My Friend Leonard Page 15

  Stay here, have a good night. I need to be alone.

  I lean over, kiss her goodbye, walk out of the bar. I start walking down the street. I want to calm down. I want this Fury to leave me. I want to feel safe, I want the urges to go away. This shouldn’t be so difficult this shouldn’t be bothering me. I know my problems are nothing. I know I have been through worse, seen worse, felt worse. I know my problems are minuscule and pathetic compared to other problems in the World. I know I should get the fuck over them and deal. Knowing, however, doesn’t make a difference. If anything, knowing just makes me feel stupid, feel weak, feel worse.

  I walk for hours, for the rest of the night. I walk and I look and I don’t find anything no answers nothing. I’m the same person feel the same as when I walked out of the bar. I don’t want to admit it but I know I can’t go on I’m not ready to be with anyone but myself. She could hurt me. I am protective of her, feelings that strong are dangerous for me. I’m scared. I go to her apartment I say hello to the doorman he knows me now I go upstairs knock on her door. It’s nine in the morning she should be up she answers the door in her pajamas. She smiles, speaks.

  You don’t look so good.

  I’m not.

  She invites me inside I walk into her apartment. I walk into her living room sit down on her couch, she walks into the kitchen.

  You want a cup of coffee?

  Sure.

  She pours two cups, puts some milk in her cup, walks in the living room.

  She hands me one of the cups, sits down next to me. She kisses me on the cheek, pulls back.

  You look sad.

  I shrug.

  What’s wrong?

  I look down, shake my head. I hate myself, hate my weakness, hate that I can’t go on. She puts her hand on my hand.

  What’s wrong?

  I look up, shake my head, bite my lip. She watches me for a moment, reaches for her cigarettes.

  You want a smoke?

  I nod. She hands me a cigarette, lights it, lights one for herself, looks at me.

  You can’t go on, can you?

  No.

  Why?

  I just can’t.

  Did I do something?

  I shake my head, bite my lip. I don’t want to cry.

  Then what’s wrong?

  I’m just fucked-up. Confused and scared and fucked-up.

  A tear starts rolling down one of my cheeks.

  It doesn’t have anything to do with you.

  Both cheeks.

  And I wish it wasn’t this way.

  Tears down both cheeks she nods, leans forward, puts her arms around me, speaks.

  I thought this might happen. I could see you hurting all the time and wanted to do something for you. I don’t know what happened to you before, but I’m sorry, and I hope you can get over it, and if you need a friend, you know where I am.

  I let her hold me and I cry. I’m sick of fucking crying there has been too much in the last year too much. I’m sick of crying. Brooke holds me and lets me and even though nothing is right and I hate myself for leaving her I feel okay because she’s holding me.

  I cry.

  I’m so fucking sick of it.

  I cry.

  I find Leonard’s card five names five numbers I start at the top pick up my phone dial the first number it rings rings rings a voice.

  Yeah?

  Mr. Sinatra available?

  No.

  Voice hangs up the phone I dial the next number. Ring ring a voice.

  Hello?

  Mr. Kennedy available?

  No.

  Next number.

  Mr. Bob Hope please?

  He’s not here.

  Next number.

  Joe DiMaggio around?

  Nope.

  Final number.

  May I speak to Leonard?

  Who’s this?

  James.

  He’s not here. You want to leave a message?

  Tell him I called.

  Will do.

  Thanks.

  I hang up. Five minutes later my phone rings. I pick it up.

  Hello?

  My son, you called.

  Yeah.

  What’s wrong?

  Nothing. I want to go back to work.

  Why?

  I just do.

  You left her, didn’t you?

  Why do you think that?

  I can hear it.

  Yeah, I left her.

  I’m sorry.

  Shit happens.

  Don’t try to be cool with me. You’re upset. I can hear it in your voice.

  You’re right, I am upset. Nothing to do but move on, try to keep myself occupied. That’s why I want to work.

