My Friend Leonard (7 page)

We walk back to the table. The cigars are out, the glasses empty, the dishes are being cleared. Leonard helps the women put on their coats. He tells each of them it was an honor meeting you, he kisses each of their hands. We walk out of the restaurant and there are cars waiting for us. My friends all thank Leonard, tell him how amazing the meal was, tell him they hope to see him again soon. He is gracious to them, says it was my pleasure, you are wonderful young people it was my pleasure. He opens car doors, pays drivers, sends the cars away. The windows in the cars come down and everyone waves goodbye to him. When the cars are out of sight it is me and my friend Leonard. He speaks.

Thought we'd walk back. It'll help settle the food a bit.

Sounds good.

We start walking. It is colder, darker, the wind stronger.

You have nice friends, my son.

Yeah, I'm lucky.

Very polite, very interesting. The girls were all beautiful.

I'll tell them you said so.

You have fun?

It was the best night I've had in years, Thank you for doing it.

We'll do it again next time I'm in town.

We turn a corner. The hotel is in sight. I see Leonard's white Mercedes sitting in front of the hotel. Snap is in the driver's seat, the engine is running.

I speak.

Why's the car out there?

I need to go out for a while.

A little late, isn't it?

Sometimes I need it to be late.

I don't respond. We walk to the car. I nod at Snapper, he nods at me. I turn to Leonard.

Thanks again,

Leonard.

No problem.

I'll see you tomorrow.

I'll come to your room when I wake up.

Cool.

You've got your key?

Yeah.

Goodnight, my son.

Thank you, Leonard.

Leonard turns, opens the car door, gets inside, closes the door. The car pulls away I watch it go.

Thank you, Leonard.

Thank you, Leonard.

Thank you.

 

F
or the next two days, we eat, sit around the pool, watch TV, sleep. I am rarely alone. When I am alone, and I'm not sleeping, I cry. I lie face-down on the bed and I cry. I stand in the shower and I cry. I stare out the window and I cry. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, or not doing, the littlest things set me off, everything sets me off. I cry when I'm alone. Whenever I'm alone. My bottle is always with me. An antidote to pain should I choose to use it. I keep it in plain view, on one of the nightstands next to the bed. I cradle it when I sleep. I have opened it twice, smelled, let it taunt me, let it enrage me. I do it because the test of it, the test of resisting it, makes me feel strong. Most of the time I feel like I want to die. The feeling of strength keeps me going.

On the morning of our fourth day in the hotel, Leonard shows up late for breakfast. When he arrives, he's wearing a suit.

My son.

What's up?

He sits.

Me and Snap are leaving in a little while.

Back to Nevada?

New York, then Nevada.

Why New York?

You remember the story I told you about my father? How he worked as a golf course maintenance man at a ritzy country club in Connecticut, just outside of New York, how he told me on his deathbed he wanted me to be successful enough to play that course someday, play it just like one of the members?

Yeah, I remember.

The older I get, the more anxious I am to do it. I got a line on somebody who might be able to help. I'm going to see him.

Good luck.

You gonna be okay without me?

Yeah.

You sure?

I'm a big boy, Leonard.

You need anything, you call me.

I will. Thank you.

You get close to picking up that bottle, you call me.

I will.

You know she'd want you clean.

I don't want to talk about it, Leonard.

She would.

I look away. He stands.

I gotta go.

Okay.

I stand.

Don't be mad at me, Kid. I'm just trying to help.

You are helping. It's just hard right now.

He nods. We hug each other, separate.

See you soon.

Thank you, Leonard. Thanks for everything.

He turns, leaves. I sit down, eat a huge breakfast, go back to the room, cry, take a nap, cry, leave.

 

I
stop at Kevin's apartment. There are two messages for me. One from a bar, one from a gas station. I would rather work at the gas station. I call the gas station, the manager tells me to stop by so that I can meet him. I leave Kevin's, walk over, meet the manager. He's young, slightly older than I am. His hair is short, shoes shined, uniform clean and pressed. He asks me if I know anything about car repair and I tell him no. He asks me if I'm interested in a long-term position or short-term position, I tell him I need a job, have no idea how long or short a term. He nods, thanks me for coming, shakes my hand, I leave.

I call the bar. They give me an address, tell me to show up at four
A
.
M
. the next morning if I'm interested in the job.

I go home, sit on the floor, close my eyes, try to be still. It's harder than it was in jail. Harder because the same thoughts run through my head whenever I try to do it. I think about Lilly, about the last minutes of her life. I think about what was going through her head the moment she decided to die, as she tied the knots of her noose, as she put the noose around her neck, as she hung and started to fade. I wonder if there were regrets, if there was peace. I wonder if she thought about me as she hung. I try to avoid the images, change the course of my thought, empty my mind of all thought. It doesn't work. I do not possess the necessary discipline. I sit, I think about Lilly and her death, I hurt. My body hurts, everything hurts.

After an hour I stand, shake, smoke a cigarette, leave. I go to Kevin's. We meet our friends at a bar, we shoot pool, they drink, I watch them. There is temptation every second of every minute of every five ten twenty thirty minutes every single second. Temptation to drink, to annihilate myself, to make the pain go away, to hurt myself more than I already hurt. It ebbs
and flows, this temptation sometimes easy to resist sometimes difficult, sometimes so overwhelming that I know if I move I'm done. The only way to deal with it is to not move, to sit and wait, to hold on until it goes away.

