My Friend Leonard Read online

  That’s a lot of fucking money, Leonard.

  Just smile and say thank you.

  I put the cash in my pocket.

  Thank you, Leonard.

  It’s good to have you, great to have you!

  I laugh.

  I need to go home.

  Hold on.

  He walks to a black town car sitting at the curb, knocks on the window.

  The window rolls down, he speaks to the driver, shakes his hand, turns to me.

  You have a ride.

  I walk to the car.

  Thanks for the game, dinner, the cash.

  That’s your signing bonus. You’re gonna earn it.

  I laugh.

  Yeah. Since I got you to quit, and take a real job, I’ll be leaving in the morning.

  Safe travels.

  Thank you.

  When do I start?

  Not sure. Somebody will come see you.

  And they’ll also tell me what I’m supposed to do?

  Yeah.

  Cool.

  See you soon, my son.

  Thanks for everything, Leonard.

  He nods. I get in the backseat of the car.

  I go home.

  My mother comes to visit me. My parents live in Tokyo and I don’t see them very often. They are responsible for getting me into the treatment center. I haven’t always liked them, and I have hurt them over and over and over through the course of my life, but they have always loved me. I am lucky to have them.

  My mother sees my apartment, laughs. She asks me where I sleep, where I sit, I tell her the floor. She shakes her head and says not good, James, not good. She calls someone in Michigan, which is where they used to live, they still have a house it sits empty now. She asks the person about furniture in storage, how easy is it to access, she asks if they can send me a bed and a desk and a table. She hangs up, says I’ll have a bed and a desk and a table in a few days.

  We go downtown. We walk down Michigan Avenue. My mother and father are both from suburban Chicago, met here, were married here. They didn’t have any money when they were married, they spent their honeymoon in a downtown hotel. As we walk, my mother points out restaurants they went to, parks where they sat, held hands, kissed, stores where they wandered, looking at things they couldn’t afford, hoping someday, someday. It’s nice to hear her memories, I like that she’s sharing them with me. It feels like a door opening, a door to her, to my father, to their life. It’s a door that I have never acknowledged before, a door that I’m happy to step through, a door I’m fortunate to have still be open.

  We go to lunch. A fancy place, a place my mother knows and loves, she tries to eat there every time she’s in town. We wait for a table, sit, napkins on lap, glasses of water. My Mom starts asking me questions. How are you doing, I’m okay. How are you feeling, depends, I go up and down, way up and way down, mostly I’m down. Is it hard staying sober, yeah it is, every second of every day is a struggle, I know I’ll die if I do it, sometimes I feel like I want to die. Do you need help, no, I’ll get through it, I gotta believe I’ll get through it. She asks about Lilly, I just shake my head. She asks what happened, I just shake my head, say it didn’t work out, I don’t want to talk about it, can’t talk about it. She says that’s too bad, I had hoped that would work out for you. I cannot respond.

  As we finish our meal, someone approaches our table. I vaguely recognize the person, but can’t place him.

  James?

  Yeah?

  David. From school.

  I still can’t place him, pretend.

  Yeah, how you doing?

  Good. What are you doing here?

  This is my Mom. We’re eating lunch.

  He looks at my mom.

  Nice to meet you.

  Mom speaks.

  You too.

  He looks back at me.

  I’m surprised to see you because I heard you were in prison. For popping some cop.

  My mom cringes.

  Where’d you hear that?

  I’m not sure.

  As you can see, I’m not.

  I guess. You living here now?

  Yeah.

  You wanna get together sometime?

  Sure.

  He reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet.

  You still partying?

  I shake my head.

  No.

  He takes a card from his wallet, hands it to me.

  If you ever get the urge, call me.

  Will do.

  See you later.

  Yeah.

  He walks away. I look at my mom. She speaks.

  I hope you never call him.

  I won’t.

  He seemed like an asshole.

