My Friend Leonard Read online

  Doesn’t matter where I am I just need to fucking scream. It makes me feel better.

  My life is a simple routine.

  Boss calls me into his office. I sit across from him. He speaks.

  I need a doorman. Nobody else wants to do it. You interested?

  Why won’t anyone do it?

  It’s the late shift, nine to four. You gotta stand outside the whole time. The bar is on Chicago Ave., which is really fucking cold and windy, and you’re gonna freeze your ass off. I’d need you Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights. Those are the slow nights. The bartender and waitress are supposed to give you ten percent of their tips, but they don’t make shit those nights, so you probably won’t get shit. I’ll give you a twenty-five cent raise, but it probably won’t make up for it.

  Sounds great.

  I don’t got time for fucking jokes.

  I’m not joking. I’ll do it.

  He looks at me for a moment.

  You start Sunday. Get there at eight, ask for Ted. He’s the bartender, he’ll tell you what to do.

  I have a question.

  What?

  Is this a promotion?

  What kind of question is that?

  I’ve never gotten a promotion before. I’m wondering if I could consider this one.

  Consider it whatever the fuck you want. Just show up at eight.

  Thank you.

  I stand, leave, start walking home. I smile for most of the walk, occasionally skip a few steps, occasionally snap my fingers. I have been fired from every job I’ve had in my life. There was usually yelling and screaming involved in my firings, always bad feelings on my employer’s side, not one would give me a positive reference. Boss told me to consider my change of position whatever the fuck I want, I’m going to consider it a promotion, the first one of my life. I might not feel like it most of the time, I may be carrying around unbearable urges to drink and do drugs, I may be depressed and sometimes suicidal, I may be feeling a sense of sorrow and loss greater and more profound than any other I’ve felt in a life filled with sorrow and loss, but I’m getting better. I got a motherfucking promotion, goddamnit. It’s time to celebrate.

  I take a long, nonsensical route home. I weave through the wealthy neighborhoods of the North Side of Chicago. I walk past fancy stores, past clothing stores furniture stores I could give a fuck about clothes or furniture, past bookstores and art galleries I walk through them looking at beautiful things I can’t afford, I look at the windows of real estate offices, they have listings hanging in silver frames greystone brownstone turn of the century rowhouse an excellent value. It’s gonna go fast. I walk up and down the aisles of a gourmet grocery. I look at fruit and vegetables crisp and nearly ripe smells like a summer garden under fluorescent lights. I go to the cheese department cheddar Swiss mozzarella provolone Gruyère blue Brie feta cow milk goat milk semi-soft extra creamy crumbly mild stinky. I look at fish, pasta, tea that costs forty dollars an ounce, fish, eggs that cost two hundred, beef raised on beer at three hundred and twenty dollars a pound, they have twelve types of whipped cream forty types of coffee fifty different brands of chocolate, flowers that cost more than I make in a week. The colors the smells they make me delirious make me want to eat until I explode make me salivate drool my head spins my sight blurs.

  I walk to the bakery section. I look at pastries and cakes, tarts and pies. My body craves sugar, always craves sugar. Years of alcoholism and the high level of sugar in alcohol created the craving, which I feed with candy and soda. I check my pocket, I have twenty-two dollars on me. I have twenty or so more dollars in my apartment. The cakes have the most sugar, sugar in the cake itself and sugar in the frosting. They come in two sizes large and small, they come in four types chocolate with chocolate frosting chocolate with white frosting white cake with chocolate frosting white cake with white frosting. I would like to buy one of each type in both the large and small sizes. I would have them put in nice white cake boxes and have the boxes closed with finely tied and looped string. It would be a struggle carrying so many boxes home, but I would persevere. At home I would open the boxes one at time and work my way through all eight cakes systematically, starting with the small ones and finishing with the large ones. I would forgo fork and knife and eat with my hands, licking my fingers and my lips along the way. Once I was done, I would most likely either vomit due to excess, which I have done many times in my life, or spend several hours in some sort of sugar-induced mania, maybe pacing in circles, maybe walking endlessly around my block, maybe babbling idiotically at random strangers on the street. Eventually I would shut down and sleep, happy and full, every cell of my body saturated with sugar, cake and frosting.

