Read Online Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Raymond Carver
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woman’s curlicue handwriting that took up most of the space. It had a Portland postmark, and the return address showed the initials JD and a Portland street address.
“Morning,” I said, offering the letter.
He took it from me without a word and went absolutely pale. He tottered a minute and then started back for the house, holding the letter up to the light.
I called out, “She’s no good, boy. I could tell that the minute I saw her. Why don’t you forget her? Why don’t you go to work and forget her? What have you got against work? It was work, day and night, work that gave me oblivion when I was in your shoes and there was a war on where I was….”
After that he didn’t wait outside for me any more, and he was only there another five days. I’d catch a glimpse of him, though, each day, waiting for me just the same, but standing behind the window and looking out at me through the curtain.
He wouldn’t come out until I’d gone by, and then I’d hear the screen door. If I looked back, he’d seem to be in no hurry at all to reach the box.
The last time I saw him he was standing at the window and looked calm and rested. The curtains were down, all the shades were raised, and I figured at the time he was getting his things together to leave.
But I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t watching for me this time. He was staring past me, over me, you might say, over the rooftops and the trees, south. He just kept staring even after I’d come even with the house and moved on down the sidewalk. I looked back. I could see him still there at the window. The feeling was so strong, I had to turn around and look for myself in the same direction he was. But, as you might guess, I didn’t see anything except the same old timber, mountains, sky.
The next day he was gone. He didn’t leave any forwarding. Sometimes mail of some kind or other shows up for him or his wife or for the both of them. If it’s first-class, we hold it a day, then send it back to where it came from. There isn’t much. And I don’t mind. It’s all work, one way or the other, and I’m always glad to have it.
Fat
I am sitting over coffee and cigarettes at my friend Rita’s and I am telling her about it.
Here is what I tell her.
It is late of a slow Wednesday when Herb seats the fat man at my station.
This fat man is the fattest person I have ever seen, though he is neat-appearing and well dressed enough.
Everything about him is big. But it is the fingers I remember best. When I stop at the table near his to see to the old couple, I first notice the fingers. They look three times the size of a normal person’s fingers—long, thick, creamy fingers.
I see to my other tables, a party of four businessmen, very demanding, another party of four, three men and a woman, and this old couple. Leander has poured the fat man’s water, and I give the fat man plenty of time to make up his mind before going over.
Good evening, I say. May I serve you? I say.
Rita, he was big, I mean big.
Good evening, he says. Hello. Yes, he says. I think we’re ready to order now, he says.
He has this way of speaking—strange, don’t you know. And he makes a little puffing sound every so often.
I think we will begin with a Caesar salad, he says. And then a bowl of soup with some extra bread and butter, if you please. The lamb chops, I believe, he says. And baked potato with sour cream. We’ll see about dessert later. Thank you very much, he says, and hands me the menu.
God, Rita, but those were fingers.
I hurry away to the kitchen and turn in the order to Rudy, who takes it with a face. You know Rudy.
Rudy is that way when he works.
As I come out of the kitchen, Margo—I’ve told you about Margo? The one who chases Rudy? Margo says to me, Who’s your fat friend? He’s really a fatty.
Now that’s part of it. I think that is really part of it.
I make the Caesar salad there at his table, him watching my every move, meanwhile buttering
“Morning,” I said, offering the letter.
He took it from me without a word and went absolutely pale. He tottered a minute and then started back for the house, holding the letter up to the light.
I called out, “She’s no good, boy. I could tell that the minute I saw her. Why don’t you forget her? Why don’t you go to work and forget her? What have you got against work? It was work, day and night, work that gave me oblivion when I was in your shoes and there was a war on where I was….”
After that he didn’t wait outside for me any more, and he was only there another five days. I’d catch a glimpse of him, though, each day, waiting for me just the same, but standing behind the window and looking out at me through the curtain.
He wouldn’t come out until I’d gone by, and then I’d hear the screen door. If I looked back, he’d seem to be in no hurry at all to reach the box.
The last time I saw him he was standing at the window and looked calm and rested. The curtains were down, all the shades were raised, and I figured at the time he was getting his things together to leave.
But I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t watching for me this time. He was staring past me, over me, you might say, over the rooftops and the trees, south. He just kept staring even after I’d come even with the house and moved on down the sidewalk. I looked back. I could see him still there at the window. The feeling was so strong, I had to turn around and look for myself in the same direction he was. But, as you might guess, I didn’t see anything except the same old timber, mountains, sky.
The next day he was gone. He didn’t leave any forwarding. Sometimes mail of some kind or other shows up for him or his wife or for the both of them. If it’s first-class, we hold it a day, then send it back to where it came from. There isn’t much. And I don’t mind. It’s all work, one way or the other, and I’m always glad to have it.
Fat
I am sitting over coffee and cigarettes at my friend Rita’s and I am telling her about it.
Here is what I tell her.
It is late of a slow Wednesday when Herb seats the fat man at my station.
This fat man is the fattest person I have ever seen, though he is neat-appearing and well dressed enough.
Everything about him is big. But it is the fingers I remember best. When I stop at the table near his to see to the old couple, I first notice the fingers. They look three times the size of a normal person’s fingers—long, thick, creamy fingers.
I see to my other tables, a party of four businessmen, very demanding, another party of four, three men and a woman, and this old couple. Leander has poured the fat man’s water, and I give the fat man plenty of time to make up his mind before going over.
Good evening, I say. May I serve you? I say.
Rita, he was big, I mean big.
Good evening, he says. Hello. Yes, he says. I think we’re ready to order now, he says.
He has this way of speaking—strange, don’t you know. And he makes a little puffing sound every so often.
I think we will begin with a Caesar salad, he says. And then a bowl of soup with some extra bread and butter, if you please. The lamb chops, I believe, he says. And baked potato with sour cream. We’ll see about dessert later. Thank you very much, he says, and hands me the menu.
God, Rita, but those were fingers.
I hurry away to the kitchen and turn in the order to Rudy, who takes it with a face. You know Rudy.
Rudy is that way when he works.
As I come out of the kitchen, Margo—I’ve told you about Margo? The one who chases Rudy? Margo says to me, Who’s your fat friend? He’s really a fatty.
Now that’s part of it. I think that is really part of it.
I make the Caesar salad there at his table, him watching my every move, meanwhile buttering
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