  I laugh. My mom has never spoken like that around me. I have no idea who he is. I know I went to school with him, but other than that, nothing. Good. He’s an asshole. I laugh again. We finish, leave, walk some more. My mom shares more of her memories, I listen, walk further through the door. We see the hotel where they spent their wedding night, a pizza place that my grandfather loved, a department store where my grandmother liked to buy presents. We see a jersey from the Chicago hockey team. My parents went to one of the team’s games the night after they were married. They couldn’t afford to do anything else, it was a big evening for them.

  It starts to get dark, close to the time my mom will leave. Before she leaves, she wants to buy me some plates, forks, spoons, knives. Right now I use paper and plastic that I get from take-out restaurants. She thinks having normal possessions like plates, forks, spoons, knives will help normalize my existence, help me adjust more easily. We go to a store, look around, everything I like is black. My mom laughs, thinks it’s strange that I like black plates and black utensils. I tell her that as much as she wants me to normalize, there are some parts of me that will always be a bit off. She laughs. We get all of the beautiful, semi-normal, black items.

  We go back to my apartment. Put everything in the cabinets above my sink. My Mom has a car coming to pick her up, take her to the airport, she says she needs to go. I thank her for the day, a great day, probably the best day I have ever had with her. She smiles, starts to cry, she’s happy, happy I’m alive, happy I’m becoming human, happy we can spend a day together without screaming. I give her a hug, walk her out, open the car door for her. The car pulls away.

  I meet a man underneath the train tracks he calls himself a ragamuffin, the Ragamuffin King. He says he wanders the world looking for rags, beautiful rags, magnificent rags. I bow to him, the Ragamuffin King. I go to coffee with Mickey. I am the only straight man in the coffee shop. Mickey introduces me to his friends as his hetero buddy James. Mickey has a new boyfriend. An attorney who says he loves him, loves his paintings, wants him to do whatever he wants, just be happy. And he is, Mickey is happy.

  I meet a man at a bar while I’m waiting for my friends. He says he’s forty-five, he looks like he’s twenty-five I ask him if he has a secret he says never get angry and be as immature as you can for as long as you can get away with it. A man sitting next to him laughs and says that’s bullshit, the great secret is eat food and drink beer till you drop.

  I see an old friend. He and I used to drink together, do drugs together, deal drugs together. He cleaned up for a girl, a girl he lives with now, a girl he loves, a girl he wants to marry. We laugh about old times, good times, bad times, he got out before they got really bad. We go to a punk show at an old abandoned bowling alley. The band plays on one of the neglected lanes, they’re young and loud and they can’t play their instruments and the songs are awful and they look like they’re having a great time. We move into the pit, the fray, the moving circle of young angry men in black jackets and combat boots throwing elbows, high-stepping and slamming into each other. We get hit, we fall, get knocked around a bit. It’s fun every now and then, getting knocked around a bit.

  I meet a third man he’s an old man he trips in the street he falls and I help him up, walk him to the curb.
He shakes my hand says keep the faith, young man. I ask him what that means, he says keep running and don’t let them catch you.

  I sleep during the day. I still dream about drinking and drugs. Sometimes I wake to a hang-over, sometimes I wake to a trickle of blood from my nose, sometimes I wake scared and shaking.

  I read, go to museums and visit Lilly in the afternoon. Sometimes I read to her, sometimes I talk to her, sometimes I just sit and remember the times, remember the times, remember the times.

  I go out at night. Go to bars with my friends. I drink cola, smoke cigarettes, shoot pool, talk, sometimes don’t talk, just sit and watch. I start to laugh more and more easily, start to feel more comfortable.

  When the bars close, I walk, walk randomly through the empty city, walk among the buildings, through parks, along the lake. I sit on benches, the wind and cold hurt me, numb me, I stop feeling. There is peace in pain so overwhelming that it shuts down all feeling. It is the only peace I know.

  I go back to my apartment.

  Sleep.

  Dream.

  I t’s morning the phone rings. A man a voice I don’t know tells me to meet him at a local diner.