  A woman in a white baker’s outfit steps to the counter opposite me.

  May I help you?

  How much are the cakes?

  Which ones?

  I point to the cakes.

  The birthday cakes.

  The small ones are fourteen dollars, the large ones are twenty-one.

  Large please. White cake with white frosting.

  Do you want me to put an inscription on it?

  Does it cost extra?

  Nope.

  Yeah, I would like an inscription.

  What would you like it to say?

  I think for a moment.

  How about—Big Promotion, Jimbo!

  She laughs.

  Who’s Jimbo?

  Me.

  What kind of promotion?

  I work at a bar downtown. Got promoted from cleaning crew to doorman.

  Congratulations.

  In a couple years I’m going to be President of the United States.

  She laughs, opens the cabinet, reaches for my cake.

  I’ll be right back, Mr. President.

  I will be anxiously awaiting your return.

  She laughs again, turns around, puts the cake in a box and ties the box with a finely tied loop, hands it to me. I thank her and I go to the check-out line and I pay for my cake my beautiful cake.

  I walk home. No more skipping and no more finger snapping, I don’t want to hurt my cake. I do, however, smile, and I also greet people on the sidewalks with heartfelt and sincere hellos, how are yous, it’s a beautiful days.

  As I walk into the building I see Mickey, the building superintendent, walking out of it. His eyes are swollen and it looks like he’s been crying.

  Yo, Mickey. You want a piece of cake?

  What?

  I just bought a cake. You want a piece?

  What kind is it?

  White on white.

  I need some cigarettes.

  If you want cake, I’ll be in my apartment.

  Mickey skulks away. I go to my apartment. I open the door, go to my little kitchen, set the cake on the counter. I open it, my oh my it is a beautiful cake. I get two plastic plates and a knife. I cut two pieces away and set them on the plates. I take the rest of the cake and I sit on the floor next to my bed. I carefully pick it up and take a big bite out of it. I chew my bite slowly, savoring the light, moist, airy cake and the sweet, thick, creamy frosting. I take another bite, another another. It’s a great cake. More than suitable for my promotion celebration.

  About halfway through my eating of the cake, there is a knock at my door. I stand, walk over, open it. Mickey is standing at the door, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He speaks.

  You have cake and frosting on your face.

  I smile.

  Is there any left?

  I saved some for you.

  He steps inside my apartment. I walk to the kitchen, get one of the plates with cake on it, get a plastic fork, give them to him. We sit on the floor, and as we eat, he tells me about his day.

  He is miserable. His boyfriend broke up with him at breakfast, told him he needed someone with more ambition than Mickey, someone who wanted more out of life than a job as building superintendent. Mickey told him it was temporary, that he was working to make it as a painter, that he felt his dreams we
re going to come true. The boyfriend said I need more than your dreams, Mickey, and he walked out.

  Mickey starts to cry. I eat my cake. I make sure to get some extra frosting on my face. When Mickey looks up, he sees me and he laughs. I speak. If you don’t eat yours . . .

  He laughs, starts eating. As we eat, we talk, he asks me where I’m from I tell him Cleveland, he asks why I moved here I say I moved for a girl, he asks if we’re still together I say yes we’re still together. I ask him the same things he’s from a small town in Indiana and moved here so he could be himself, could live as a gay man without being harassed, could try to make it as a painter. I ask him what he paints he says he’d rather show me than tell me. He finishes his cake and he stands and he leaves my apartment.

  I keep eating, I’m almost done. Five minutes later Mickey comes back with a painting and sets it carefully on the floor in front of me.

