One Man's Opinion: COLLECTORS by RAYMOND CARVER

Collectors is a lean and strong story that I really enjoyed. It's packed with atmosphere and a level of discomfort and I love the whole salesman thing. My only issue on completion is that I'm not sure I understand it. 

Mr Slater is out of work and out of ideas. The story opens with him waiting for the mailman. It's difficult to imagine the intensity of that feeling in a time before the internet and smartphones, but not that long ago connection to the outside world if you didn't leave your house was limited to the landline and the arrival of post once or twice a day. I remember well the sensations of waiting, be they generated by excitement, hope or anxiety. 

Slater doesn't even has a phone. He's hoping to hear news about a job and, by the looks of things, he really needs one. Money is tight. Ambition has gone. Waiting for news is a painful process, especially when there may be others trying to get in touch- debt collectors and the like. 

When there's a knock at the door, Slater hides. He knows it's not the mail on account of the sound of the footsteps, indicating that his waiting is habitual. 

On the porch stands a force of nature. Aubrey Bell announces that a Mrs Slater has won a prize and insists upon being let in.  

There's no Mrs Slater, Mr Slater says, and he doesn't have a penny to his name, but that doesn't stop Bell. 

The door opens, revealing a giant of a man in waterproofs. 

Bell takes over from this point. He leads the action and conversation, speaking like a well-mannered gentleman, and is in total control. Slater is passive and weak, allowing the incomer to dominate. All he can do is offer the guy a coffee. 

Bell explains that the prize is vacuuming and cleaning of the carpets and mattresses in the house. He proceeds to carry out the clean, drawing up bits of human detritus and filling filter after filter. Next, it's the carpet. He goes about his job chatting all the while. There are mentions of Rilke and of Voltaire's death mask, with reference to castles. An Englishman's home is his castle. It can be a place of great creativity. It can also be a prison of sorts. There has to be a point and I'm afraid it's passing me by. 

A letter finally drops through the mailbox. Bell blocks the way so that Slater can't get it. As Bell packs up the vacuum, he picks up the letter, folds it and drops it in his pocket. 

It's for Mr Slater, he says (and there are no speech marks in this one), checking the sender's address, and he'll sort it. Slater allows him to do this, declining a blunt offer to buy the cleaner. And it's all wrapped up. 

The title, Collectors, is plural. In the context of what happens, it doesn't make much sense. At first glance, no one is collecting. Does it relate more to the fear of the collectors who might arrive? Or perhaps Slater is a collector of sorts, of misery, dead skin, final demands and cobwebs? And is Bell collecting the residue for Slater- the old hopeless ways and the outside threat of the letter that arrived? For the entire story, there's a fear that Bell will exploit the homeowner using the magic ways of the sales pitch, yet he does the opposite. He's like Santa Claus dressed in a dripping coat and galoshes.

It's a good thing that I can enjoy creative work whether I think I understand it or not. Getting the artist's point is clearly going to enhance the experience; simply soaking up the pleasure of the words or colours the emotional responses is enough for me. Which is a good thing, otherwise I'd be left out in the cold more often than not. 

Any pointers on the story? Drop a comment.     

One Man's Opinion: PUT YOURSELF IN MY SHOES by RAYMOND CARVER

"How was your day today?

Myers shrugged. 

"What'd you do?" she said. 

"Nothing," he said. "I vacuumed." 

By this point in the collection, I'm realising just how neatly Where I'm Calling From is put together. Themes and minor details drip from one story to the next, so as much as the reader is moving forwards, they're also being drawn back. It's something I'm really appreciating and enjoying. 

Put Yourself In My Shoes has echoes from the invasive behaviour of Neighbors and the two couples and the shoe wearing from What's In Alaska?

Much as this carries strands from other pieces, Put Yourself In My Shoes takes a new direction. It appears to offer some reflection on the life of a writer and the nature of the processes involved for Carver. 

Myers is a writer between ideas. He's done nothing of any significance during the day, vacuuming being the highlight. His wife is at work, a publishers of some kind, celebrating the Christmas break. She informs him of the suicide of another writer who has blown his own brains out. She invites Myers along to the party, but turns the offer down; perhaps he's ashamed by his lack of achievement and output since leaving the firm, he may resent the industry, it could be the inhabitants of the business he can't stomach. 

