by John Niven
John Niven
* * *
The F*ck-it List
CONTENTS
America, 2026 ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Niven was born in Irvine, Ayrshire. He is the author of ten novels and has written for a wide range of publications, including a weekly column for the Scottish Sunday Mail. He lives in Buckinghamshire.
ALSO BY JOHN NIVEN
Music from Big Pink
Kill Your Friends
The Amateurs
The Second Coming
Cold Hands
Straight White Male
The Sunshine Cruise Company
No Good Deed
Kill ’Em All
To Stephanie
Heartfelt thanks to my oldest friend Allan Carruthers for coming up with the concept of The List. I hope this acknowledgement is enough to ensure my absence from his. Here’s to the next fifty years, AC.
America, 2026
* * *
ONE
‘… usually, everyone asks the same question.’
‘I see …’ Frank repeated.
This was not wholly unexpected. The dead and ruined ex-wives, the dead children. Some might say Frank Brill was an exceptionally unlucky man born at an especially unlucky juncture in history, a moment in the second half of the twentieth century where the America that had been, that could have been, was gone but still palpable. Like a kid staring at the aftermath of an iridescent soap-and-water bubble that had popped on the summer air, Frank could still feel the vapour, the sting, of the old America on his face. But still, here it was, the final insult. He almost felt like laughing, laughing at fate. Fuck me? No – fuck you.
A bright, cold November afternoon as Frank sat in the doctor’s office in silence. Not quite silence – there was the soft hum of the computer on the desk, reminding Frank of cost, of the meter running. He didn’t know the doctor well. Couldn’t even recall his name at this second, though Frank was old enough to remember a time when you would have been able to, back when doctors made house calls. ‘We’ll get Doc Wood to come take a look at you,’ his mom would have said. Nowadays, in America, the only way a doctor would come to your house was if you were rich or already dead. And Frank was neither. This guy’s practice had simply been on his HMO’s approved list and close to his home.
The doctor moved a piece of paper on his desk and looked at Frank again, waiting. Frank looked out of the window, at the little courtyard garden, all bare and denuded here in the Midwest. There was a magnolia tree, the buds at the ends of the branches tiny and dead-looking. Come the early spring, come March, they would be swelling, soon to burst out into creamy-white flowers. Frank knew this because he had one in his garden at home. Sometimes it blossomed as early as mid-March, sometimes not until the second week of April. There were probably reasons for this, to do with the weather, how cold the winter had been and so forth. He’d ask Alexa, when he got home. Still, at his age, how sad it was to see things grow and not know how or why. All the flowers and trees he could not name. Would now never be able to name. There was so much stuff he thought he’d get around to knowing, just through some kind of osmotic ageing process. (Osmotic sending him back to tenth-grade biology, him and Robbie M tearing it up at the back of the class. Robbie in his ‘Styx’ T-shirt.) Like about carpentry, or electrics. The things old guys seemed to know about when you were a kid. But Frank had somehow missed all that stuff and kids today didn’t seem to know it had existed. What was the thing his daughter had tried to get him to use? ‘Task’ something. Task Bunny?
‘OK,’ Frank said. ‘Thank you.’ He got up.
‘Ah, Mr Brill?’
Frank turning back, picking his overcoat up, already putting his tattered Colts baseball cap onto his head, covering his thinning grey hair. ‘Yeah?’
‘You must have some questions.’
‘Nope.’
‘We need to talk about treatment options.’
‘No.’ Frank sighed. ‘We don’t.’
The guy got up and came around the desk. He was young. Half Frank’s age. Something to do with a ship. Bow. Bowden. That was it. Frank had known a Lizzie Bowden once, back in high school. You live long enough and everything has a resonance, an antecedent. Her tits, heavy against his ribcage as they danced to that song together, at the end of the night, at that party. Eighteen years old. What was the song? A ballad. A slow, end-of-the-night number. But, wait, Bowden was speaking.
