Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn

Over the past few years, I had seen sullen-looking college students all over Boston reading this book. Finally, after noticing it in the memoir section of Trident, I finally picked it up myself. It ended up being a great choice, full of wonderful writing and well-developed themes; also great because it has short chapters which are perfect for reading during a busy week.

This is a memoir written by a poet who grows up without knowing his father, only to meet him as an young adult while working at one of Boston's Pine Street Inn homeless shelter. His father suffers from mental illness, perhaps schizophrenia, and ends up homeless in Boston. Flynn charts both his own trajectory into young adulthood with no direction as well as his father's life story, at least as much as he can piece together.

I definitely enjoyed this book more than I otherwise would have because of its being set in Boston. The Pine Street Inn is near the edge of my neighborhood and I recognized many of the locations he mentioned. I've also read several books touching on the Irish in Boston and this fit that genre well. In Flynn's case, his association with his Irish roots and friends from childhood was sadly plagued with alcoholism. He writes of one of his friends,

"When he got off the school bus he could see his father sprawled out. His mother said, I give up, handed my friend the address and the keys. My friend wasn't old enough to drive, but he learned. He tells the story now as if he were speaking of raking the leaves."

Aside from the descriptions of Boston, I also liked this book for its description of his troubled relationship with his father. When he meets his father for the first time, he is 27 and struggling with his own ability to grow into adulthood. Flynn writes,

"Sometimes I'd see my father, walking past my building on his way to nowhere. I could have given him a key, offered a piece of my floor. A futon. A bed. But I never did. If I let him inside I would become him, the line between us would blur, my own slow-motion car wreck would speed up."

This book does a great job of "showing not telling" (as a great writing teacher once taught me) the complexities of this relationship. Flynn wrestles with inevitability and fate and responsibility, using an effective combination of vignettes, conversations, and letters.

And last, but by no means least, Flynn is a poet. Thus, his writing is superb and unique. He has a style that transcends standard literary devices such as metaphor or hyperbole. In describing a homeless man that he knows, Flynn writes,

"Brian wears three army blankets over his head like layered ponchos, a hole cut in the middle of each, making his slow way up, stopping at a barrel to poke for half a sandwich, half a beer, stopping at each payphone, checking the change slot, knowing that the phones release dimes secretly."

This would have been a good book had it described a difficult relationship between father and son, or a young man's first few years working at a homeless shelter, or covered any topic with equal skill. Lucky for us readers, it does all three.