Instead of attending, he meets his wife in a bar he doesn't care for. As they leave, she suggests they drop in on their old landlords, possibly to iron out an issue surrounding the Myerses having a pet during their stay, breaking the spirit of the lease. It's the same cat whose hairs Myers has been hoovering from between the cushions. 

First thing that happens as they arrive at their old house, Myers is attacked by a dog. The ex-landlords, Hilda and Edgar Morgan, are apologetic and insist on the Myers and Paula going in and having a hot drink. 

Edgar feeds Myers with a piece of gossip that he feels is worthy of capturing. He urges Myers to imagine himself in the shoes of the characters involved. Tells him it should be written. 

With Myers keen to leave, Edgar insists Hilda gets her turn. She has a story, too. Another worthy of putting onto paper. It's a good story, all right, but Myers has no interest. 

Edgar grows impatient. He's cross about something. The tension mounts in small increments until it becomes intimidating. His wife begins to cry. It's not clear why, though it's likely she knows the direction in which they are heading. 

Across the street, carol singers entertain those from neighbouring houses. There's plenty of joy out there. None of it will reach our side of the road. It could be the mean dog that keeps the singers away. It might just as easily be the cold aggression of Mr Morgan. 

The final story offered brings Edgar's anger to a head. It's told in a mathematical way and concerns the letting of the house. How a couple take a year abroad and let their home to strangers who step over the lines of propriety by bringing their cat, invading taped boxes, taking glimpses into personal belongings and stealing some of the treasures when they depart.  

Myers gets himself out of the situation before a fight can break out. And he leaves with a smile on his face. There's a story to be written, but it's none of those presented to him. Instead, it's the Edgars who are central, with all their baggage, tensions and unhappiness. They're about to be invaded once again from a different angle. It suggests that Myers is unable to force material or simply copy life, he needs inspiration to strike and where and when that might be is unfathomable. He doesn't need the beginning, middle and end all wrapped up like one of the Christmas gifts, he just needs an opening. 

A few asides. 

I was reminded with that quote at the top of the page of Young Adam. I'm remembering the film rather than the book and don't have time to seek out the novel on my shelves to check. There's a scene where Adam's lover returns home from a day's work. She's earning the money while he is supposed to be writing his earth-shattering story. She asks him what he did all day. "I made custard," he replies. And he's not happy and he isn't pleasant. 

I should be writing today. What have I done? Waited for the plumber. Read some more Carver. Tried to work out what the hell it's about. Like Myers, I'm between stories. I don't feel despicable, but the absence of purpose bites hard and has sharp teeth. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

One Man's Opinion: WHAT'S IN ALASKA by RAYMOND CARVER

What's in Alaska?

There must be so many answers to the question. For Jack and Mary, it's likely to be more of the same, at least for a while. 

Jack buys a new pair of shoes on the way home from work, aiming only to find a something comfortable. As well as being comfy, they're beige, possibly suggesting he's happy with his lot while also being stuck in a rut. 

Mary may not be quite so content. She points out that the shoe colour isn't exciting. Mentions that she's likely to be offered a job in Alaska and that she's arranged an evening out with another couple so they can get stoned. 

The conversation at the 'party' are fantastic, a real snapshot of the chaos of ideas after a smoke, some things working in perfect harmony, others simply of a dissonance as the group struggle to hold onto things outside of their own internal universe.  

More hints suggest Mary isn't as happy with life as she might be. A dig at her husband. Some flirting with their male host. A slip of the tongue. 

Other aspects suggest that Jack's life is unlikely to alter much if it is left up to him:

'I was just thinking about Alaska, and I remembered them finding a prehistoric man in a block of ice. Something reminded me.'

Jack might as well be frozen in time. He may even be resigned to that fate or unable to see any alternatives. Unfortunately for him, there may be outside influences that unsettle his current situation; his shoes, after all, don't even make it through the evening.

The cat and the mouse, I'm swerving that. It's heavy-handed. Out of place. The things I believe they're likely to represent were already present.

