My Friend Leonard (12 page)

 

I
take a car to St. Louis. I don't know what's in the car, if there's anything in the car. Nobody tells me and I don't ask. I drive three miles over the speed limit. I leave the car in a shopping mall parking lot.

I move briefcases from the north side of Chicago to the south side of Chicago. I move briefcases from the south side to the north side. I ride the El train back and forth. I buy a set of nice clothing khakis black leather shoes a white oxford a blue sport coat, so that I look like a young ambitious commuter, so that people think I'm a law student or an apprentice currency trader or a young executive at a large multinational corporation, all of which, in a certain ridiculous way, I am.

I go back to Milwaukee.

Detroit.

Rockford, Illinois.

Sometimes I receive envelopes, sometimes I don't. When I do, the amounts vary, as high as five thousand, as low as five hundred, usually somewhere around three thousand. I don't have a bank account, so I keep the cash hidden around my apartment. I put the bulk of it under my mattress. I put more in a plastic Ziploc bag and place the bag in the tank of my toilet. I put more in a Captain Crunch cereal box, I bury the bills beneath the crunchy nuggets. I put the rest in an empty box of dishwasher detergent that sits beneath my sink. I never carry much cash with me because I don't want to draw attention to myself.

My friends ask me what I'm doing, ask me why I left my bar job. I tell them I left because it was too much to work in a bar too much temptation and torture. They ask how being in bars with them is any different I tell them when I was working I had to stand there I was bored out of my skull the boredom made me want to drink. When I'm in a bar with them I can occupy myself, talk, laugh, shoot pool, drink cola after cola after cola,
that it is easier to be distracted. I tell them in a certain way it is easier when I'm with them because I see how they act when they're drunk and it reminds me of who I don't want to be and how I don't want to behave. They ask me how I'm making money I tell them I don't have much and what I do have is borrowed. They ask what I'm doing with my time, I tell them I'm trying to make it pass. And that at least is true. Sometimes all I want is for my time to pass.

 

M
y phone rings. It is morning. I'm smoking cigarettes, staring at the fucking ceiling. I pick it up.

Hello?

My son, I'm coming to town. Good times are on their way.

What's up, Leonard?

I'm up, you're up, that's what the fuck is up.

When are you coming?

This afternoon.

You want me to meet you at the airport?

Remember that steakhouse we went to with your friends?

Yeah.

Meet me there. Six o'clock.

Okay.

And call some of your friends. See if we can meet them out after we eat.

Okay.

You want anything from Vegas?

Can you bring me a showgirl who'll make all my troubles go away?

I actually can.

I laugh.

That's okay.

You sure?

Yeah.

If you change your mind, I'll be here for another hour.

Okay.

See you at six.

Yeah.

I hang up, smoke, stare at the fucking ceiling. The ceiling doesn't have much to say to me this morning, can't tell me why I can't get off my bed,
can't tell me why my sorrow is starting to feel like rage, can't tell me how I'm supposed to deal with it, can't tell me shit. I smoke, stare, wait, wait, wait, nothing.

Sometime in the afternoon I get up, take a shower, pull some cash from beneath my mattress, put on my nice clothes. I call my friends see what they're doing tonight they're going to a pool hall/bowling alley, I tell them I'll meet them around nine. I leave, start walking it's not as cold, spring is slowly asserting itself. It's harder to become numb, I have to walk longer, wear less, it still doesn't always work, my body has adjusted to the cold. It takes an hour to get to the restaurant. When I walk in the host greets me, says nice to see you again, sir. I ask if Leonard is here he says yes, let me show you to his table.

We walk into the restaurant it's early so it is almost empty. Leonard is sitting in the corner, facing out, he sees me stands.

My son!
My son!
MY SON!

I laugh.

Hello, Leonard.

Come sit, come sit.

The host guides me to the table, pulls out my chair. I sit down, I am also facing out. Host walks away. I speak.

So it's true.

What's true?

Men like you never sit with your back to the door.

He laughs.

No way.

No way what?

