Another Bullshit Night in Suck City Read online

  A sketch showed a man on a sidewalk, pointing vaguely into a crowd. After a year I decided that the guy was looking into a mirror, just to put it out of my mind. Years later I realized I was wrong.

  that man’s father is my father’s son

  A man came in this afternoon looking for you, Captain says.

  We’re sitting in the office, a closet off the Yellow Lobby.

  Yeah? I say.

  Said he was your father.

  Captain’s voice is singsong, it rises at the end of each phrase. I’d never noticed before.

  He had ID, Captain sings. He wanted a bed.

  A bed? I say.

  Sort of demanded a bed. Said his son worked here, that his son’d get him a bed.

  What do I say to that?

  He was sitting right where you are, Captain sings.

  Involuntarily I stand up, wipe my hands on my pants.

  He said it was only for a few days. He just lost his room.

  He lost his room three months ago, I say, gesturing toward the empty chair.

  You knew? Captain asks lightly.

  I can’t blame him for asking, but again I can’t think of what to say.

  You don’t have to stay, Captain sings, low. Take the night.

  I saw him by the river a month ago, I start to explain, but it sounds so spacey. On a bench, I say. Asleep. It’s like a frikkin opera.

  If you want to stay you can, Captain offers.

  A little girl pointed, I say, but what does that even mean?

  He’ll be here at six, Captain says softly. After his job.

  I’m not really looking at him. I’ll try to look at him.

  Day labor, Captain sings. I gave him a work bed—

  The phone rings. Captain looks at it. I look at it. Captain picks it up on fourth ring. Don’t call an ambulance, Captain says into the phone, he’s been like that since noon. Uh-huh. Then call an ambulance. He hangs up the phone. Fuckin Billy, Captain chuckles.

  Fuckin Billy. Does he have proof? I ask. Did you see it?

  He said he’d bring it. You don’t think he’s working?

  Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know him.

  Pause.

  You don’t have to stay tonight. Go home.

  “Go home” has become the refrain, the chorus welling up.

  Who else knows?

  It came up at change of shift.

  The log?

  The log.

  You wrote in the log that my father showed up looking for a bed?

  “New guest.”

  Pause.

  Long pause.

  Captain leaves me alone in the office. The needle comes off the record. Take your time, he said, but there was no time. Only so many minutes a counselor can sit outside the fray. I look around the office—Are the walls closing in? Are planets colliding in my brain? Did Captain just sing me a song?

  I sat for ten minutes alone in the office, then I went to work. A few hours later my father showed up, made his way to the Cage, presented the bed ticket Captain had given him earlier, disappeared upstairs. No ominous music, no deep chords. He wasn’t backlit as the doors blew open, the wind didn’t pick up, the earth kept spinning. Just another “new guest”—new ones appeared every day. He raised his arms at the door to be searched, just like everyone else. Bottles or weapons I have none, but that man’s father is my father’s son. It all took a few minutes. Nothing was said.

  mayberry rfd

  I’d grown up watching Otis, the town drunk on the television show Mayberry RFD, who let himself into the jail cell each night with a skeleton key, which he rehung within arm’s reach to let himself out in the morning. Each town had a few, at least the towns I knew. A Mugsy. A Mousey. A sign of tolerance. Inevitable. It was said you could get Mousey to hurt someone, to burn down a house, steal a car. All it took was a bottle. His brother taught us at day camp, he led us in singing “500 Miles” on the bus on the way home, and we all knew Mousey, his brother, the lost one—Lord I can’t go back home this-a-way. Mugsy’s kids went to school with me, one was in my class, I’d grown up playing with him. Bombardment. Geronimo. We knew them, knew their families, their struggles were public, a failing acted out daily, daily forgiven. We could pray for them, if we prayed.

  When I was fifteen, sixteen, you could get Mugsy to buy for you, you could find him in the parking lot of the package store, and for a couple beers he’d buy you a case. If the cops were around he’d have to get in the car with you, like you were all going to a party together, old buddies, and you’d drop him a few blocks away, and drive off into the liquid night.