My friends get drunk. I sit with them. They all have jobs so we leave the bar, they need a few hours' sleep before they go to work. I have three hours to burn. I keep walking up and down cold, empty, black streets, block after block, block after block. Occasionally I see another person, usually drunk, stumbling along the sidewalk. Occasionally I pass an open bar or convenience store. The only vehicles out are either cabs or cops, I can't afford a ride with either of them.

As I walk, I start to shake. My clothes are worn and thin, I don't have a hat or gloves. The cold settles over me in layers, on my coat and pants, on my skin, beneath my skin, in my bones, in my jaw and teeth. I keep walking, hoping the longer I walk the warmer I'll become, but my theory is wrong. The cold hurts me and shakes me, makes me numb. The more numb, the better, the more numb the more comfortable. The numbness functions for me the same way the alcohol and drugs functioned for me. I am overwhelmed. Everything hurts. It hurts so much that I stop feeling. Everything is wiped away and the numb remains. I can deal with the numb. It is as it was before and it is the best I can do for myself. I walk and I walk and I walk.

I show up at the bar fifteen minutes early. Two doormen stand at the entrance. They're both in black, they both look cold, they're both scowling. They stop me as I start to walk in, one of them tells me they're closed. I tell them I'm here for the job. One of them laughs, the other says go around back, wait at the service door.

To get to the back, I have to walk around the block. There are two other men waiting, one white, one black, both young, neither looks happy. The black man paces, swears, hops up and down to try to stay warm. The white man stares at his feet, doesn't move, doesn't speak.

At four fifteen, the door opens. The doormen from the front lead us into a huge open room. Along one wall of the room, there are leveled risers with tables. The highest group of tables is surrounded by a red velvet rope. Along another wall, there is a stage. Above and at the edges of the stage
are racks of lights and stacks of speakers, and at the back of the stage there is a DJ booth. Along a third wall is a long black bar. There are no stools in front of it. A group of bartenders and waitresses stand at one end of the bar talking drinking smoking laughing. A group of men with garbage bags are picking up trash.

We walk behind the bar, open a door at one end, walk into a bright hall. There are five doors in the hall. One labeled Men one labeled Women one labeled Office two with nothing. One of doormen tells us to wait, knocks on the office door, the doormen leave.

We wait for a few minutes. We stand and stare at the floor, occasionally look at each other. The door opens. A middle-age man steps out. He's short and fat, has dark, thinning hair, bad skin. He's wearing a black and yellow sweatsuit, black leather loafers. He looks us up and down.

Here for the job?

White man nods, black man and I say yeah.

Any of you ever been janitors or done any clean-up work?

White man nods, black man and I say no.

I need people to clean my places. There's this one and two others. You pick up trash, mop the floors, wipe down tables, shit like that. Hours are from four to eight every morning. Pay is seven bucks an hour. If you do well, you might become a doorman or a barback. If you're no good, I'll fire you. If you're interested, get out there and start working. We'll process you when you're done.

I turn, walk back to the room, ask one of the men with garbage bags what to do, he tells me to do what he's doing. I get a bag, pick up trash, take it to a dumpster. I get a broom, sweep the floor, get a mop, mop the floor, get a bottle of cleaner, wipe down tables, chairs, countertops. The white man and the black man have also joined the crew, there are seven of us. It takes an hour to clean the club. When we're done, we walk down the street to another one. It's larger, flashier, there are cages hanging from the ceiling, four bars, two separate sections with tables, three separate levels. Process is the same: pick up trash, sweep, mop, wipe. Takes two hours.

When we're done, we walk to a nearby bar. Bar is in the basement of a large residential building. Has pinball machine, pool table, two televisions which hang in corners, free popcorn, free food every night from seven to
ten. Takes thirty minutes to clean. When we're done, most of the men leave. The white man, black man and I walk back to the office, fill out some paperwork, are assigned days. I get Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. From four to finish. Seven dollars an hour.

I leave, walk until I'm numb. I stop to talk to Lilly, tell her I miss her, tell her I love her. I leave, walk until I'm numb. Go home. Sleep.

 

M
y life becomes routine.

I work.

Sleep is still difficult I sleep for three or four hours a day. Usually sometime in the afternoon.

I walk in the cold, keep myself numb.

I cry less, cry less.

I go out with my friends every night. Go to bars, shoot pool, smoke cigarettes, watch them drink. Sometimes I talk, sometimes I laugh, both feel good. When I'm thirsty, I order a caffeinated cola drink, with ice and without a lemon. I start to feel more comfortable around people. The temptation is still there, always there, the urge to drink drug and destroy never leaves, but I'm getting used to it. It's like a rash, a nasty fucking rash, constant, annoying and painful. I'd like to scratch it till kingdom fucking come but if I do I die and I don't want to die.

When my friends go home I walk again, walk in the cold, keep myself numb, always numb.

I work.

Sometimes I read the Tao.

Sometimes I sit, stare at the wall, the wall is white.

Sometimes I feel too much, feel like I'm going to explode. All of me, all of what is inside of me, anger sadness confusion pain insecurity fear loneliness, heart soul consciousness, whatever words for some of what is inside me there are no words to describe, it swirls, it races, it taunts, it moves to the surface and pushes pushes, all of it pushes. I feel like I'm going to
explode. I scream. At the top of my lungs. Long and hard, scream so that my lungs hurt, my throat hurts, my face hurts. I scream into pillows. I walk to the lake scream at the water. Stand in a park and scream into a tree.

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

My life is a simple routine.