Back to the door. That's bullshit.

Doesn't look like bullshit to me.

I'm a people person, a motherfucking people person. I sit this way so I can see the people.

The people?

Yeah, the people. I love them. That's me.

I laugh again.

Where's Snapper?

I left him at home.

Why?

This isn't a business trip. I just came to see you.

Thanks.

Thought it would be good to spend time together just us.

That sounds cool.

How's life?

I laugh.

Which part of it?

Which part do you want to talk about?

I like my new job.

I knew you would. What are you doing with all the money?

Hiding it.

Under your mattress?

Yeah.

In a cereal box?

Yeah.

In the toilet tank?

Yeah.

You probably thought you were being real sneaky.

I did.

Not good, my son. Everybody knows those spots.

I also got some in a dishwasher detergent box. Keep it under the sink. You know that one?

No, never heard that one before.

If I get robbed, at least I'll have that.

You're not gonna get robbed. I'm gonna teach you how to deal with the cash.

Okay.

He reaches into his pocket, draws out a black leather wallet, passes it to me.

There's an Illinois driver's license in there. It's a valid license, and it will register on the State's computers. I got a picture of you that I took at the treatment center and doctored it a bit, it looks real. I also invented a name for you.

I take the license out of the wallet, look at it. It looks real.

James Testardo?

Yeah. Testardo means stubborn in Italian. I thought it would be funny if you could call yourself Jimmy Testardo.

I laugh.

Okay.

The address on the license is an empty house owned by a shell company I am very very loosely associated with, though there is no record of the association. Go to a bank, the bigger and more anonymous the bank the better, and get a safe deposit box. Whenever you go there, wear a hat or sunglasses or something that slightly alters your appearance. Put your money in the account, and put it in slowly and in manageable amounts, three, four, five thousand at a time. Never approach ten thousand, because at ten thousand the bank is required to notify the IRS of the deposit.

Once it's in there, take it out in cash as need be. Don't pay your bills with checks, always use money orders purchased with cash. If you start to accumulate too much, go buy something expensive, something in the three, four, five thousand range. Buy it with a credit card. If you don't have one, I can get one for you, in the Testardo name if you want it that way. Pay the credit card off in several installments using money orders purchased with cash. When you do buy something, I would advise buying small things, like watches or art or silver, jewelry, rare books, and don't go showing it off to people. Buy things you can sell for cash if you're ever in a jam, that can be moved quickly and easily. Use common sense and don't draw attention to yourself and you'll be fine.

I think I can handle that.

I know you can. You got any questions?

No.

You wanna order?

Sure.

Leonard motions for the waiter. We order lobsters and filets, creamed spinach and baked potatoes. We drink water, I drink cola, Leonard drinks diet cola. We talk about the upcoming baseball season, talk about our friends from the treatment center. One was a fugitive, he was caught and sentenced to life in prison, no parole. Another was beaten to death outside of a bar. A third is missing. A fourth committed suicide by shotgun. A few are still okay, still holding on, still struggling. I tell Leonard I spoke with
our friend Miles, who is a Federal judge in New Orleans. He's still clean, feeling strong, taking care of himself. He's happy to be home, reunited with his wife and children, who he feared he might lose because of his alcoholism. Leonard smiles, asks me to tell Miles hello. He says he likes Miles, wishes he could stay in touch with him, but their respective positions prevent any sort of significant relationship.

Our food arrives, we eat. I ask Leonard about his ongoing quest to play golf on the Connecticut course where his father worked. He laughs, it's a bitter laugh, a laugh that masks anger and pain, he says no luck. I say sorry, he shrugs, says that's the way the world works, that people with privilege guard their privilege, that people take care of their own kind, that there are certain institutions that are exclusive whether it is right or not. He says it works the same way with his own organization, that only Italians can be full members, that there are no exceptions. I ask him what he's going to do he laughs again, the laugh different now anger mixed with menace, he says country club members do not take blood oaths, that there are certainly some that misbehave cheat on their wives sleep with whores run up gambling debts he is going to find one of them and have a conversation with that person and he will get in and play the course, just as his dying father made him promise he would.