  I walk to the diner, sit in a booth, drink coffee, wait. A man walks into the diner he’s in his late-twenties, clean-shaven, dark hair, well-dressed, but not flashy, a gold watch. He stops in front of my booth, speaks.

  Your name James?

  Yeah.

  He sits down across from me.

  You got a good memory?

  Yeah.

  You better.

  Why?

  This is how it’s gonna work.

  He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small pager, pushes it across the table.

  Keep the pager on you at all times. You’ll get a page, call the number. Always use a payphone, don’t use the same one more than twice. When you call, you’ll speak to someone who will give you instructions. Never write those instructions down, keep absolutely no record of them. If you fuck them up, it’ll be your problem, so make sure you’ve got them before you hang up. When you do hang up, memorize the number on the pager, delete the number, follow the instructions. If you’re driving, drive three miles over the speed limit, never faster, never slower. Always check the car to make sure all of the lights are working. If you get pulled over, don’t say a fucking word. Ask for a lawyer and wait, tell the lawyer to get in touch with your friend Leonard. If the job goes well, and if you don’t fuck up, when the job is done, call the original number to confirm. If you ever get a page that says 911, immediately stop whatever you’re doing. Take whatever you’re moving and put it in a safe place that is not your home. If it’s a car, put it in a secure lot. If you get a page that says 411, stop whatever you’re doing and wait for further instructions. Any questions?

  No.

  Do you want me to repeat what I just told you?

  No.

  Have a nice day.

  The man stands and leaves. I order more coffee, some eggs, bacon and toast. I smoke a cigarette, read the paper, wait for the food. It arrives, I start eating, the pager goes off, two loud piercing beeps, two more, two more. I stand pick up the pager, walk to a payphone in the back of the diner. I drop in my coins, dial the number, there’s a male voice after one ring.

  Hello.

  I got paged.

  First timer.

  Yeah.

  You got a pen?

  No, no pen.

  Good. Good memory?

  Yeah.

  You better.

  Voice gives me an address in a nearby suburb. Tells me to knock on the door, I will be handed a suitcase. Put the suitcase in the trunk of a white car sitting in the driveway, the keys are under the driver’s side floormat. I am given a second address, which is in Milwaukee. Drive the car to the Milwaukee address, remove the suitcase from the trunk. Knock on the door, ask for a man named Paul, give him the suitcase, don’t give it to anyone else, Paul is waiting for it. Drive the car back to the suburban Chicago address, leave it in the driveway, keys under the mat. Call to confirm. I have the voice repeat both addresses. He asks me if I need them again, I tell him no, I got it. He says good, hangs up on me. I hang up, return to my booth, finish my breakfast, leave.

  I take a commuter train north into the moneyed suburbs of Chicago. It’s late morning, the train is almost empty. I’m nervous. My heart is racing, hands slightly shaking. I stare out the window, try to take deep breaths, try to stay calm. The few other passengers I see all look like FBI agents, middle-aged men in dark suits, and they all appear to be glancing at me, watching me. I tell myself that’s bullshit, that I’m being paranoid, that nobody here gives a shit why I’m on this train, but I don’t feel any better. Arrest scenarios roll through my mind I can see the cuffs, feel them on my skin, hear the cop reciting Miranda, smell the back of the car, feel a slight breeze as the door slams shut. I can imagine sitting with a lawyer, discussing my case, debating the merits of a plea agreement, trying to figure out ways to bring my sentence down. I can remember being processed, putting my few meager belongings into an envelope, changing into a jumpsuit, donning shackles, rambling down concrete and steel halls. My cell awaits me. I’m fucking nervous.

  The train arrives at my stop, I get off, there are a couple of cabs waiting, I get inside one of them, give the cabbie the street name, he drives. We move through quiet neighborhoods full of large houses with wide lawns, manicured bushes, alarm system signs, foreign cars in the driveway.

