David Nutt - The Great American Suction

Additional Praise for
The Great American Suction

In David Nutts luminous debut novel, the perennially put-upon protagonists existence consists of a daisy chain of half-baked calamities. A brain-damaged post-postmodern anti-hero, Shakers a not-so-innocent Josef K. for the culture that births precocious meth chefs and celebrity impersonator wannabes. Dystopian, and by that, I mean contemporary, this debut ratchets up the possibilities of prose with its stylistic virtuosity while laying bare the toxic underbelly of the garbage art crowd. If youre a fan of David Ohles Motorman or Sam Lipsytes Venus Drive, The Great American Suction awaits you.

Christopher Kennedy,

author of Clues from the Animal Kingdom

and Ennui Prophet

Tyrant Books

Via Piagge Marine 23

Sezze (LT) 04018

Italy

www.NYTyrant.com

ISBN: 978-0-9992186-3-1

Copyright 2018 David Nutt

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental.

First Edition

Book design by Adam Robinson

Cover design by Brent Bates

The Great
American Suction

David Nutt

For loved ones lost and living, strangers, enablers, foes, and friends.

But mostly, mostly for Gina.

Contents

PART ONE

Morning has broken on Shakers pale sliver of the republic. He holds himself upright on the riding mower, his feet slotted in stirrups, racing the machine in wide swaths around the yard. His hair is blasted up, and his face feels rubbery in the hard wind. And the noise. All this machinery roaring into him. The rest of the yard crew is sculpting the topiary at a leisurely pace. The houses in this neighborhood are not upscale, but neither are they slums. Their windows are full of peopleslurry shapes of them, whole congregationswatching Shaker and his cohort beautify their property for an insufficient wage. After completing each circuit, Shaker salutes the windows, but nobody ever salutes back. Hes wearing rounded, black sunglasses and a seasonal tan. When late autumn arrives and the grass stalls and the foliage is raked up and bagged and deported, Shaker will be unemployed until springtime. Hes in hoarding mode now. It makes him strangely reckless. Shaker is saluting every man, oak, pillar, and shrub on site.

The cohort takes their lunch on the driveways sunbaked blacktop, standing against the company truck like homeless men in a police lineup. Shakers ears are ringing so loudly he cant understand his coworkers conversation. He hears only mumbles and thrum but nods politely along. Finishing his tuna fish early, he kicks into the stirrups and waits there, patient, stationary in his machine, an orange pair of gun-range earmuffs clamped on his head, which continues nodding, still nodding, always nodding.

*

The Yarn Barn is not such a nuisance to Shaker. His only protest is there isnt much barn in its appearance. And yet, Darb stands in front of the strip mall on his court-designated, three-foot-wide allotment of pitted sidewalk, the signboard leaned on his hip. Shaker has to tip his head sideways and squint to read this one. Unravel the Yarn Barn Conspiracy is inscribed in purple sharpie and shoe polish. Darbs knotty fingers and the groin of his jumpsuit are likewise blotched. Shaker itches his own chin stubble. He tries to nod intelligently. His cousin nods back at him while sipping something cranberry-colored from a crumple of Styrofoam. The sidewalk area around him is inundated, all variety of litter.

Its a reverse drive-thru, Darb says. They throw it at me, I abide. Just this morning, I got half a muffin sandwich, three French fry, and a melted Bomb Pop. They think theyre being uncivil, but Im flattered. Dumb shits.

Shaker swivels his head, but there is no one else on the premises. Only his cousin, teasing out a long tangle of ear fuzz, adding, Our kind is not to be trifled with.

Shaker nods at this, stretching a leg that knocks over Darbs sign.

Dont do that.

I had a dream last night, Shaker says.

How romantic.

The dream was that I didnt recognize myself.

No? Darb asks, only half-listening.

Like someone had glued another mans face atop my face. Kinda freaky.

Shaker shrugs and shuffles in place. He realizes hes still pawing his chin.

Lets get uncorked, Shaker says.

You treating?

I am not.

My funds are slumped. All my shoe polish is gone.

I see that.

Among the detritus at Darbs feet is a selection of empty cat food tins. Darbs mouth is stained a mild brown. He follows Shakers gaze and grins. Poppin em open is like pulling a grenade pin. I use my teeth, heave em overhand after Im sated.

Sounds dubious, says Shaker.

I got a whole coupon book.

Can we get any beers with it?

Its feeling more like a whipped cream afternoon. Suck aerosol and murder some brain cells. Relive our younger days.

Shaker chews his cheek. My pantry has been bare a long time.

I aint even got a pantry.

Doris? Shaker asks.

Think Im allowed back in?

Maybe if you keep on your belly and try not to upset the furniture.

I can do that, all of that.

Doris, Shaker repeats, verifying his contribution to the days agenda.

Darb offers him the last of the cranberry and fetches his signage from the dirt. My baby, he whispers, brushing the sign until it is clean.

The cousins carry themselves against the loud tide of traffic to Doriss meticulously maintained A-frame, which seems a direct reproach to the shoddiness her neighbors are cultivating in aluminum and junk. A longtime widow, Doris doesnt stray much from the house anymore. But she lets all sorts of stray men inside. Ten years of sordid rumor and the woman has relaxed into the gothic reputation. She is sitting on the parlor room futon in only a towel and hair rollers, her bangs pinned up from the cream on her face, tiny blooms of cotton swab partitioning her toes.

Please and thank you, Darb says, entering without a knock. Shaker follows him into the fog of toenail varnish, ammonia odors. We have come to be creamed and whipped.

Batten the hatches and nail down the credenza, Doris replies.

Thats a hot look youre wearing.

Some men could love it.

Imagine, Darb grunts, down on his knees and pillaging the mini-fridge.

Shaker, says Doris.

Maam?

You are the gentleman your cousin will never allow himself to be trained to be.

That makes him sound like a circus bear.

Whats so wrong with that?

Look at the steep recession of that hair. He cant be a bear if hes bald.

Doris rolls her eyes. Is that what passes for wit on your end of the island?

What island?

Dont be a rube.

Maybe Im a rube, Shaker shrugs.

My god, there isnt much wet gray stuff left between your ears, is there? Maybe thats what makes you such a gentleman.

Im not so gentle, Shaker mumbles.

A torrid love affair might change that.

She means fornication, Darb says, head in the fridge.

Please dont be despicable, darling.

Im not easily romanced, either, says Shaker as he envisions his seduction: nude and unshaven on a motel bed, in the final throes of heart failure, a fit of stroke, while the maid staff gathers around the mattress debating how best to change the sheets.

I guess not, Doris sighs. You emanate that middling vibe no sane woman wants to mingle her chromosomes with.