We finish, our food is taken away. Leonard suggests we go to the bar for coffee and cigars. We stand as we walk away from the table he motions to the host we walk into the bar settle into two large plush comfortable chairs the host follows speaks to the bartender who walks into the bar's humidor. The bartender returns, hands the host a small box, the host walks toward us opens the box speaks.

Would you like a Cuban cigar?

Leonard smiles.

Matter of fact I would. Thank you.

Leonard reaches into the box chooses two cigars the host walks away.

Leonard takes a cutter from his jacket, carefully cuts the cigars, hands one to me, lights them.

You remember how to smoke?

Yeah.

I take a drag, swallow. The tobacco is sweet, strong, my mouth is immediately overwhelmed by it. I prefer cigarette tobacco. Leonard speaks.

These are good.

If you say so.

If you ever smoke a shitty one you'll be able to tell the difference.

I only smoke them with you.

Then you'll never smoke a shitty one.

Without having ordered it, coffee arrives. I take a sip, it's hot, strong, I feel it immediately, my heart starts racing.

Time for the serious talk, my son.

What's the serious talk?

I want to know how you're doing.

I'm doing fine.

What's that mean?

I don't know.

So you're not fine.

No, all things considered, I think I'm better than fine, much better than fine.

Explain.

I'm holding on, getting through the days, feeling stronger, feeling more comfortable with myself. I don't know how I'm doing it really, but I am, and each day is a step toward some form of normalcy and security, a step toward having a real life. If I was in hell before, I'm in purgatory now, and I feel like I can get to whatever's next. I still can't sleep right, I still have cravings all day every fucking day, I'm still nervous around and uncomfortable around people, and I still feel scared sometimes, but I'm okay with all of it. I've accepted that all this shit is just part of the price for my former life.

What are you scared of?

I don't know.

Yes you do.

When you've spent your whole life drinking and doing drugs, you learn how to do everything in a fucked-up way. I'm having to learn how to do everything over, and sometimes it's scary, and most of the time I feel scared.

If it makes you feel any better, I'm scared all the time too.

I laugh.

A big old tough guy like you? I don't believe it.

I used to think I was tough, but I've realized I wasn't. I was fragile, and I wore thick fucking armor, and I hurt people so they couldn't hurt me, and I thought that was what being tough was, but it isn't. What we're doing now is tough. Rebuilding, changing, having to deal with the damage, having to face the fear. If I make it through, then you can call me fucking tough.

You'll make it through.

We both will.

We'll see.

How you doing with your loss?

I miss her.

Did you think you wouldn't?

No, but I didn't think I would either, because I didn't think this was gonna happen. I was prepared for something else.

But it did.

Yeah, it did, and it fucking sucks and I miss her.

What do you miss?

I miss everything. I miss talking to her, hearing about her day. I miss her voice all gravelly and smoky, I miss hearing her laugh, I miss getting her letters, writing her letters. I miss her eyes, and the smell of her hair, and the way her breath tasted. I fucking miss everything. I miss knowing she was around, because it helped me to know that she was around, that someone like her existed. I guess most of all, I miss knowing I would see her again. I always thought I'd see her again.

You gotta respect what she did and that'll help you.

I don't know why the fuck you keep saying that.

It's true.

That's fucking crazy.

No it's not.

She killed herself, Leonard, threw in the fucking towel, and I feel sadness and confusion and a lot of hate, hate for myself for not being able to prevent it, and hate for her for actually doing it, but I don't feel respect.

You remember how she used to say that a second of freedom is worth more than a lifetime of bondage.

Yeah.

She chose freedom, and you should respect her decision and admire her
for being brave enough to follow through with it. It wasn't your kind of freedom, or my kind of freedom, but it was hers.

Suicide isn't freedom.

If all you feel is pain, and there's nothing but drugs to make it go away, and your choice is either living as addict or going out on your own terms, there's only one choice, and that's going out.