What he wants is not to drink. The stakes are whether or not he drinks. After all, it’s not that he drinks a lot. And if he drinks, it’s okay. It’s okay if he drinks a little, one or two drinks, never more than two, especially if the drinks are on the stronger side. It’s not like he’s a character in a Carver story, drinking four bottles of champagne a day. Although that wouldn’t be so bad, really. At least, if that were the case, it would be clear what he had to do. What he needed to do. The other day, sharing a story with his partner, she asked him, “What does he want?” He, meaning the main character in the story, a corrections officer named Ray. Want meaning need. And he didn’t know what to say. Back in his undergrad days, he would have had something to say. Everything was clearer in those days. The first time he read “Cathedral,” for example. Thinking: this, this, this. He’s reading Carver again, often in the afternoons. This time it’s his collected stories—one of those Library of America hardcovers, with the black-and-white portrait, the patriotic stripe. In just a few weeks, two or three, he’s probably read one hundred of the man’s stories. What impresses him most, this time around, is the accuracy of his alcoholics. Never—not before, not since—has the state of being muddled been rendered so clear. Either they are there, in the thick of it, or they’ve been off the stuff for years. If he could get to either point, he could fix it. He could begin to. He could lash himself to a peacock, a cup of black coffee, a cigarette, a shotgun, a fire, a slice of cake, a cord of wood. The sign of a clear mind, he thinks, is not variety, not expansiveness, but devotion. Commitment to a limited number of small, solid things. He’s begun to think of taking up another craft, something to do with his hands once the afternoon is almost over and he’s begun to tire of Carver. He’s thought about woodworking, but he doesn’t have an artistic bone in him, not when it comes to things that aren’t words. If he did, he wouldn’t be in such a fix. Instead, the afternoon is over. It is five o’clock, and it’s okay if he has one drink, no more than two. It is this he thinks as he goes to the fridge. He thinks this as he sits, sips. Tomorrow he can buy a good knife, a block or two of solid balsa. He’ll begin with words, gouge into that soft fragrance his favorite among Carver’s motifs. Peacocks. Phone calls. Cake. He’ll carve steadily—deep, strong cuts. He will stain it once he’s done. The finish will be dark. These inscribed, re-recorded lines will guide him out. In a notebook, maybe a week ago, he wrote: “The only thing different about this time from the other times was that this time he was sober. —Carver.” He forgets what story the quote was from. It was true—that’s all he remembers. It was true, and it came at the story’s start.
Colin Lubner writes from Harlem. You can check in on him on Twitter: @no1canimagine0. He'd love it if you checked in.