  I’ll see what we got, maybe try to come visit later this week. Cheer your ass up.

  That would be cool.

  You need anything?

  What I need I can’t have.

  That’s the fucking truth. Keep away.

  Call me if you’re coming.

  I will.

  Thanks, Leonard.

  Goodbye, my son.

  I hang up.

  What I need I can’t have. I drink coffee smoke cigarettes read the Tao go for long walks wander the galleries of the art museum talk to Lilly don’t sleep. Time moves slowly. What I need I can’t have. I want to stay occupied. I wait for the phone to ring.

  Knock on my door. It’s around noon I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling I get up knock again I stand in front of the door.

  Who is it?

  I hear Leonard’s voice.

  Mr. Happy and his Cheer Squad.

  I laugh, open the door. Leonard and the Snapper walk into my apartment. I speak.

  This is a surprise.

  Leonard speaks.

  We got some business in New York. We set up our travel schedule so we have an eight-hour lay-over.

  I look at Snapper.

  How you doing, Snap?

  I’m the fucking Cheer Squad. Nothing better than that.

  I laugh again. Leonard speaks.

  Throw on some nice clothes and grab your credit card, we have an appointment.

  Where?

  Surprise.

  What are we doing?

  Bringing some beauty to your life.

  What’s that mean?

  It means throw on some nice clothes and grab your credit card, we have an appointment.

  I need to take a shower.

  Fine. We’ll wait.

  I go into the bathroom, take a quick shower, go to my room, put on my nice clothes, Leonard and the Snapper and I leave. We walk to the curb get into a large white Benz start driving downtown. Leonard asks me if I’m hungry I say no, he says he’s hungry we stop at a small restaurant he eats a green salad. He finishes the salad we get back into the car drive into the gallery district of Chicago park the car on the street get out of the car start walking down the street. Leonard speaks.

  Do you know what happened to this neighborhood a couple years ago?

  I have no idea.

  The art market crashed and it, like every gallery district in the country, got fucking crushed. Do you know what that means for us?

  I have no idea.

  It means most of these galleries are on the verge of bankruptcy and they’re desperate to sell their inventories and they’re willing to make very, very, very good fucking deals. Do you know why we’re here?

  To buy art?

  More specifically.

  I don’t know.

  We’re here to find you a Picasso.

  You’re kidding me.

  Leonard looks at Snapper.

  Am I kidding him?

  Snapper looks at me.

  He ain’t fucking kidding you.

  I look at Leonard.

  I can’t afford a Picasso.

  You can’t afford a painting. You can’t afford a large drawing or an important drawing, but you can most likely afford something small.

  Snapper speaks.

  P
icasso’s work is surprisingly affordable.

  Leonard speaks.

  Snap has a couple of his own.

  Snapper speaks.

  I have a nice crayon drawing of a woman’s head and a pencil drawing of a dove.

  Leonard speaks.

  And he got ’em cheap because dealers need to sell.

  We stop in front of a building. Leonard speaks.

  I did some research before we arrived. There’s a place in here. High-end, but not super high-end. They have nice pieces in stock and they’re in a deep, deep financial hole.

  He opens the door and we step into the building. The gallery is on the second floor, we walk up a flight of stairs. Snapper opens a polished steel door we step into a large open room with white walls a gray wood floor and a lofted ceiling. Art hangs on the walls, some pieces are large abstract colorful some are small simple drawings, some are minimal monotone panels. In the back corner of the room there is a reception desk, behind it a door that leads into an office. Leonard looks at me, speaks.

  Let’s go back there.

  We walk toward the office. As we approach it, an attractive woman in her late thirties steps out. She has short black hair, wears deep red lipstick, a black suit. She smiles.

  May I help you?

  Leonard speaks.

  We’re looking for Picasso drawings.

  I have a few.

  We’d like to see them.

  Come with me.

