My Friend Leonard (22 page)

 

I
stay with Liza we talk for hours I get along better with her than any woman I've ever met we laugh and laugh we sit and talk for hours. As easy as it is to be with each other and as much as we like each other there's still something missing. We both feel it we both know it there's something missing between us and we both mourn it.

I take my battered truck to get fixed it's going to take ten days.

I drive around with Liza start to get a feel for the city. It's a strange city, unlike traditional cities. There is no central downtown. What is called downtown is a ghost town, empty but for a few high-rise office towers filled during the day. The only residents of downtown Los Angeles are the people who live in a self-governing ten block area filled with cardboard box houses and tents. The rest of the city is broken into small neighborhoods, though there is no feeling of neighborhood in them. The sidewalks are empty, people don't interact with each other. There is a feeling that people are living where they are and waiting to move somewhere better, that the dream is almost fulfilled, and when it is, they'll move to one of the wealthy areas of the city and finally make friends with those that live around them.

I find a house. It's a three-bedroom Spanish-style house on a busy street. It stands out among the other houses on its block because the front yard is filled with garbage. I walk around the side of the house and the backyard is also filled with garbage. I look in the windows of the garage it's filled with garbage, I look in the windows of the house also filled with garbage. I ask one of the neighbors what's happening with this house she tells me no one has lived there for three years, occasionally a truck comes by and drops off more crap. I go downtown to the city tax office find out who owns the house call them. I ask them if they'd be interested in getting the house cleaned up and fixed-up, tell them I'll do it for free if they'll let me
live there. The man tells me to meet him at the house later in the afternoon I meet him his name is Al he's a mechanic and inherited the house from his grandmother. He agrees to let me live there he also wants a small amount of rent fine with me.

I clean the entire house, the yard, the garage. I tear out carpets there are nice wood floors beneath them. I get a mattress, a desk and a table, somewhere to sleep somewhere to work somewhere to eat. I get a roommate. His name is Jaylen. I know him from Chicago, where he was a wholesale weed dealer, never selling less than a pound at a time. He says he's through selling weed, that he wants to be a music video director.

I go out every night. Go out to bars with my friends, friends from the old days who have migrated here, all are working in some area of the entertainment industry. We go to the Three of Clubs, the Room, Smalls, DragonFly, the Snakepit, Jones, El Coyote. The bars are filled with beautiful young people it's as if the three best-looking people from every town in the country have come to Los Angeles. Everyone wants to be famous, everyone is well-connected. Everyone is just a step or two away they're waiting for that break it's almost there they can taste it fucking taste it.

I miss Chicago. I miss my friends, miss walking, miss seeing Lilly, miss living without ambition. Los Angeles is a lonely city. Everyone is focused on advancement success fame and money, it is hard to adjust to a culture based on always wanting more, on never being satisfied. I'm lonely, I miss my old life.

I see Leonard for lunch every Wednesday. He looks thinner and in better shape each time. Snapper and I both eat steaks and multiple side dishes and dessert, Leonard sticks with salad and fruit.

 

I
decide I want a dog. I start paying attention to other people's dogs, to their temperaments, to their habits, to their needs, their cost. I meet a pitbull named Grace 2000. Grace 2000 is short and heavily muscled, white with brown patches, she has deep brown sparkling eyes. She's very excitable, runs in circles around my friend's house, loves to play catch. Sometimes she bites the end of a spring attached to a thick branch of a tree and bounces from it. Sometimes she chases her tail. She never barks and she loves to give kisses. She's a fifty pound ball of energy and love.

I decide that I want a dog like Grace. I buy a paper, look in the classifieds, see ad after ad after ad, pitbull pitbull pitbull. One of the ads says Sons of Cholo. I didn't know what Cholo means or who Cholo is, but I like the sound of it, so I call the number and get an address. I start driving.

The address is in East Los Angeles, in a working-class Hispanic neighborhood. I park walk toward the house there are two men sitting on the front porch they're drinking beer and smoking cigarettes their arms are covered with tattoos. I stop in front of them, they stare at me, I say hello they nod. I ask if they're selling the dogs, they say no habla inglés. I don't speak Spanish so I hold up the paper, say Sons of Cholo, they smile, nod, one of them stands up and motions for me to follow him.

We walk around the house. In the backyard there is a small fenced area. Inside the fence is a small doghouse. The man whistles and a giant pit storms out of the doghouse and starts barking.

I've never seen a dog like him in my life. He's short and gigantic, has layers and layers of rippling muscle, his coat is the color of milk chocolate and he has bright green eyes. His head is huge and thick, as if carved from a block of stone, and it's covered with scars. He stands at the fence and snarles at me, his teeth are huge and a perfect white. I stare at him. He barks and snarls, looks like he wants to eat me, I am scared to death of
him. The man taps me on the shoulder and points and smiles and says
Cholo, undefeated campeón.
He motions for me to follow him.