Jack's life is unlikely to stay the same, no matter how hard he tries to cling to his routines. Inertia won't bring him anything good. Dope smoking and apathy will only preserve him in ice as the world moves on about him. If he doesn't find inspiration or can't bring himself to make an effort, he'll forever be a victim. 

Break away, Jack. Kick hard. Go buy another pair of shoes- multi-coloured, frivolous and impractical- and pick up a crash helmet while you're at it, just in case.    

 

   

One Man's Opinion: NEIGHBORS by RAYMOND CARVER

Of all the Carver stories I read years ago, this is the one that remained the most intact in my memory. I'm not sure whether that says more about me (and if it does, it may not be good) or the story. Regardless, I was absorbed and intrigued all over again during this revisit.

Bill's a bookkeeper, Arlene's a secretary. It's what they do. They're not aspiring to much, manage to keep their ship steady and on course. They're somehow plain and unimaginative. It's who they are and it suits them. 

Bill and Arlene live in an apartment next to the Stones. 

'The Stones were always going out for dinner, or entertaining at home, or traveling about the country somewhere in connection with Jim's work.'

That's a comment that most of us can probably relate to. It's the kind of light jealousy that has become more commonplace with the growth of the internet and social media. It used to be a low-level thing, now it's as ever-present and visible as home-drawn tattoo on the back of the hand. Note to self: less time on the socials.

The neighbours are going away for another one of their trips. Bill and Arlene have been entrusted with looking after the apartment and it's their job to keep Kitty and the plants alive. 

On the first day, Bill goes over to perform his duties and becomes curious. Like the narrator in Nobody Said Anything, the acts of exploration and voyeurism are thrilling. He has a drink and takes pills from the bathroom cabinet. The experience leaves him empowered and is so liberating and exciting that when he returns home and seduces his wife, something that may not have happened in years. 

He becomes intoxicated by the visits, pushing the boundaries each time. He's so taken by the freedom of being unshackled that he takes a day off work to stretch life further.  It's not long until he's wearing Jim's suit and checking himself out in Harriet's underwear. Inhabiting their space and their lives is liberating. He likes being a Stone.  

Arlene eventually takes a turn. There's no account of her visit while she's there, yet we know from the white lint clinging to her sweater as she returns that she's been on the bed, the colour high in her cheeks suggesting a more intimate reaction. She's in an aroused state and when her husband kisses her, she kisses him back. 

The window that allows them to see into an alternative life is all too quickly curtained. It's likely that the guilt and shock of what they've done on their travels across the hall will burst their bubble and return them to the hum drum of their previous existence, but wouldn't it be cool if they embraced the new terrain and broke free from their harnesses to enjoy their lives to the full, whatever that might mean for them. 

Another note to self: be brave, be creative and put the best foot forward.  

One Man's Opinion: FAT by RAYMOND CARVER

Towards the end of The Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith, a man with two identities walks into a restaurant and asks for a table for two, proceeding to order for himself and his wife, even though he's alone. He believes his wife is present and, if I remember correctly, engages in some conversation with her. It's an unlikely scenario, though I'm sure it's something that could happen. The issue for me was the any plausibility in the novel had stretched and snapped way before. 

It came to mind when I read Fat. Here's why. 

Fat is one that has me lost in the fog. As much as that is the case, I also feel I'm putting together the pieces of patterns in the collection. 

It's another that has me in awe and made me uncomfortable, which is an impressive achievement given that it's only four pages long. 

This might easily be a companion piece to They're Not Your Husband. It's set in a diner, there's a human size issue at the heart of it, there are waitresses as the central characters and each of them is in a problematic marriage. There's also a quiet desperation and dignity about the victims, which is what I'm going to hold on to as one of my takeaways. 

In this case, the waitress is the narrator. She's explaining to a friend about her Wednesday shift. Sitting in her station is a huge man, 'the fattest man I've ever seen'. Enormous fingers. Makes a puffing sound as he speaks. 

The man is well presented. He's gentle and thoughtful and likes his food. He speaks well and frequently uses the form we when talking about himself. 

