use those poems in that class. I read pretty much every Carver story I could find, and then I read them again and again. When I was a college undergraduate, one of the professors who taught poetry writing classes I took had been great friends with Carver when Carver was in Sacramento, but I would not learn this until graduate school where I took poetry writing classes from that same professor. I don't know where I learned this.

Some of Carver's stories are the basis for the movie Short Cuts, which is one of my favorite movies. Some of Carver's life is allegedly documented in the book The Honeymooners, which is one of my favorite books.

I left that banking institution much too soon; it was the best job I've ever quit. I left for various reasons, all of which seemed sound at the time. One of the reasons was to go "home," though I've never really felt at home here. I did go to graduate school, which was a good reason, and if I had not come back, I would not have met some wonderful people. The job I left that banking institution for was the worst job (okay, only) job I've ever been fired from. I had left my wife and sons behind while we waited for our little tract home to be built, and I ended up working at a place that made me miserable.

So, I spent a lot of time alone. I went to class at night, and I drove home on weekends. One night when I was not in school, I wandered into Tower Books, picked up a copy of The North American Review, and saw inside that magazine a small note that Raymond Carver had died. I put the magazine back on the rack, left the store, and thought, "well, that sucks." I didn't have many literary heroes, and one of them had died. This was in 1988, and he had died, apparently, on my wedding anniversary.

Raymond Carver is buried in a scenic cemetery in Port Angeles, Washington, where you can catch a ferry to Victoria, Canada. From the grave you can look out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which just so happens is mentioned in the book I'm reading, Passage to Juneau: A Sea and its Meanings. Several years ago our family went to Port Angeles as part of a vacation, and we took that ferry to Victoria, which is a nice city I'd like to visit again. We also went bowling, and that was fun too. One morning when everyone was sleeping, I started the rented van and drove to the cemetery; I then walked around until I found Carver's grave, which is marked by an impressive piece of granite. Tess Gallagher, Carver's wife when he died, has a grave ready for herself, too. There's a small bench next to the graves, and there was a metal box that contained a notebook for people to record their thoughts.

I felt a bit odd standing there, as though visiting graves was not a normal thing to do. (And maybe it isn't--I mean, it's not like I really knew the guy.) One of his poems, and one of my favorites, is etched onto his gravestone. It is entitled "Gravy," and I think you should look it up.