We walk to a garage. He lifts the door and puppies begin streaming out, adorable little chocolate puppies, small versions of Cholo, minus the scars, minus the snarling. They yip and tumble over each other, jump on my feet, bite at the bottom of my pants. The man points to the puppies and says Sons of Cholo.

I smile, sit down on the concrete. The puppies run into my lap, start jumping on my chest, licking my face. A hierarchy has been established among them and the larger puppies start muscling the smaller puppies away. The smallest of them falls off my lap and immediately starts climbing back. He gets pushed off again, starts climbing again. All he wants is to get close enough to lick my face.

I stand up, the puppies start nipping at my feet again, I look at the man and point to the smallest puppy. The man nods and holds up three fingers. The price had been listed in the advertisement, I brought cash with me. I take it out of my pocket and hand it to him he picks up the puppy and hands him to me. We shake hands he says gracias I say gracias.

I walk toward my car. The puppy starts whining. The further we get from the garage, the louder the whining. When I open the driver's door, the puppy starts crying, looking toward the garage, where the other Sons of Cholo are still running around. I sit down in the driver's seat. I brought some puppy toys and puppy treats with me, I hold the little fellow in my lap and try to get him interested in them, he just looks toward the garage and cries. I give up trying to make him stop and I start the car and I drive away.

He sits in my lap on the ride back to my house. He cries and he shakes. He pees on me, pees on the seat, pees on the floor. Son of Cholo is scared to death, and he pees all over me.

 

I
call the puppy Cassius. He's a smart pup he knows his name after a few days. I potty train him in a week. He can sit, shake, stay, lie down in two weeks. He goes everywhere with me, rides shotgun in my truck, sleeps in my bed.

I go to parties with my friends. We go to apartments to the courtyards of apartment buildings to houses in the Hollywood Hills. When I meet new people the first question they usually ask me is what do you do? I tell them I am an unemployed aspiring writer and they realize I can't help them in any way and they can't use me in any way and they usually walk away from me.

I send out my script everywhere to everyone I meet who might be interested in it I call them follow up with them no luck no luck. Hearing people say no doesn't bother me, doesn't discourage me. I'm confident in what I can do and I believe that, to a certain extent, I'm playing a numbers game. If I get myself and my work in front of enough people, sooner or later someone will like it.

I go back to trying to write a book I spend most of my time staring at a blank computer screen.

Jaylen and I decide to fill the third bedroom in our house, figure it will be good to have someone to share expenses. Jaylen brings an old friend from Chicago to the house, his name is Tommy. Tommy is Korean, grew up in a small farm town forty miles west of Chicago, his father and mother are both doctors. Tommy dresses like a thug and talks like a thug with a thick inner-city accent. He wants to be either a rap-star, a deejay or a rap video
director. I ask him if he ever feels like a phony with his clothes and his accent and he says motherfucker, I grew up in the fields, but my heart's from the motherfucking streets. I ask him if he's ever been in a fight, been arrested, held a gun or dealt drugs, he says he keeps it real with a peaceful vibe.

I see Leonard on Wednesdays he is always thinner, always looks healthier.

 

L
eonard calls says it's a big, big day, round up some friends I'm taking you to dinner. I ask why it's a big day, he says I'll tell you when I see you. I ask when and where he says he'll pick me up at my house, round up some motherfucking friends. I call Liza, Mike, Jenny, Quinn, Mark, my friend Andy who is visiting from New York. Everyone meets at my house, Leonard arrives in his white Mercedes, Snapper is driving. There isn't enough room in his car so my friends drive their cars and I ride with Leonard. Leonard has a small briefcase at his feet. I look at it, speak.

That's not for me, is it?

Leonard speaks.

You're retired.

Good.

And I want to do this one myself.

Does that have to do with this being a big day?

Indeed it does.

I don't need to know anymore.

You can ask if you want.

I don't want to know.

You can ask.

That's okay.

Really, it's fine. Ask away.

No thanks.

Snapper turns around.

He wants you to fucking ask him, so ask him.

I look at Leonard, speak.

What does that briefcase have to do with the big day?

Leonard smiles.

My last truly illegal act.

I laugh.

Congratulations.

He nods.

It's a big fucking day.

Why are you bringing me and my friends with you?

For a celebration.

Are we at risk?

Of course not.

What's happening?

Russkies.

Russkies?

Yeah, the Russkies have come to town.

So what?

Leonard looks at Snapper.

You want to take this one?

Snapper nods.

Sure.

Leonard looks back at me.

He's taking this one.

I nod.

I got it.

Snapper speaks.

Russians are mean bastards, have always been mean bastards. They kicked Napoleon's ass, kicked Hitler's ass, kicked every ass they ever encountered. When people like us started coming over here, the Russkies were in Russia and had no interest. Then the Soviet Union kept 'em locked up for seventy years. Now those fuckers are free, and they see what we got, and there's fucking hordes of 'em coming over here, and like I said, they're mean fucking bastards. If I'm a six on the mean scale, they're twelves.

