Read Online Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Flynn
Tags: Non
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as the Jonathan of one drink. Even so, Scotty likes him, in spite of his bravado, his bluster. Especially the moments before the second drink, before the cloud. Just twenty, Scotty has “trouble” with his own father, another drinker. Jonathan’s twice Scotty’s age, a father figure, of sorts. Jonathan tells Scotty stories of his brushes with the law, his escapades, he lists all the businesses he has run—the car dealerships, the encyclopedia franchise, the theater space—and gleefully recounts how each collapsed. Clearly a bad influence, this pseudo-dad, and that’s what’s attractive. Jonathan’s been at the art game for a long time now, he likes to drop names, hint at the influence he can muster ( Does the name Kurt Vonnegut mean anything to you ?). A newspaper clipping he flashes around shows him sitting at the feet of Shirley MacLaine during a Democratic fund-raiser for McGovern. My father makes sure Scotty sees this dog-eared photo.
As the winter ends, Jonathan finesses a place to sleep and steady pay in exchange for painting a house the upcoming summer in Cambridge. Jonathan proposes that he and Scotty become partners, fifty-fifty . The owners, a couple he met at an art opening, will be in Sweden for the summer. Free rent, easy work, steady cash, my father plans to rewrite his novel in the evenings and on weekends. Scotty, wary, knows Jonathan always tries to get something for nothing, always tries to get over. But he imagines they’ll put in a few good hours each day, make their way through. A house is a finite project, after all. The worst that could happen is what always happens—that Scotty will work harder.
The job has a charge account at the hardware store—paint, brushes, scrapers, drop cloths. Jonathan charges his coveralls—white, denim, professional. If he has someplace to be later in the day he wears them over one of the Brooks Brothers suits he’d charged to my grandfather ten years earlier ( As president of a company I had to look the part ). He likes to keep a brush and scraper in his back pocket, even if he doesn’t use them all that much. The first morning Scotty wakes up at seven and Jonathan’s already up and drinking coffee, wearing his spotless coveralls. They sit at the kitchen table in the pleasant sun, suffused with good fortune. Mid-May, the owners won’t be back until September, no urgency, summer spread out before them. They can work half days if they choose. They can take three-day weekends. They can stretch it out. Scotty follows my father’s lead, says he isn’t worried. The owners left five hundred to start off, when they need more it’ll be wired. Sounds fine. Scotty says he wouldn’t mind quitting early some days, getting into the studio, keeping up with his sculptures. Yes , my father agrees, that’s what’s important. Anyone could paint this house—they chose us because we’re artists. In a few years they’ll be able to point to this house and say, Jonathan Flynn painted that. That’s worth something to people like this .
They talk briefly about how to begin. The bushes need to be wrapped in tarps, pulled away from the house. The ladders laid out, ratcheted up into the eaves, the scraping begun. The scraping, followed by the puttying, followed by the priming—the preparation, they agree, this takes time. Scotty puts his coffee cup in the sink and pulls his paper cap over his eyes. My father reaches for the bottle of Johnnie Walker that has been centered on the table the whole time. A drink to our good fortune , he proposes, pouring a shot into his cup. The scotch, Scotty will later learn, is charged to the owners as well.
Every morning this is how it will play out—first coffee, a piece of toast, maybe a shot. Then Scotty will climb the ladder and continue scraping where he left off the day before. Jonathan circles below, the paintbrush in his back pocket, surveying, pondering, taking stock, pointing to spots Scotty’s missed. Jonathan prefers to
As the winter ends, Jonathan finesses a place to sleep and steady pay in exchange for painting a house the upcoming summer in Cambridge. Jonathan proposes that he and Scotty become partners, fifty-fifty . The owners, a couple he met at an art opening, will be in Sweden for the summer. Free rent, easy work, steady cash, my father plans to rewrite his novel in the evenings and on weekends. Scotty, wary, knows Jonathan always tries to get something for nothing, always tries to get over. But he imagines they’ll put in a few good hours each day, make their way through. A house is a finite project, after all. The worst that could happen is what always happens—that Scotty will work harder.
The job has a charge account at the hardware store—paint, brushes, scrapers, drop cloths. Jonathan charges his coveralls—white, denim, professional. If he has someplace to be later in the day he wears them over one of the Brooks Brothers suits he’d charged to my grandfather ten years earlier ( As president of a company I had to look the part ). He likes to keep a brush and scraper in his back pocket, even if he doesn’t use them all that much. The first morning Scotty wakes up at seven and Jonathan’s already up and drinking coffee, wearing his spotless coveralls. They sit at the kitchen table in the pleasant sun, suffused with good fortune. Mid-May, the owners won’t be back until September, no urgency, summer spread out before them. They can work half days if they choose. They can take three-day weekends. They can stretch it out. Scotty follows my father’s lead, says he isn’t worried. The owners left five hundred to start off, when they need more it’ll be wired. Sounds fine. Scotty says he wouldn’t mind quitting early some days, getting into the studio, keeping up with his sculptures. Yes , my father agrees, that’s what’s important. Anyone could paint this house—they chose us because we’re artists. In a few years they’ll be able to point to this house and say, Jonathan Flynn painted that. That’s worth something to people like this .
They talk briefly about how to begin. The bushes need to be wrapped in tarps, pulled away from the house. The ladders laid out, ratcheted up into the eaves, the scraping begun. The scraping, followed by the puttying, followed by the priming—the preparation, they agree, this takes time. Scotty puts his coffee cup in the sink and pulls his paper cap over his eyes. My father reaches for the bottle of Johnnie Walker that has been centered on the table the whole time. A drink to our good fortune , he proposes, pouring a shot into his cup. The scotch, Scotty will later learn, is charged to the owners as well.
Every morning this is how it will play out—first coffee, a piece of toast, maybe a shot. Then Scotty will climb the ladder and continue scraping where he left off the day before. Jonathan circles below, the paintbrush in his back pocket, surveying, pondering, taking stock, pointing to spots Scotty’s missed. Jonathan prefers to
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