  It is a small painting, maybe six inches by six inches. The canvas is black at the edges. The rest of it is covered with tiny faces. Some are smiling, some are laughing, some are screaming, some are crying. The faces are painted in perfect miniature detail, they look like little photographs, and it’s a beautiful painting, beautiful and horrifying, full joy and misery, laughter and sorrow. Mickey speaks.

  What do you think?

  It’s great.

  You want it?

  Absolutely.

  It’s yours.

  Thank you.

  If you need a nail to hang it,

  I’ve got them.

  Once I decide where to put it.

  I’m gonna go. Thanks for the cake.

  Thanks for the painting.

  Sure.

  And forget about the boyfriend, that shallow fucker.

  He laughs.

  Yeah.

  He leaves. I finish my cake. When I’m done, I lick my lips and fingers and clean the excess from my chin and cheeks. I want to see Lilly. I usually walk to see her, but I’m tired, so I decide to take the train. I’ve never used the elevated train system of Chicago. I have been told it is simple and easy. I’m wary of it. Most of the time someone says something is simple and easy it turns out to be complicated and difficult.

  I put on my warm clothes. Get my last twenty dollars from beneath my mattress, which is where I keep my money. I wrap the last piece of cake, carefully wrap it. I leave, walk to the nearest train station. I look at the map, colored lines weaving through and across each other. I find the station on the map, find Lilly’s station on the map, buy a token, step to the platform, wait. The train comes, I make the transfer, arrive at Lilly’s station. The trip is simple and easy. I now know how to use the elevated train. So much for my bullshit theory.

  I walk, stop at a flower shop, spend eighteen dollars on red roses.

  I give her the roses.

  I give her the last piece of cake.

  I tell her about my day. The best day I’ve had on my own in Chicago.

  I got a promotion.

  I went for a nice, long walk.

  I spent my hard-earned money on something beautiful.

  I ate that beautiful thing, and it was tasty.

  I made a friend.

  I was given a gift.

  I learned something.

  It was a great, great day.

  I tell Lilly I love her, miss her. I spend my last dollar on a token home. Part of me expects Lilly to be waiting for me. I would give everything for her to be waiting for me. She’s not. I’m alone. I lie down, can’t sleep.

  I wait for the darkness.

  I start my new job. The bar is small, nondescript, in the lower level of a large building, beneath a clothing store. Eight steps lead from the street to the ten tables, two pinball machines, televisions in two corners continuously playing sports. There is a popcorn machine near the door, the popcorn is free. There are three employees working at any given time, a bartender, waitress, doorman. Bartender Ted and waitress Amy always work the same shift as me. They are boyfriend/girlfriend, and in between serving the dozen or so customers usually in the place, they stand at the corner of the bar smoking cigarettes, giggling, whispering and kissing. I stand outside. It’s cold as hell and I’m always numb. I always have a roll of drink tickets in my pocket. I’m supposed to offer them to anyone and everyone who walks by the bar, they are redeemable for either a free shot of watermelon liqueur or a free kamikaze. No one in the first three days takes me up on the offer, so now I rarely bother. When I do bother I choose people who I’m sure will say no, such as children, the elderly, or the very very well-dressed, and I beg them to go inside, tell them my job is on the line, tell them I desperately need their help. Every single one of them says no. From midnight on, I only see a few people. I stand and shiver and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes I test myself to see how long I can go without moving, I can last about two hours. Sometimes I sing to myself, sing silly love songs with titles like Just Once, Secret Lovers, Lost in Love, Down on Bended Knee. I don’t know how or why I know the words, I just do.

  Sometimes I flip a quarter over and over, keep track of how many times heads, how many times tails, for some reason there are usually more heads. Sometimes I talk to Lilly. Carry on long conversations with her. Talk about random things, the news, something I saw while I was walking, something I read. I talk to her about our plans the plans we made while I was in jail. Where we wanted to live, the jobs we wanted to get, maybe marriage, maybe kids, what the kids would be named, she wanted a little girl, I wanted a little boy. Sometimes I cry while I talk to her. Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I feel stupid, but I keep talking anyway. Sometimes I just stop, I have her image in my mind, and I have to stop.