  My father put on a good front at first. Evicted only recently, he’d lived on his own for years. Outside for only a month or so, broke, but still put-together, lucid, somewhat clean. When he first arrives he has one eye unmoored, having been cross-eyed for years. It floats in his head like a ghost satellite. Gave him an intense look, Ray says. On his legs he wears support stocking, for the phlebitis. But he doesn’t appear psychotic, claims he’s never been institutionalized, never been on meds, never even been in a detox. Maybe he has traces of a head injury, maybe in prison he’d been locked up in a psych ward for a while, but the doctors made no diagnosis, at least not one he’s willing to talk about. The drinking, the fall on the head, all “organic” damage, the psych people say, we can’t touch him. A blustering, damaged man, but many are worse off. Where else is he to go?

  like it or not

  6/22/87

  Dear Nick,

  Many deep thanks for your recent help. All grist for the mill. 12 or 13 years ago—a title entered my mind—I was a guest of the Harbor Lights—briefly. Had just come in from Palm Beach—waiting for another bank run with the great Dippy-do Doyle. The title—“Down and Out in Boston and Cambridge”—George Orwell’s first was “Down and Out in Paris and London”—The past 2 months have brought the title back to me.

  Writers, especially poets, are particularly prone to madness. There exists a striking association between creativity and manic depression.

  Why are more creative people prone to madness? They have more than average amounts of energies and abilities to see things in a fresh and original way—then because they also have depression, I think they’re more in touch with human suffering.

  I’ve really enjoyed—as a writer—my time at the Pine Street Inn. It’s been a pure pleasure to merely stand with my back against a wall—watching my son at work. It has been a very, very long 25 years.

  Whether you like it or not—you are me. I know.

  I thought my last evening at Pine Street—waiting for 8:00 PM to come—I thought if your very beautiful mother were alive and if she could somehow see this scene—her youngest son at work and his Father a resident—in Pine Street—a shelter for the homeless—the beaten—the sad—the losers in life’s great game—Jody would have laughed loudly at the entire macabre scene.—I don’t get my license back for a month—I am trying other work. It is very, very hard.—

  Closing lines—Nick—it is a disgrace that the Pine Street Inn allows cigarette smoking within its walls. A shame. A pure shame. I am an avid non-smoker.

  Eno the Beano—27 Putnam—tells me you are into drugs—if so—good luck.

  With love and respect, Nicholas—

  Your Father, Jonathan.

  Even the years before he made his way to the shelter our paths might have crossed. We both did construction, off and on, so perhaps on a job site, leaning on our respective shovels, staring at each other across the ditch we’d created. Since we both considered ourselves writers we might have listened to the same poet at some literary event, breathed the same air. He drove a cab, so I could have been his fare one night, if I ever took cabs. We both drank, so we might have been in the same dive, on the same night, vying for the same waitress’s attention. Boston isn’t a large city, but still a city of four million, so it wasn’t necessary that we would meet. I could have made sure we never did, gone to New York, or San Francisco, or anywhere el
se on the planet. But I went to Boston, and stayed, and began working at Pine Street, which was and is a village within the greater city, an inverse city, where the majority of the townspeople, not just a few, are drunks or what we used to call idiots.

  transparent

  Three months now since my father first walked through the shelter door. Tonight he’s relatively sober, able to raise his arms for the frisk without attracting undo attention, to move efficiently past the slumbering bodies to the Cage, to check his valuables, sign his name. I watch him from across the lobby, but don’t approach. Even without seeing him I can picture each step he takes. Once upstairs he will hand in his bed ticket and receive his hanger, shoebox, wrist tag. Sitting on the bench with the box beside him he’ll see himself in the funhouse mirror—his head grossly enlarged, his body birdlike, his hands mickey mouse hands. He’ll take his clothes off carefully, hang everything on the numbered hanger, place his shoes and socks in the box. Naked, he’ll rise, hand everything over the counter, get his bar of soap and ration of shampoo. Getting on nine, the rush over, the showers empty now except for him. A trough around the perimeter, like a moat, carries the water and dirt and sweat and suds away.

  The day my father walked through the doors I became transparent. I couldn’t find a way to talk about him with my friends, with my co-workers. Some approached, sideways, crablike, offered support, sympathy, but this was merely fuel for my shame. After a while, with the daily frenzy inside the walls, it just became a fact—That guy’s father is a guest here. A newcomer would try to take that in, process it, make it line up with his experience. Maybe his father was missing or a drunk, or had embarrassed him once or twice. Another month would pass, and it became normal. His father sleeps upstairs, like in some parallel home.

  Toweled off and in his johnny, my father climbs the next flight of stairs. The days long now, muted daylight filters into the dorms. A live-in staff worker wordlessly aims a flashlight at my father’s wrist. They pass between rows of men, some snoring, some staring wide-eyed into the gloom. One mutters an endless monologue, one paces back and forth to the toilets. One stands at a window watching the taillights on the Southeast Expressway, fading sparks.