‘Look –’ coming towards Frank, laying a hand on his shoulder, nervously. The kid had done this before, but not many times. ‘Mr Brill, this reaction you’re having? The whole “I’m not going to do anything” thing? It’s much more common than you think. Most people, once they’ve got over the initial shock, once they talk it over with their loved ones, they realise it’s wise to look at all the options.’
Task Rabbit! That was the thing. On her phone.
‘I don’t have any loved ones, Doc.’
Frank said this without self-pity or anger. It was just a plain statement of fact. Good prose is like a windowpane. One of Orwell’s lines he’d always quoted to his junior reporters, urging them to keep it clean and clear.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bowden said.
Frank shrugged. What could you say? He wanted to make it a little easier for the guy. ‘Look, son, don’t worry about it. Shit happens.’ In truth Frank was now fighting back an emotion the young doctor would likely have struggled to understand.
‘Would you like the number of a counsellor? Someone to –’
‘No. Thank you.’ Frank tried to edge towards the door again.
‘Mr Brill, Frank, I think you’re in denial right now.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Why am I in denial?’
‘Because, well, usually, everyone asks the same question.’
‘You really want me to ask it, don’t you?’ Bowden just looked at him. Frank sighed again. ‘OK. I’ll play. Doc, how long have I got?’
‘Well.’ The kid swallowed. ‘It’s diff—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Frank said. ‘It’s difficult to say but it could be anything from X to Y depending on how aggressive it is and how much money we throw at it. Just … gimme a ballpark.’
‘Without treatment? Maybe three to six months.’
‘OK. I guess we’ll just have to play it as it lays.’
‘Play it as it lays?’
‘Not a golfer then?’
‘Every Time You Go Away’! That was it. It would have been, what? Senior year? 1984? Who the fuck sang that song?
And with that he was out through the reception area, past the concerned look of the receptionist, and into the cold wind of the parking lot.
Schilling, Indiana. Population 32,000.
The doctor’s office was in a small retail park on the outskirts of town, where most things were now. There was a lawyers’ (McRae, Dunbar & Wallace: ‘all pro-bono work considered’) and what used to be a real estate place, empty for a couple of years now, a sun-faded banner hanging down in its front win
dow: ‘IVANKA 2024! MAKE AMERICA GREATER!’ Just across the highway was a mini-mall: shoe store, nail salon, tanning place, an Olive Garden and a Subway, its foresty-green signage suggesting health food, which it probably was compared to the KFC next door, the one where Frank used to stop sometimes on his way home from work to pick up a bucket of chicken, back when he would have had use for a whole bucket. When there were other mouths. The passing traffic whooshed and churned the trash in the parking lot in front of the food places, paper napkins and cardboard boxes and soda cups and whatnot, chasing each other in dusty petrol fume circles. The newspaper’s office, its final office, had been just east of here, further along the I–22. Was it still unoccupied? Boarded up? Frank hadn’t driven by to check in months.
He stopped at the kerb to let a FedEx truck glide silently past him – electric, noiseless and driverless. The fucking things still freaked Frank out, Frank who clung to the old ways, who was even now fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Yeah, he guessed you couldn’t argue with the actuarial tables that showed how automated cars caused far fewer accidents than those driven by people. He understood the logic, looking at the FedEx vehicle now, beeping an electronic warning as it reversed slowly and carefully into a parking bay across the lot. The CPU in the driverless car didn’t speed because it was late, it didn’t run stop signs, it didn’t accelerate angrily behind other cars after they’d cut them up. The chips and sensors kept it in position on the road, within the speed limit and a safe distance from other vehicles. They were undoubtedly, provably, safer. Still, they freaked Frank out.