It's the we thing that reminded me of Highsmith. I wondered if it were possible that the man believed he was with someone else. That idea was quickly dismissed. My next thought, it might be an equivalent to the use of the pronoun one. That makes more sense. And there are more abstract ideas. Does he reference himself in the plural because of his size? Is he internalising something from outside? Reaching out for acceptance? Is he acknowledging or hoping to create a bond with the waitress? 

I don't have an answer. Perhaps when I've progressed through the book I'll find a clue somewhere else. Maybe you understand it better and can share your ideas in the comments. 

Regardless of this, the customer is charming and the waitress becomes defensive about him when her colleagues poke fun. It's touching. 

When the waitress returns home, she tells her husband about it. His response demonstrates something of a cruel streak. 

They go to bed. He wants sex, she doesn't. There's only one way it's going to play out. During intercourse, she has something that's the opposite of an out-of-body experience, reimagining herself as a huge person and seeing the man on top of her as tiny. In some ways, I think she's identifying with the plight of the customer in the diner, his sense of being an outsider and a figure of fun. I imagine that in seeing her husband as a small man, she's creating a distance between herself and the reality of the situation. It's a bad marriage. The power balance is wrong. Maybe if she can visualise him as tiny, she'll find a way to cope with the problem. 

I hope she made it.  

   

LET IT SNOW: the resurrection

 

Following on for the demise/implosion of Down & Out books and the fallout from that, then wandering through a few promising hoops to find they didn't work out, Let It Snow is out again (link in the comments). Among the hoops, it was suggested I alter the setting (for specific reasons that are now no longer relevant), so it is now Edinburgh crime fiction. I hope that makes it better. Above all, it's great to have it there again. There are two more books in the series to refresh, but that can wait a while, Valentine's Day being the next target.

Edinburgh is freezing. The streets are buried in snow. And the killing has begun.

A routine callout in a Christmas snow storm turns deadly.

The killer vanishes into the night, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints — the only lead in a city where the weather threatens to erase every trace of him.

As the investigation gathers pace, pressure mounts. The snow keeps falling, the clock keeps ticking, and somewhere in the frozen streets, a dangerous killer lurks.

Let It Snow is a gritty, darkly flavoured crime thriller and the first novel in Nigel Bird’s acclaimed Rat Pack series.

One Man's Opinion: THEY'RE NOT YOUR HUSBAND by RAYMOND CARVER

Uncomfortable reading, painful even, with plenty of food for though, ironic given that Doreen is trying not to eat. 

Earl Ober is Doreen's husband. He's between jobs and hanging around at the coffee shop where Doreen works. A couple of men near to him comment on his wife's weight. The impact of this hits Earl hard and he leaves the diner without touching his meal. 

He fixates on the experience. Believes that the comments about his wife reflect upon him. Tells Doreen she could do with losing weight. Lays it on thick. Makes her feel ashamed. Persuades her it's a good idea. 

She begins a diet and after Earl humiliates her following a slip, commits to the project. 

Her friends grow worried. Tell her she's pale. But they're not her husband and he explains that it's only his opinion that should matter (further irony, given that it's only the opinions of others that he cares about). 

Worn out from lack of calorific intake, Doreen struggles through her shifts. As her weight drops, she has to dig into her savings to buy a smaller uniform. 

Earl, still without work, returns to watch her. Spends his time seeking reactions to Doreen's new figure. Orders ice cream so she'll bend over and draw comments from the men at the counter. 

It's appropriate that he's ordered a sundae, ice cream a dish always served cold. 

Carver shines a light into dark and difficult spaces. Earl's a bigot and a beast, a misogynistic scumbag, an objectifying snake. The story hits home precisely because Carver exposes Earl so easily, simply by recounting his thoughts and actions. For me, he's making us look inwards: no matter how generous you are to others, how kind and respectful, I suspect we can all improve our ways of being. 

The photo is by Catherine Opie, btw. Her portraits are still lodged in my mind, the central pillars of respect and acceptance of others (live and let live) is the perfect antidote (or rallying cry) to Earl and the slime balls in the coffee shop.  

Published, I believe, in 1973, it's surprising how much has changed and disappointing how little.