  We walk through the door into a small room. There is a large cabinet against one wall, the drawers are labeled with artists’ names, a couple of small framed drawings sit on top of it. There are two chairs against another wall, a door against a third. The woman speaks.

  Have a seat, I’ll be right back.

  Snapper offers us the chairs we sit. The woman walks through the door, quietly closes it behind her. I look at Leonard, speak.

  This is fucking weird.

  He laughs.

  Why do you think it’s weird?

  The idea that I might be going home with a Picasso is just weird.

  Get over it.

  I laugh.

  What do I do with it when I get home?

  You put it on your fucking wall, what do you think you do?

  What if someone steals it?

  Leonard looks at Snapper.

  Snapper?

  Snapper looks at me.

  You find ’em and you fucking shoot ’em.

  I laugh. The woman opens the door. She steps into the room with one small drawing, probably eight by ten, and a slightly larger one, probably ten by twelve. She moves the drawings currently on the cabinet and replaces them with the new ones. We stand and look at them.

  Leonard speaks.

  If what you see doesn’t move you, make you smile, make you happy, make you feel something, then fuck it, don’t buy it.

  I laugh. The woman laughs. I look back at the drawings. The woman speaks.

  You feel anything?

  I shake my head.

  No.

  I have more.

  She picks up the drawings, leaves, comes back a few moments later with two more. I look at them feel nothing she leaves brings back two more nothing two more. I like one of them. It’s two pieces of paper set on top of each other, a smiling male face is simply drawn in blue crayon across both of them. The word papiers is scrawled in gray pencil across the top of the lower piece of paper, the word colles is scrawled along the bottom of the top piece of paper. A large star, also in gray pencil, is haphazardly drawn over both pieces and the blue face, Picasso signed his name in large letters along the bottom. The work is about fourteen inches wide and twenty-eight inches tall, and it is housed in an old, ornate, black, carved-wood frame. I look at it and it makes me smile. I imagine Picasso sitting in a messy studio somewhere in France, I imagine him making it while he was bored, I imagine him sticking it in a drawer and forgetting about it. Maybe he gave it away, maybe he sold it when he needed some money, maybe someone found it after he died, I don’t know how it ended up here, in this gallery in Chicago, but I look at it and it makes me smile and I know it’s going home with me.

  I ask the woman how much she tells me, Leonard says no way, that’s above-market and he gives her a number. She responds they go back and forth back and forth until they arrive at an agreeable price. They look at me I smile and say okay.

  I give the woman my credit card she says she prefers checks. I say I prefer credit cards she says okay she rings it up. I sign the slip. She asks me if I’d like it delivered, I say no I’ll take it with me.

  I pick it up, take it off the cabinet. Leonard and Snapper and I thank the woman and we walk out of the gallery. I carry the Picasso under my arm. I smile as I walk I have a Picasso under my arm I think it’s completely ridiculous. Leonard looks at me, smiles, speaks.

  You look good with that thing.

  I laugh. He looks at Snapper, speaks.

  He looks good with it, doesn’t he?

  Snapper speaks.

  It really fits him.

  Maybe he should come back tomorrow and buy another one.

  Why not? You only live once.

  That is certainly the truth. You only live once, buy Picassos whenever possible.

  We laugh, walk down the street back to the Mercedes, get inside, pull away. We drive back to my apartment. Leonard says they have to get to the airport, they have a flight in a few hours. I say thank you for stopping it has been a great day. Leonard says no problem, we’ll be back soon.

  I get out of the car, they pull away. I walk into my apartment. I don’t have a hammer or a nail so I lean my Picasso against the wall near my bed. I laugh every time I see it.

  Spring becomes Summer.

  I talk to Lilly. Sometimes I read to her, sometimes I just sit with her.

  I go to St. Louis.

  Milwaukee.

  North side, South side. Northside. Southside.

