My Friend Leonard (13 page)

How about the third choice, which is dealing with the pain?

Not everybody can do it.

I look away, shake my head, clench my jaw. Leonard speaks.

You ever heard of the five stages of grief?

I look back.

No. What are they?

I don't know, I've just heard of them. Saw something about them on some ladies' show. I'm figuring you're going through them, and at some point you'll agree with me.

Fuck you, Leonard, and fuck your five stages of grief.

He laughs.

You want to get out of here?

Yeah.

He motions for the check. When it arrives, I reach for it. He speaks.

What are you doing?

I'm getting it tonight.

I reach into my pocket, get my cash.

No, you're not.

Yes, I am.

Unacceptable.

Not open to debate.

I pay for dinner. It's part of what I do.

Not tonight.

I have more money than you.

I look at the check, start counting the money.

You remember when you told me that when someone wants to do something nice for you, that you should smile and say thank you.

That only applies when I'm doing something nice for you.

Smile and say thank you, Leonard.

I put the cash in the check, close it. Leonard smiles.

Thank you, my son.

I stand.

Let's go.

Leonard stands, we leave. We take a cab north to meet my friends. We get out of the cab, walk into an old time bowling alley/pool hall. There are three rooms. One has a long oak bar lined with stools, the bar is probably a hundred years old. Another has the bowling alley, five lanes, all of them manual. Two men crouch at the end of the lanes and replace the pins when they fall and roll the balls back to the bowlers. The third room is large, open, has twelve-foot ceilings. There are ten pool tables in two lines of five that run the length of the room. Overhead lamps hang above each of the tables. Stools and bar tables line the edges of the room.

Leonard and I walk into the pool room, look for my friends. They're standing around a table in the corner, we walk over to them.

Though most of them have met him already, I introduce Leonard to everyone. He kisses each of the girls' hands, tells them they look beautiful.

He shakes hands with the guys, says nice to meet you, nice to see you again. When the introductions are over, he motions to the waitress tells her bring more of everything, bring a pitcher of cola and two glasses, and keep it coming all night, just keep it coming.

We shoot pool, my friends drink, we smoke cigarettes, Leonard smokes a cigar, we laugh, laugh, laugh. We start shooting pool for money, five, ten bucks a game. Leonard is a disaster, loses three games. The rest of us are more or less equal, split the games, split the money. When Leonard's not playing, he's dancing with the girls, twirling them around, teaching them fancy steps, lathering them with compliments. The night moves on, my friends get more drunk. My friend Kevin suggests we raise the stakes, we agree raise them to twenty a game. Leonard starts playing again, destroys every single one of us, giggles to himself as he does it. I ask him what the fuck happened, he laughs, says he used to hustle pool and wanted to see if he could still do it. I laugh, say yeah, you can still do it, now stop, my friends aren't made of money.

Leonard stops playing, gives everyone their money back, tells them he used to hustle pool for cash, offers each of us a couple of tips. He starts
dancing with the girls again. My friend Scott, who is bombed, walks over to me. He looks pissed. He speaks.

You better tell your buddy to stop dancing with my girlfriend.

He's harmless.

I don't like the way he's fucking dancing with her.

I can promise you he doesn't mean anything.

I don't care. Tell him to fucking stop.

Scott is a big man, six foot three well over two hundred pounds, and he has a bad temper. I know Leonard's not interested in his girlfriend, but I don't want any problems. I walk over to where Leonard and Scott's girlfriend, whose name is Jessica, are dancing. Scott follows me.

Leonard.

Leonard spins Jessica.

Leonard.

Pulls her in, gives her a dip.

Leonard.

He looks over at me.

Just a second.

Scott steps around me. I try to stop him, he pushes me off.

Stop dancing with my girlfriend, motherfucker.

He pulls Jessica away. Jessica looks shocked, Leonard looks shocked.

No offense here, friend. No offense.

I'll kick your fucking ass if you touch her again.

You're misunderstanding this situation. I mean no disrespect.

Scott has no idea who Leonard is or what he does, has no idea the problem he's about to create for himself. I step toward him.

You gotta calm down, Scott.

He turns to me.

Fuck you.

Turns to Leonard.

And fuck you. I will kick your ass if you so much as look at her again.

People around have stopped playing, are watching.

You should watch yourself, kid. That temper is going to get you into trouble.

It's going to get you into trouble, old man.