  My shift ends at four. I punch out, leave. It’s always dark, the streets empty. I walk south into steel and concrete canyons. I move up and down vacant blocks, stare up at fifty, eighty, hundred and ten story monoliths, watch streetlight shadows move across lower floors, kick deserted papers, cups and bags lying on curbs. I walk down the middle of wide boulevards, stand on the centers of iron bridges, sit alone in huge sprawling plazas, parks, long expanses of dead public grass. I am the only person awake, the city and its citizens are asleep, my footsteps my breath and the whistling screaming wind are all I hear. The city is reduced, ceases to be a city, becomes a museum. Objects aren’t banks, law firms, hospitals, courthouses, shopping centers, apartment buildings, they are huge sprawling sculptures of marble limestone iron steel and glass, without purpose or use, just huge beautiful objects.

  When I start to see other people, as the eyes of the city start to open, I leave, walk out to the lake, start heading north. It is always colder by the lake. The wind is always stronger. The cold shakes me and the wind stings my face. I walk until I find a bench and I sit the bench is always cold. I stare across the frozen expanse of ice and encased debris, sticks, logs, cans, there is a football opposite a beach, a lifejacket opposite a marina. I watch as thin girders of blue light start glowing, as the light turns yellow, pink, orange, as it spreads across the horizon. The sun appears, slowly rising, an edge, quarter, half circle. It becomes full and red, envelopes the sky, dominates it. It makes the monuments of this city, of any city every city, seem small and insignificant. It makes me feel small and insignificant. Makes me forget the past, dismiss the future. Makes my problems disappear, feel like nothing nothing nothing.

  When I hear cars on the highway behind me I stand walk home. As the normal day begins, my day ends.

  I lie down in my apartment.

  Sometimes I sleep.

  Sometimes not.

  I lie there.

  Alone.

  I t is eight A.M. As I walk toward my building, I see a white Mercedes sitting at the curb. I enter the building, the door to my apartment is open. I step inside, see Leonard and Snapper standing in front of my refrigerator. The refrigerator door is open and there are brown paper bags on the floor.

  Leonard.

  They turn around.

  My son, my son.

  Leonard s
teps toward me.

  How are you?

  He hugs me.

  I’m okay. What are you doing here?

  Filling your fridge.

  You came here to fill my fridge?

  No, but when we arrived, we saw it was empty.

  You gotta stop breaking in, Leonard.

  Get a better lock and we’ll stop breaking in. The lock you got is a fucking joke.

  Snapper speaks.

  I’m the one who actually does it, Kid, and it’s real easy. You’re lucky you ain’t been robbed.

  Leonard laughs.

  Look at this place. Who would rob him? He’s got nothing to steal.

  I step toward the refrigerator.

  What are you putting in there?

  Snapper speaks.

  We got shit from all five food groups.

  Leonard speaks.

  Fruits, vegetables, proteins, grains and dairys.

  Snapper speaks.

  We got them all.

  I laugh.

  It’s dairy, not dairys.

  I know, but it’s funnier saying dairys. Say it.

  Dairys.

  I laugh.

  Told ya. Dairys is funnier.

  I laugh again.

  Thank you. For all five food groups.

  And that’s not all.

  Leonard opens the cabinets. They’re filled with cans of soup, boxes of rice and boxes of pasta, jars of tomato sauce.

  Snapper speaks.

  I got something special for you in there.

  He steps over, pulls down a box.

  Rice-A-Roni. The motherfucking San Francisco treat.

  I laugh.

  Thanks.

  Leonard speaks.

  You’re still too skinny, my son. If you’re gonna be a doorman at a bar you’re gonna need to gain some weight. We drove by last night and saw you standing out there and you do not look particularly menacing.

  You drove by to see me?

  We did.

  Why?

  That’s why we’re here.

  To talk to me about my job?

  Yup.

  What about my job?

  Let’s go down to the hotel, get some breakfast. We’ll talk down there.

  I need some sleep.