  One night a co-worker says that I have the worst luck of anyone she’s ever met (We arouse pity by cultivating the most repulsive wounds). A version of empathy, I suppose, but I don’t really want to talk about it. If we go out drinking after work, if I end up spending the night with her, maybe I’ll say more, as we talk afterward, as a way to explain something about myself, why I’m the way I am, why I’m in her bed and not Emily’s. An affair is a room to disappear into for a few hours, another place to hide. But if asked directly I’ll say he’s just another drunk, that’s what I’ve always heard, a drunk and a con man, he has nothing to do with me. I don’t know you at all, she will say, a few months into our affair, but if you ever want to talk…and I’ll smile a skull’s smile and one by one the lights will go off inside me.

  same again

  The usual I say. Blood of Christ I say. Essence. Spirit. Medicine. A hint. A taste. A bump. A snort. I say top shelf. Straight up. Two fingers. A shot. A sip. A nip. I say another round. I say brace yourself. Lift a few. Hoist a few. Work the elbow. Bottoms up. Belly up. Leg up. Set ’em up. Freshen up. What’ll it be. Name your poison. Mud in your eye. A jar. A jug. A pony. I say a glass. I say same again. I say all around. I say my good man. I say my drinking buddy. I say git that in ya. Then an ice-breaker. Then a quick one. Then a couple pops. Then a nightcap. Then throw one back. Then knock one down. Working on a scotch and soda I say. Fast & furious I say. Could savage a drink I say. Guzzle I say. Chug. Chug-a-lug. Gulp. Sauce. Mother’s milk. Home brew. Everclear. Moonshine. White lightning. Firewater. Antifreeze. Wallbanger. Zombie. Rotgut. Hooch. Relief. Now you’re talking I say. Live a little I say. Drain it I say. Kill it I say. Feeling it I say. Slightly crocked. Wobbly. Another dead sailor I say. Breakfast of champions I say. I say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. I say the beer that made Milwaukee famous. I say Houston, we have a drinking problem. I say the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems. I say ain’t no devil only god when he’s drunk. I say god only knows what I’d be without you. I say thirsty. I say parched. I say wet my whistle. I say awful thirst. Dying of thirst. Lap it up. Hook me up. Beam me up. Watering hole. Hole. Knock a few back. Pound a few down. Corner stool. My office. Out with the boys I say. Unwind I say. Nurse one I say. Apply myself I say. Tie one on I say. Make a night of it I say. Dive. Toasted. Glow. A cold one a tall one a frosty I say. One for the road I say. A drinker I say. Two-fisted I say. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink I say. Drink any man under the table I say. A good man’s failing I say. Then a binge then a spree then a jag then a bout. Coming home on all fours. Rousted. Roustabout. Could use a drink I say. A shot of confidence I say. Steady my nerves I say. Drown my sorrows. I say kill for a drink. I say keep ’em comin’. I say a stiff one. I say fast as possible. I say the long haul. Drink deep drink hard hit the bottle. Two sheets to the wind then. Half-cocked then. Knackered then. Showing it then. Holding up the wall then. Under the influence then. Half in the bag then. A toot. A tear. A blowout. Out of my skull I say. Liquored up. Riproaring. Slammed. Fucking jacked. The booze talking. The room spinning. Primed. Feeling no pain. Buzzed. Giddy. Silly. Glazed. Impaired. Intoxicated. Lubricated. Stewed. Tight. Tiddly. Juiced. Plotzed. Potted. Pixilated. Pie-eyed. Cock-eyed. Inebriated. Laminated. Stoned. High. Swimming. Elated. Exalted. Debauched. Rock on. Drunk on. Shine on. Bring it on. Pissed. Then bleary. Then bloodshot. Glassy-eyed. Mud-eyed. Red-nosed. Thick-tongued. Addled. Dizzy then. Groggy. On a bender I say. On a spree. On a drunk. I say off the wagon. I say gone out. I say on a slip. I say in my cups. I say riding the night train. I say the drink. I say the bottle. I say the blood bank. I say drinkie-poo. I say a drink drink. A drink a drunk a drunkard. Swill. Swig. Faced. Shitfaced. Fucked up. Stupefied. Incapacitated. Raging. Seeing double. Shitty. Take the edge off I say. That’s better I say. Loaded I say. Wasted. Looped. Lit. Off my ass. Befuddled. Reeling. Tanked. Punch-drunk. Mean drunk. Maintenance drunk. Sloppy drunk happy drunk weepy drunk blind drunk dead drunk. Serious drinker. Hard drinker. Lush. Drink like a fish. Boozer. Booze hound. Absorb. Rummy. Alkie. Sponge. Sip. Sot. Sop. Then muddled. Then maudlin. Then woozy. Then clouded. What day is it? Do you know me? Have you seen me? When did I start? Did I ever stop? Slurring. Reeling. Staggering. Overserved they say. Drunk as a skunk they say. Falling down drunk. Crawling down drunk. Drunk & disorderly. I say high tolerance. I say high capacity. I say social lubricant. They say protective custody. Sozzled soused sloshed. Polluted. Blitzed. Shattered. Zonked. Ossified. Annihilated. Fossilized. Stinko. Blotto. Legless. Smashed. Soaked. Screwed. Pickled. Bombed. Stiff. Fried. Oiled. Boiled. Frazzled. Blasted. Plastered. Hammered. Tore up. Ripped up. Ripped. Destroyed. Whittled. Plowed. Overcome. Overtaken. Comatose. Dead to the world. Beyond the beyond. The old K.O. The horrors I say. The heebie-jeebies I say. The beast I say. The dt’s. B’jesus & pink elephants. A hummer. A run. A mind-bender. Hittin’ it kinda hard they say. Go easy they say. Last call they say. Quitting time they say. They say shut off. They say ruckus. They say dry out. Pass out. Lights out. Blackout. Headlong. The bottom. The walking wounded. Saturday night paralysis. Cross-eyed & painless. Petroleum dark. Gone to the world. Gone. Gonzo. Wrecked. Out. Sleep it off. Wake up on the floor. End up in the gutter. Off the stuff. Dry. Dry heaves. Gag. White knuckle. Lightweight I say. Hair of the dog I say. Eye-opener I say. A drop I say. A slug. A taste. A swallow. A pull. Sadder Budweiser I say. Down the hatch I say. I wouldn’t say no I say. I say whatever he’s having. I say next one’s on me. I say match you. I say bottoms up. Put it on my tab. I say one more. I say same again.