He sat down on a bench and watched the lunchtime traffic, his right foot thrumming up and down on the sidewalk. A drink, went the reflexive thought. I really want a drink. Just as reflexively Frank’s hand went into his pocket and he fingered the tiny plastic penguin. Thirteen years now. He breathed deeply for a moment or two and got past it. That emotion Frank had been fighting back? The one Dr Bowden would have struggled to understand? It was excitement. Because Frank had known for months he had cancer. The loss of appetite, the pains down there, the difficulties in the bathroom department. He’d been googling like a madman. Frank had always had an appetite for research and it had helped make him a good reporter. Just as, later, his organisational skills had helped make him a good editor. And, in the last few months, as he let the cancer grow inside him, welcoming it as you would an old, long-lost friend, he’d been using both of these skill sets, working tirelessly on the thing that had gradually grown into the stack of five files (pink, orange, green, yellow and red, ranked in order of imagined difficulty) that now sat on his dining-room table, next to his computer. And now, now that it was all nice and official, it was time to put that research and organisation into practice. Frank was sixty. He’d never been in trouble with the law his whole life. Still, the day was here. He was dying. And soon. It was official now:
Given everything he’d been through in the past few years, Frank was no stranger to suicidal thoughts. Thoughts? Hell, he’d been on the edge of bridges, in the bathtub with the whiskey and the razor blades, in the garage with the aluminum stepladder and the noose. He was no stranger to imagining what the last thing he’d see would be: the black water rushing up to meet him; the cork-tiled ceiling of the bathroom as the warm water turned scarlet around him in the tub; that can of old blue paint (the boy’s room) on the shelf next to his toolbox and the tyre chains, strobing in and out as he dangled, spinning in circles as blood filled his eyeballs. But he’d always been too chicken.
He wasn’t going to chicken out of this.
Frank had had three wives and two children.
He didn’t have any of them any more.
I don’t have any loved ones, Doc.
He just had The List.
TWO
‘It’s a good living, son. Clean.’
He’d become a newspaper man because of his old man, Frank Senior. His dad had been a typesetter, throwing hot metal down at the printing plant on Coolidge Street. (Condominiums now. Two bedrooms starting from $195,000. No deposit required.) Frank Sr had learned his trade there as a boy. Got his start in the summer of ’53, straight out of school. He’d been there thirty years by the time Frank was finishing high school and starting to look around for a job of his own. Frank had confided to his dad one night, out there on the porch with a couple of beers, at the old house on Hoover, that what he really wanted to do was become a writer. The old man had sucked his teeth and whistled. ‘Gee, Frankie. I don’t know. Seems like it might be tough to make money at that.’ His dad had always been impressed with the guys who came down from the paper to check the layouts. The subs and the editor, Arnie Walker, an ex-marine, an Ike clone who edited the Schilling Gazette for over thirty years – from ’46 to ’77 – when the paper was the ‘voice of the Tri-County area’ and its circulation was over 200,000. Old Arnie dropped dead of a heart attack at his desk, a pork tenderloin sandwich in one hand and a half-subbed piece about a proposal to build a new freeway through protected land in the other.
Arnie and his boys would come down to the printing plant and make corrections and amendments and laugh and joke with the typesetters. But they wore shirts and ties instead of blue overalls. And their hands and fingernails weren’t stained with thick black ink. And on Friday afternoons, after the Saturday paper – the last issue of the week – was put to bed, they’d all go over to Macy’s Bar & Grill, just up ahead of where Frank was making a right now, grumbling at the traffic. If he’d kept on he’d have passed it. It was still a bar. Had changed its name to Barcadia in the late eighties, then to something else. Frank couldn’t remember what it was called these days. At Macy’s they’d get stood drinks by Brock Schmidt, the owner of the Gazette. They loosened their ties and had their three-Martini lunch and laughed and joked and pissed and moaned and talked about who wrote good copy and who was screwing who and whatnot and Frank’s dad thought that looked like the good life right there all right. ‘That’s a way, you know. You could write and get paid to do it. It’s a good living, son. Clean. I could have a word with Mr Walker.’ Frank graduated high school in 1983 and strolled into the Gazette as an ‘office boy’, fetching coffee and sandwiches, running copy from one desk to another. Learning what made a good opening para. It was still a time of electric typewriters. Of double-spaced A4 marked up with blue pencil. Of linotype racked up by men with burned, calloused hands. Bottles of Scotch in the sub-editors drawers. But, within a few years, those small boxes the colour of cigarette smoke with a little Apple on them started appearing on the desks. You could typeset right there on the screen.
