Being Flynn Page #7

So, they have come to me with their

tails between their legs, huh?

You know what I say?

F*** them.

F*** them.

Up yours, Harbor Street.

You are still barred

from Harbor Street.

I think I have

been here before.

Yeah, I was mugged here once by a

bunch of mother-raping drug addicts.

Thanks, Jeff.

Good luck.

Christ, don't tell me

you live here.

A f***ing hellhole.

I'll have a vodka

screwdriver, please.

There is no liquor here.

No vodka?

No vodka.

No vodka.

Fine, it's

evil sh*t anyway.

You know, I'm putting

some money aside.

I'm going to get my

life back together.

I got a friend

in Florida.

He's got a job and an apartment, they're

waiting for me in St. Petersburg.

Right.

You don't believe me,

do you?

No.

No.

That's a terrible

thing to say,

you don't believe

your own father.

I'm going upstairs,

go to bed.

My roommates are

away for the weekend.

You will be unbarred

in a few days,

so you can stay

here for a bit.

Until you go back

to Harbor Street...

Oh, no, I'm never going back

to that f***ing place.

Never.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

Hey, don't drink

in here.

You know, I have been thinking

about your beautiful mother

and her non-accident.

And I have been thinking, why

would she do something like that?

Ah!

Do you want a drink?

No.

Oh, right. You prefer

the other stuff.

I think I have

a problem with both.

A problem?

Oh, I feel for you.

It must be problematic.

The night she did it,

she read something I wrote.

A story, she thought

it was about her.

Was it?

Yes.

It was about a woman

who works two jobs

and tries to fit in

a couple of hours

between each to

be with her kid.

She works as a bank teller.

She works as a waitress.

She comes home and

waits on the kid.

I wasn't finished

with the story.

I was going to write

how the kid appreciated it,

whatever time

she had for him.

He didn't think

she was a bad mother.

And he loved her.

She was all he had.

I didn't write that part.

I didn't get that far.

So that's

the story you tell

of why your mother

killed herself.

I haven't told it

to anyone.

You tell it to yourself.

Those are the best stories.

It's a good yarn.

There is only one

part that's horseshit.

No one kills themselves

because they read a story.

I don't care how

good a writer you are,

you can't kill

someone with words.

I have a theory.

The reason people

commit suicide

is because they

don't like themselves.

Self-hatred.

I think it's a very reasonable

explanation. Don't you?

Self-hatred?

You're familiar

with the concept?

Yes.

Of course,

maybe the question isn't why she

killed herself when she did,

but why she chose to stick

around as long as she did.

Anyway, my writing is

going extremely well.

The book's classic.

And to answer your previous

question, it does exist.

As do you.

Why?

Because of me.

Because I made you.

I'm going to go to sleep.

The blanket's on the couch.

(DOOR SHUTS)

Hey!

Hey! Hold on!

Hey.

What are you doing?

Where you going?

Where am I going? I'm going

to my suite at The Ritz.

They are holding one for me just in

case I ever want to drop by and use it.

I gotta get going. I'll be

late for the slave traders,

all the jobs

will be taken.

Well, are you coming back?

Coming back where?

Here.

Out of curiosity,

why have you not ever asked

me to stay with you before?

I thought if you try and save a

drowning man you might go down, too.

A drowning man?

A drowning man?

I'm not a drowning man.

I'm a survivor!

An artist!

I'm not going to

die out here!

I'm not your poor sensitive mother!

I'm a survivor!

And you know what?

Luckily for you, you are my

son, so you are one, too!

You are not your mother and you

are not me, Nicholas Flynn!

I absolve you!

You are not me. I made

you, but you are not me!

I'll see you again.

Yeah.

NICK:
A few months after

that I left Harbor Street.

Yo, it's the man.

I'll see you later, man.

All right.

Be good.

Yeah.

All right.

Hey.

Hey.

I'm taking off.

Yeah, I heard.

Thanks.

For what?

For nothing.

For the swift

kick in the ass.

You're welcome.

No more Harbor

Street, huh?

I guess not.

What about you, you gonna

stay here for a while?

Yeah. I'm not done yet.

I just wanted

to say I'm sorry.

For what?

About your brother.

Oh.

Thank you.

Take care of yourself.

You, too.

NICK:
I go back

to school,

finish my undergraduate

degree, get my diploma.

I take a poetry workshop.

I work in Harlem and Crown Heights

and the South Bronx, teaching.

In some schools, half the kids

I work with live in shelters.

So, when Lucille Clifton says, "Her

eyes are animals," what is that?

STUDENTS:
An image.

An image.

Good, but what

kind of image?

STUDENTS:
A metaphor.

A metaphor.

And what do you think she is

trying to say about her eyes?

My father's letters

follow me.

JONATHAN:
Nicky Nu-nu,

you will be happy to know

my writing is doing

extraordinarily well.

Soon, very soon,

I shall be known.

NICK:
Within a year,

Jonathan qualifies for

an apartment, Section

Unbeknownst to me,

some strings have been

pulled by people I

once worked with.

JONATHAN:
Yeah?

It's Nick.

Nick who?

Nicky Nu-nu.

Oh.

Nicky Nu-nu.

Just want to

make sure it's you.

You never know what lurks

in this neighborhood.

How are you?

Shake my hand properly.

Give me a firm handshake.

That's better.

Don't break it.

You're dressed,

that's good.

Well, the place is nice.

JONATHAN:
Yeah.

This is my

little paradise.

My little oasis.

My little home away from

my little home.

Well, I'm impressed.

I'm very tranquil,

I'm peaceful...

NICK:
Pretty soon he launches into

a familiar flurry of hate speech.

...young girls being raped,

day and night,

by these bastards,

these pederasts,

these f***ing priests, these

cretins, these homos.

Believe me,

I know all about it.

I wasn't locked up in federal

prison with choirboys, kiddo.

Interstate transportation

of stolen securities,

that was the charge.

The checking business brought to

you by the great Dippity-Do Doyle.

If I didn't do what he said, he would

have killed you and your mother.

Believe me, kiddo.

I have trouble focusing,

I consider leaving quickly,

but I will myself to stay.

My job was to enter the banks

and open an account.

I was the only one

able to finesse my way in.

The secret? The secret?

Always go to

a female teller.

A black? Forget about the f***ing blacks.

Low f***ing morale.

Go to them? I couldn't get on f***ing

first base with a black teller.

It's early in the month, so he hasn't

gone through his disability check yet.

This means he

has been drinking.

...good Russian vodka.

Not that rotgut crap.

Want some?

Uh, no thanks.

New teeth?

Huh?

You got some new teeth.

Yep.

Courtesy of Uncle Sam.

Best dentist in the world.

Looks nice.

Here, I brought you something.

What the hell is this?

It's a book of poems.

Poems.

I wrote it.

Actually, it's

getting an award.

An award, from whom?

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