  I go out every night. I go to bars with my friends. I smoke play pool watch my friends get drunk. I stay out late I still can’t sleep when the bars close I walk through dark, silent, empty streets. I walk until it starts to become light. I sit by the lake and I watch the sun rise.

  I sleep during the day, a few hours a day.

  I read, look at art.

  I go to Detroit.

  Rockford.

  Gary, Indiana.

  I decide I want to write something. I have no idea what, I don’t really care, I just want to try. I buy a computer. I sit down in front of it and stare at the screen. I open a word-processing document and with two fingers I type—What are you staring at dumbass?—over and over and over again.

  A woman stops me on the street and she says you won’t always feel this way. I ask her what she means and she says I can smell your pain, I can smell it. I’m not sure if she’s a genius or a lunatic. I turn and quickly walk away.

  I see someone I used to know, someone I haven’t seen for a few years. He sees me smiles walks over and says how’s your fucking drinking problem, Frey? I say it’s good, how’s your drinking problem? He says he’s broke and unemployed and it sucks, but it allows him to go out every night. I give him ten bucks, say have one on me, old friend, have one on me.

  I go to Milwaukee again.

  Rockford twice.

  Minneapolis/St. Paul.

  I’m still too thin, I go on a special diet. I eat all of my meals at either The Weiner Circle, Taco/Burrito Palace #2, or The Olympic Gyro House. I only order items with red meat, I always order extra red meat, with most things I also order extra cheese.

  A man offers to sell me a six pack of whoop-ass and a bottle of I know you can. I ask him how much? He says you ain’t got enough, mother-fucker, but I bet you can afford some of that lonely shit.

  I visit Lilly. Sometimes I read to her, sometimes I speak to her, sometimes I just sit with her.

  Summer becomes Fall.

  I had my last drink one year ago, exactly one year ago. I took my last hit from a pipe one year an
d two days ago.

  I am on the train going to the Northern suburbs. I have been to the house before. It is the house where I did my first pick-up, where the strange man in silk pajamas played a joke on me. I’ve been here three or four other times, each time someone different came to the door. I am supposed to get a briefcase and take it to the South side of the city.

  It is late morning. The train is almost empty. I sit alone reading, occasionally glancing out the window, the sky is gray, the leaves have turned, they are starting to fall. It is starting to get cold.

  I get off the train take a cab. I remember how to get there. I see the house large gray stone. I walk to the front door, knock, no one comes, I knock again, hear shuffling feet heavy breathing. I wait. The feet stop shuffling I still hear breathing. I knock again the door opens it’s the pajama man again. He’s wearing a pair of dirty white underwear briefs and a dirty white t-shirt, there are deep dark circles beneath his eyes. His nose is running and he’s shaking and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a long time. He is holding a nine millimeter pistol in one of his hands and he is pointing it at my face.

  What do you want?

  I am shocked terrified can’t speak.

  Who sent you here?

  I don’t want to die I immediately start shaking.

  WHO SENT YOU HERE?

  The black hole of the barrel is an inch from my face I can smell the metal. I don’t want to die I can’t breathe move speak I don’t want to die I’m frozen.

  MOTHERFUCKER.

  The man cocks the gun.

  WHO THE FUCK SENT YOU HERE?

  I don’t want to die I piss myself. Urine runs down my leg, into my shoes, it keeps coming my bladder is done.

  WHO?

  He shakes the pistol fuck fuck fuck.

  SENT YOU?

  I don’t want to die he shakes the pistol fuck me.

  MOTHERFUCKER?

  I’ve got to get away move move move if I don’t get away I’m going to die. I take a small step back. The man stares at me, the pistol is still aimed at my face. I take another small step I am so scared I don’t want to die please please please. I take another step the man stares at me his finger is on the trigger please.

  LEONARD SEND YOU?

  Please another step please don’t shoot me please.

  LEONARD SEND YOU?

  Another step don’t shoot me please.

  LEONARD SEND YOU?