They're greedy and aggressive, and now that we're legal, I think we'd just as soon step the fuck out of their way. We can't, however, just step away, because then we look weak and scared and then we get popped. So we work out a deal. We give them certain considerations that they want, they give us a bag of Russian sparklies that we sell. Everybody wins, everybody's happy, nothing bad happens. We're through with all the illegal rackets we had, and we can't get caught for nothing, except maybe tax
cheating, which might happen, because this is gonna be the first year I ever filed a tax return, and the IRS notices that shit.

You have a good accountant?

He laughs.

I do, at least I think I do, and I better, or he's in trouble.

He chuckles again.

Tax return. I'm actually excited about it.

I laugh, turn to Leonard.

So what's in your briefcase?

Nothing. It's empty.

And you're trading it for one that looks like it, but isn't empty?

You learned well, my son. You were a natural.

I laugh. We turn on Sunset start heading east, away from the glamour of the Sunset Strip and into the reality of Hollywood. The apartment blocks are lined with decrepit buildings. Because it is night, there are hookers, women who are women and men who are women and some unknown, walking up and down the street, standing in small groups on corners, they wave and shake their asses and flash their tits and yell at us as we drive past them. Every other shop is a pawnshop, the windows are filled with guitars and amps and drumsets filled with the dead dreams of rock super-stardom. There is a Space Burger restaurant their burgers are out of this world, there is a diner filled with people sitting alone staring out the window. It's a common sight in Los Angeles, someone sitting alone staring out the window.

We pull off Sunset. We pull up to a valet in front of what looks like a Mosque. It's a large white building with a gold dome, it has spikes along the edges of the roof, iron doors with engraved Arabic words. We get out of the car. Snapper waves off the valet pulls down the street I look at Leonard, speak.

What the fuck is this?

Leonard smiles.

Belly dance!

Belly dance?

Yeah, belly dance!

My friends pull up get out of their cars. They seem to know the place I ask them if any of them have been here they say no. Leonard leads us
inside. There is a large central room, it's a light room, an open room. There is a fountain in the center of the room, an ornate tile floor, mosaics cover the walls. There are smaller rooms off the central room, smaller rooms in every direction, they're dark rooms, thick dark oriental rugs cover the floors, they're lit by candles there are people sitting on cushions on the floor. Leonard greets the host who leads us to one of the smaller rooms. We sit on cushions around a low, circular table. A waiter brings us water and menus Leonard waves off the menus, orders for the table. Snapper joins us sets the briefcase near his feet.

Leonard introduces himself to my friends, introduces Snapper. He asks them where they're from, why they live in Los Angeles, how they know me. Snapper sits, doesn't speak, occasionally glances toward the entrance to our room, occasionally glances at his watch.

A first round of food is delivered. It comes on large round plates. The plates have sections for meats lamb and beef, thick flat bread, dark heavy sauces. None of us knows what it is or how to eat it Leonard tells us it's Persian we eat it with our hands just dip the bread and the meat into the sauces don't worry about the mess don't worry about manners. The food is rich, strong, spicy, my friends drink beer I drink water. As we finish the plates, I see Snapper nod to Leonard they both stand with the briefcase.

Leonard excuses them they leave the room.

Our plates are taken away we wait.

Our drinks are refilled we wait.

Liza asks if I know where Leonard is I say I have no idea. Mark asks if we should order more food I say I'm pretty sure it's covered. More food arrives it never stops. We wait.

I think about going out to find them to make sure everything is okay, I laugh at myself know I'd last about five seconds against some mean fucking Russkie. I think about going to speak with the host I hear a bell, multiple bells, moving toward the entrance to our room. Above the bells I hear Leonard laughing, saying woohoo, woohoo, saying shake it shake it shake it. Everyone at the table turns toward the entrance. A belly dancer, in a traditional belly dancing outfit, her hips wiggling her stomach gesticulating cymbals on her fingers clashing clashing comes shaking into the room. She is followed by another dancer who is followed by Leonard hooting and laughing who is followed by a man with a guitar frantically strumming
who is followed by two waiters with giant trays of food who are followed by a smiling Snapper carrying a briefcase identical to the one he was carrying when he left the room. The belly dancers start moving around the table. The waiters set the trays on the table, start unloading heaping bowls of rice and platters with stacks of kebabs beef, lamb and chicken. Leonard follows the dancers, pretending to be one of them, making a complete fool of himself, knowing he's doing it, laughing. Snapper sits back down, smiles.

My friends eat, drink, watch the show, laugh. Leonard sits and picks at a chicken kebab he says I'm watching my weight has the dancers start dancing again. Whenever I look at Snapper he nods and smiles, two or three times he mouths the words tax return, oh yeah, tax return, oh yeah. We stay at the restaurant for hours eating more drinking more listening to music watching the dancers laughing laughing laughing.

It's all legal now.

Snapper is going to file a tax return.