Suttree

by Cormac McCarthy

Hey Suttree, they called. Goddamn, said J-Bone, surging from the bowels of the couch. He threw an arm around Suttree’s shoulders. Here’s my old buddy, he said. Where’s the whiskey? Give him a drink of that old crazy shit. How you doing, Jim? I’m doin everybody I can, where you been? Where’s the whiskey? Here ye go. Get ye a drink, Bud. What is it? Early Times. Best little old drink in the world. Get ye a drink, Sut. Suttree held it to the light. Small twigs, debris, matter, coiled in the oily liquid. He shook it. Smoke rose from the yellow floor of the bottle. Shit almighty, he said. Best little old drink in the world, sang out J-Bone. Have a drink, Bud. He unthreaded the cap, sniffed, shivered, drank. J-Bone hugged the drinking figure. Watch old Suttree take a drink, he called out. Suttree’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was holding the bottle out to whoever would take it. Goddamn. What is that shit? Early Times, called J-Bone. Best little old drink they is. Drink that and you wont feel a thing the next mornin. Or any morning. Whoo lord, give it here. Hello Early, come to your old daddy. Here, pour some of it in this cup and let me cut it with Coca-Cola. Cant do it, Bud. Why not? We done tried it. It eats the bottom out. Watch it Suttree. Dont spill none on your shoes.