Something in Leonard, who until now has been calm, changes. His face
goes still, his eyes narrow, his body tenses. I have seen him like this before, once when I first met him in rehab, the other time when we got in a fight with two of the other patients there, one of whom was later killed.

You are making a big mistake, friend. You should turn now and leave.

Jessica starts pulling on Scott's arm and saying come on, come on, let's go.

Scott stares at Leonard.

I'll fuck you up.

Leonard does not respond, just stares. Jessica pulls Scott away, they start walking toward the door, she's obviously upset, looks like she's going to cry.

I step toward Leonard.

Sorry about that.

Your friend shouldn't drink so much.

He can get a bit out of control.

Think I'm allowed to dance with the other girls?

I laugh.

Yeah, I think you are.

Good. Let's get back to the good times. That's why I came, for the motherfucking good times.

I laugh. Leonard walks over to Adrienne, asks her to dance.

She says yes.

 

I
meet Leonard for breakfast, a late breakfast, we stayed out until four, Leonard dancing with the girls, me shooting pool with the guys, good times, good times.

Leonard asks me if I've spoken to Scott, I say no, I think it's best to leave it alone, he doesn't need to know about the potential consequences of his actions. Telling him would mean he would have to know what Leonard does for a living. Leonard agrees with me.

We leave the hotel. The sun is out. It's bright, warm, the streets are crowded with happy people, happy because winter is disappearing, happy because it's the first nice day in months. We walk down Michigan Avenue, occasionally stopping to look into the windows of expensive stores.

Leonard loves clothing, loves expensive clothing, loves tailored wool suits, handmade shoes, shirts made from Egyptian cotton, silk ties. He says that most people don't like wearing suits, and are uncomfortable in them, because they buy shitty, cheap, ill-fitting suits made from poor materials. He says a properly cut suit, made from quality materials, is the most comfortable thing one can wear. I tell him I prefer jeans and t-shirts, wool socks and combat boots, he laughs, says if you were my genetic son, you would think otherwise.

We end up at the art museum, the Art Institute of Chicago. We walk through the galleries of European paintings, we move through them in chronological order. We see six Giovanni di Paolo altarpiece panels depicting St. John the Baptist, who looks like he's starving, wandering through a wasteland his golden halo shining. We see a bright silvery El Greco of the Virgin ascending on a crescent moon. We see eight gloomy Rembrandts, stern men in capes and feathered hats staring into a black distance, we see desperate Rinaldo being enchanted by the sorceress Armida in her billowing shawl as painted by Tiepolo. We see Turner, Manet, Corot, Monet,
Renoir, Caillebotte. We see a dancing Degas, a strolling Seurat, a brooding van Gogh, once with his ear, once without. We see a Tahitian Gauguin and Leonard starts to cry, he just stands in front of it and he cries no words just heavy tears running down his cheeks. I stand with him, stare at the painting, which is of a young Tahitian woman, supposedly Gauguin's mistress, wearing a simple cotton dress, white flowers in her black hair, a fan in her hand. I don't speak, just let Leonard cry, he starts speaking.

Gauguin was a stockbroker in Paris, married, had five kids. One day he came home from work and told his wife he was leaving, that he was through supporting the family, that he had had enough. Just like that he fucking took off. He said he had always felt that he was a painter, so he moved into a rat-infested shithole and he started painting. His wife begged him to come back, his bosses told him he was insane, he didn't care, he was following his heart. He left Paris, moved to Rouen, went from Rouen to Arles, from Arles to Tahiti. He was searching for peace, contentment, trying to fill that fucking hole he felt inside, and he believed he could fill it. He died in Tahiti, blind and crazy from syphilis, but he did it. He filled his fucking hole, made beautiful work, made beautiful, beautiful work.

Leonard wipes his tears away.

It takes a brave man to walk away, to care so much that he doesn't care about anything else, to be willing to obey what he feels inside, to be willing to suffer the consequences of living for himself. Every time I stand before his work it makes me cry, and I cry because I'm proud of him, and happy for him, and because I admire him.

Leonard takes a deep breath, wipes away the last of his tears, turns and walks out of the room, out of the museum.

 

L
eonard leaves, goes back to Las Vegas. My life goes back to normal, or what I consider normal, which is as normal as life has ever been for me.

I go to Kansas City.

Back to Detroit.

Indianapolis.

Milwaukee, three times to Milwaukee.

Northside. Southside.

Minneapolis.

Sometimes I drive, sometimes I ride the El, sometimes I take a bus. My friends start to wonder why I occasionally disappear I tell them that I need to be alone.