  I have him drop me on a corner. I start looking at the tastefully mounted numbers on porches and doors. I find my way to a large stone house with a white car in the driveway. I walk to the door, knock, wait, my heart is pounding. The door opens it’s a middle-age man wearing silk pajamas. He does have a suitcase. He speaks.

  Can I help you?

  I’m here to pick something up.

  What?

  I wasn’t told what.

  You sure you got the right address?

  My hands start shaking.

  Yeah I’m sure.

  I start to panic.

  I don’t think you do.

  Panic.

  This is the address I was given.

  Panic.

  By who?

  I’m not at liberty to say.

  This sounds awfully strange. You come to my door to pick something up, but you don’t know what it is, and you won’t tell me who sent you?

  I’m just following directions.

  Do you want me to call the police?

  No sir.

  They come quick in this town.

  There’s no need to call the police, sir. I must have made a mistake. I’ll leave.

  I turn, start walking away, can’t run too obvious, I’ve got to get out of here now, how the fuck did I fuck this up, I’ve got to get out of here now now now.

  Kid.

  I stop turn around.

  I’m just fucking with you. I heard you were new and thought I’d have some fun.

  I smile, not because I think it’s funny, if I could I’d hit this motherfucker, but because I’m relieved, and the smile is a nervous reaction. I walk back to the door. The man reaches behind and sets a battered brown suitcase in front of me.

  You scared the shit out of me.

  I couldn’t tell.

  You did.

  You handled yourself well, stayed cool, no panic. If this ever happens for real, do exactly the same thing.

  I hope it never happens.

  Don’t fuck up and it won’t.

  I pick up the suitcase.

  Have a nice day.

  You too.

  I turn, walk toward the car. The suitcase is heavy, heavier than I expected, fifty pounds, maybe sixty. I hear the man shut the door behind me, I open the driver’s door of the car, reach under the mat for the keys, find them. I put the suitcase in the trunk, get behind the wheel. As I pull out of the driveway I see the man is standing at one of his windows. He’s smiling, waving at me.

  I know the highw
ay is to the west I start driving west. I take the map out of the glove compartment, look at it. Interstate 94 takes me straight up, if I keep going where I’m going I’ll run into it. I set down the map, light a cigarette, settle in for the ride.

  The ride is easy, boring. I smoke cigarettes, listen to the radio, occasionally sing along to a cheesy love song or a heavy metal power ballad or one of the many classic rock anthems. I try to find a station that plays punk, so I can yell and scream and shout obscenities, but I can’t find one. Every fifteen minutes or so, I shout obscenities anyway.

  I see Milwaukee in the distance. It’s a small city, an old city, one that hasn’t experienced any form of renewal. When I was a kid I used to watch a TV show about two women who worked in a beer factory in Milwaukee, aside from that I don’t know shit about it.

  I pull off the highway, look for a gas station. I pull in, ask for directions get them, start driving again, find the address, it is another beautiful neighborhood huge houses sitting along the coast of Lake Michigan. I pull into a long driveway. A row of hedges runs along one side of it, a yard the size of a football field runs along the other side. A massive stone house sits at the end, it looks like it belongs in England, Ireland or Scotland, not Milwaukee. I stop in front of it, get out of the car, get the suitcase, carry it to the front door. I knock and wait. I hear someone behind the door, the door cracks open, I hear a voice.

  I’m Paul.

  I cannot see a person.

  Leave the case and get out of here.

  I set the suitcase on the step. Paul tosses an envelope out, it lands at my feet. I pick it up, look inside it’s filled with cash, I leave. The drive back to Chicago is simple, just smoke and listen to tunes and swear. I put the car back in the driveway, take the train back to the city. On the way back to my apartment, I stop at a payphone, call the original number on the pager, confirm delivery.

  I ’m shooting pool for money. Playing against a guy named Tony I’ve played him before I lose to him every single time. I’m in good shape this time, shooting at the eight ball, he’s got three to go.