Frank took the freeway out of town, heading for the western suburbs. He turned the radio on and got a news report, something about Vice President Hannity causing offence at the UN, refusing to apologise for America’s policy in post-war Iran, where we were taking the oil. Reparations, how for every dead American troop we were going to take whatever. Frank punched the tuner and got the next station – Journey doing ‘Don’t Stop Believing’, a song that had come out when he was in high school, that he’d heard so often now that it was about as surprising and interesting as hearing a recording of his own name being repeated over and over. But he left it there.
By the nineties, by the time Frank was deputy editor, the sound of clacking plastic keys had replaced the metallic chatter of the big Smith-Coronas and Frank’s dad was out of the job he’d held for the duration of eight presidents.
Frank prospered though.
He had a good eye for a story, was diligent in his research and got along well with Mr Schmidt. He loved being part of a small band of men (and it was still all men back then) who were responsible for creating a newspaper out of nothing six days a week. He liked the pressure. Although some (his first wife Grace among them) would say that as he progressed up the ladder towards editor Frank acquired a hardness, a caustic veneer that came from an intelligent, sensitive man spending time with people tougher than him whose approval he sought. ‘Baloney,’ Frank says aloud now, j
ust thinking about that diagnosis, as he makes a left onto Harding, his street.
A lower-middle-class street in the Midwest, lined with American linden trees. Driveways leading off to homes built between the late forties and the late sixties. From the GI Bill to the moon landing. A street for families, where bikes were propped against front porches and plastic toys were scattered around front yards, the aftermaths of battles abandoned due to dinner, or TV. Where kids were halfway down the street before they heard the screen door slam behind them. Frank had bought the place with Pippa, his third, his final, wife seventeen years ago, back in early 2009. His timing was good – the market had crashed just as the ink dried on his divorce from his second wife, Cheryl, and the three-bed, two-bath home was a steal. His timing was good, but that was about all. It turned out that in the end Frank would only need one bedroom and one bathroom. Back towards the end of his drinking days he’d often roam the rest of the house, tumbler of Scotch or gin in hand as he looked into the redundant rooms – just storage spaces now, cardboard boxes and plastic bags – imagining all the life and activity that might have been played out in them, the laughter and arguments they might have seen.
Often, when he pulled up in front of the house in the late afternoon, back from whatever errand had constituted his activity for the day, Frank would sigh as he looked up at the place and contemplated the evening unspooling ahead of him, the same one he’d been having for years now: the early evening bustle around the kitchen, maybe steaming some green beans or broccoli to go with his meal-for-one, a kind of concession to health, a self-delusion that he was actually doing some cooking. Then the long stretch of mid-evening, channel-surfing, reading, as the street gradually darkened outside. Then the long, pointless chats with Alexa, the arguments with God, the raging at the world, all gradually subsiding as tiredness finally overtook him and he fell asleep in the Barcalounger in front of the TV, the barely touched meal-for-one (carbonara, meatloaf, fish-in-sauce) on the little table beside him, the novel he’d read several times before (Garp, Couples, The Sportswriter) in his lap, the movie he’d seen dozens of times (Jaws, Wall Street, Die Hard) fizzling in front of him in the dark room, the half-drunk cup of herbal tea falling with a muffled thunk Frank did not hear into the carpet. He’d awaken, startled, in the early hours, disoriented, realising he was alone in his living room, a bar of street light coming through the gap in the curtains. But, tonight, as he climbed out of the car, Frank felt optimistic, almost cheerful for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had work to do.