I spend my days walking endlessly walking. Spring arrives I don't have to wear a jacket the streets are crowded outdoor cafes full hot dog stands open on corners. I eat a lot of hot dogs. Extra mustard, hold the relish.

When I'm not walking, I'm reading, for a few hours a day I sit and read. At home on benches on the grass in parks on the stairs of the museum I sit and read. I read the classics, or what are called the classics, try to catch up on what I missed in school.

I start to sleep more. I have fewer dreams. When the dreams come they aren't as bad, I don't wake up shaking, bleeding or vomiting, I don't wake up screaming, moaning or crying.

I gain weight. I look less like a drug addict and more like a poorly dressed young man.

 

I
go to a punk club to see a band called The Vandals. I go with my friend Chris, who used to deal coke with me. We want to see them perform some of their hits, which include the classics
Anarchy Burger, A Gun for Christmas
and
Tastes Like Chicken.
They do not disappoint us. The guitars are loud and fast, the drums booming, the singer is on, his vocals moving effortlessly between yelling and very loud yelling. We march in the circle, high-stepping, throwing elbows, occasionally jumping into the middle and getting slammed.

At one of the breaks, Danny and Kevin show up with a group of girls. Danny grew up outside of Chicago, in one of the wealthiest suburbs along the North Shore. He has known the girls, who are all well-dressed and have nice hairdos and wear diamonds and pearls in their ears, since childhood. They look horribly out of place and uncomfortable.

Chris and I walk over to them, say hello, their names are Molly, Rory, Mila and Brooke. I've met three of them before, though my memories of the meetings are faint. I ask them if they want a drink one of them asks me what kind of beer is available I tell her cheap beer. She laughs, says okay, one cheap beer please. I look at the other girls they agree, they'd each like one cheap beer.

I walk to the bar, Kevin comes with me. I speak.

What's up?

Nothing.

What are they doing here?

Danny wanted to bring them.

And they agreed?

I don't think they knew where they were going.

How long do you think they'll last?

They'll take one sip of the beer and leave.

I laugh. I order the beers, wait for them get them turn around. Three of the four girls are still there, talking with Danny and Chris, looking at the club's other patrons, young men with tattoos, shaved heads and Mohawks, like they're zoo animals. I walk back, hand out the cans, I ask if the fourth girl left. I hear a voice behind me.

My name isn't fourth girl, it's Brooke.

Okay.

I went to use the restroom.

I chuckle.

How was it?

It was disgusting, and it was also out of order.

There's a urinal in the men's room.

No thanks.

She takes the last can out of my hand, steps around me, moves toward Danny, starts talking to him. I turn back to the other three start talking to them. One of them, her name is Molly, asks me how I've been and I laugh, tell her it's been a rough couple of years. She says she heard, was surprised when Danny told her they were meeting me tonight. I ask her how she's been, she says good, she's working for an interior design company and going to school for architecture. As I talk to her, I keep glancing at Brooke. Her hair is blond almost white, her eyes are ice-blue. She's tan, looks like she's been in the sun somewhere other than Chicago, she has pouty lips perfect teeth wears little makeup. I glance, I catch her glancing at me. I step away from Molly and toward Danny and Brooke steps away from Danny, goes to talk to Molly. I smile, know the little game that is being played here, a game that amuses me, that I haven't played for a long time. I step back and forth, she steps away every time I'm near her. She knows what I'm doing, doesn't acknowledge it, just steps away, steps away. The music starts again, Chris and I move back into the circle. We throw more elbows, get slammed, sing-along to all the hits. I know Brooke is watching me, I don't look toward her, know that not looking will frustrate her.

The music ends. Danny suggests we go to another bar, everyone but Chris and me are anxious to get out of this dump. We agree to leave pile into a couple of cabs I purposefully sit next to Brooke light a cigarette and ignore her.

We go to the Local Option. Our other friends are there, some other people we went to school with. Everyone is in the back room shooting pool I lay quarters down on the edge of the felt next game is mine. I shoot pool and drink cola and smoke cigarettes for the rest of the night and Brooke and I both work very hard to ignore each other.

When the bar closes I leave start walking home. I walk alone my friends take cabs. For the first time in several hours I think about Lilly, I have never gone so long without thinking of her. I feel guilty, as if I've done something wrong, as if I have somehow betrayed her. I turn away from home and I walk to her and I tell her I'm sorry and I cry.

I hate myself for losing her.

I hate her for leaving me.

I don't have any answers.