Raymond Carver — Jeans TV

My life’s on an even keel these days. Though who’s to say it’ll never waver again? This morning I recalled a girlfriend I had just after my marriage broke up. A sweet girl named Jean. In the beginning, she had no idea how bad things were. It took a while. But she loved me a bunch anyway, she said. And I know that’s true. She let me stay at her place where I conducted the shabby business of my life over her phone. Shе bought my booze, but told me I wasn’t a drunk like thosе others said. Signed checks for me and left them on her pillow when she went off to work. Gave me a Pendleton jacket that Christmas, one I still wear. For my part, I taught her to drink. And how to fall asleep with her clothes on. How to wake up weeping in the middle of the night. When I left, she paid two months’ rent for me. And gave me her black and white TV. We talked on the phone once, months later. She was drunk. And, sure, I was drunk too. The last thing she said to me was, Will I ever see my TV again? I looked around the room as if the TV might suddenly appear in its place on the kitchen chair. Or else come out of a cupboard and declare itself. But that TV had gone down the road weeks before. The TV Jean gave me. I didn’t tell her that. I lied, of course. Soon, I said, very soon now. And put down the phone after, or before, she hung up. But those sleep-sounding words of mine making me feel I’d come to the end of a story. And now, this one last falsehood behind me, I could rest.


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