  the van

  (1988) My father’s been homeless for almost two years now. I’ve spent the past summer in Provincetown again, living on the boat, working at the marina, commuting to Boston every couple weeks to work a few shifts at Pine Street. Emily’s begun w
orking in the Pine Street clinic—handing out meds, changing dressings, washing feet. My father still has a work bed held for him, our paths cross once in a while, sometimes we’ll exchange a few words. He tells me he’s in touch with Little, Brown, he tells me Kennedy is working on his case, he tells me he’s been robbed. In September I move back to Boston, work a few shifts, realize I can’t do it anymore. I can’t bear to be in the shelter (The dirty, repulsive, slimy universe of pain!), not with him likely to pop up at any moment, my drunken jack-in-the-box. I begin filling in on the Outreach Van more and more. The Van was started the year before as a way to make contact with and offer services to those who, for one reason or another, won’t come in to Pine Street, either because they’re barred or because the shelter seems its own little hell. Working the Van, I start to believe there’s more hope out on the streets than inside the walls. Those who choose to sleep out haven’t been as institutionalized—outside there are no lines to wait in, you have to make your own way. The people we see lived in abandoned buildings and train stations, in cardboard boxes and in doorways. The hours are from nine at night until five in the morning, the graveyard shift. After a few weeks I apply for a full-time job on the Van. In this way I will no longer have to see my father at all—he will be in bed when I come on, just waking when I punch out.

  My new job requires me to take on clients as a caseworker, to develop relationships with them in order to determine what services might be appropriate—detox, psych, elder housing, a pint of Thunderbird, whatever. Some mornings when I punch out Joe Morgan is lurking around the cars, and one day I ask if he wants to get some breakfast. No one knows how long he’s been skulking around Pine Street. Ten years? Twenty? He passes through the doors like another man’s shadow, his face pressed to the wall, almost part of the wall, like he’s using it to pull himself along. Mumbling and squirrelly, small with large hands, a hooked nose, his graying hair slicked back, Joe Morgan never sleeps in a bed, never lines up with the rest, almost no one has spoken to him in all these years. We walk to a diner in Southie, where he nearly gets us killed by muttering about the “hippies” in the adjacent booth, whom I would describe as “bikers.” We begin having breakfast once a week. As I get to know him I ask the basics—family, Social Security number, last residence, work history. All spotty. The psych people have nothing on him, though he says he took “nerve pills” at one point, and that they helped.