Another Bullshit Night in Suck City
On my commute to work the other day, I was frustrated by the glacial pace of the underground exodus. Normally, New Yorkers quite literally sprint up the stairs to get the hell out of the subway. I reached the second flight and spotted/smelled the culprit: a giant mound of human shit chillin on the staircase. *Happy Wednesday*. Now, this inconvenience could have been the present of some drunken frat boy on a dare. More plausibly, it was the product of a homeless man or woman.
As someone who has a home (albeit a very cramped, poorly functioning one), it’s easy to look at homelessness as a binary fact: you’re either living on the streets or you’re not. After reading Nick Flynn’s award-winning and brilliantly titled memoir Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, I learned that actually there is a great deal of fluidity within the homeless community. The scene within a shelter is continually in flux based on weather, familial support, occupation, pride, etc. While this seems self-evident, I do think we tend to immediately categorize a person living in a shelter as dispossessed, even if that might just be a short-term situation.
The book is about a social worker who is reunited with his homeless father after years of estrangement. Nick was raised by a single mother while his absentee father wandered about Boston, occasionally sending his children eccentric letters that detailed some elaborate heist or shenanigan. Despite Nick’s understandable revulsion towards the man, he finds himself following in the adrift footsteps of his paternal legacy. They are both aspiring writers who cannot find a foothold in that industry. Their lives are shaped by drugs and alcohol. From an outsider’s perspective, it appears that Nick and his father are on parallel tracks. Nick wonders if failure is part of his lineage—if indignity is in his blood. Once he enters his early twenties, Nick starts working at a shelter, so ironically, the homeless pay his rent. He vaguely knows that his dad lives on the streets; clearly, although he is disgusted by his father, he is also in some ways deeply drawn to him. His choice to remain within a scene in which his dad could pop up at any moment, like a “drunken jack in the box”, opens up Pandora’s psychological box (Flynn, 225). There is fear and unease associated with the possible confrontation of his demons. Is he concerned for his father’s well being? Does he need closure for his years of fatherlessness? Does he have a desire to affirm the differences between him and his father—a way to negate the similarities? In some ways, his dad is a compass that allows Nick to weave in and out of these questions. A compass with some screwed up magnets.
Sure enough, his dad eventually shows up at the shelter. With this new development, there is some unsettling role reversal—he’s taking care of his dad even though his dad never took care of him. They’re “living together” in adulthood rather than childhood.
So, the storyline of this book is exceptional, but is it expressed well? Nick Flynn is a poet and it’s evident. It is definitely a heavy read, but it’s something that feels somehow necessary—both for him to put his feelings into words and for me to read and attempt to empathize. It is a brutally honest disclosure of his search for an essential self.
Even though the memoir’s tone is generally somber, Nick is cynically funny throughout. He punctuates his story with poetic sidetracks that tug at the heartstrings. So, it blends nonfiction and fiction, and that is where his talent really shines through.
A sign of a good book is when certain passages haunt you for months, even years to come. I read this memoir a few months ago for a book club and I’m only just now reviewing it. I was reluctant for so long because I felt that my review wouldn’t do it justice—it’s such an intense story with ties to tragic socioeconomic issues. One chapter that has spoken to me since I put down the book is titled “Ham”. It’s a well thought out analogy to the biblical Noah. It is a remarkably applicable comparison of fathers with grandiose ideas and sons grappling with the hopelessness of an inevitable inheritance and poor predestination. Like father, like son. That’s not great when your dad is a homeless, penniless, loveless, drunkard. Luckily, my dad is a hilarious, loving hunter with an impressive beard and a passion for dachshunds. Shout out to my dad!
During his upbringing, both Nick and his father loosely held on to the idea that writing is a noble profession that justifies and maybe even necessitates struggle. Being a struggling writer doesn’t mean you’re not talented… you’re just *undiscovered*. Finally, with this memoir, Nick Flynn is discovered. He’s redeemed. And this is a beautiful transformation to witness. All in all, I give Another Bullshit Night in Suck City 5 out of 5 flames. I hope you don’t encounter any shit on your commute today!
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