My Friend Leonard (16 page)

 

I
don't sleep well. I leave early the next morning. I kiss Brooke goodbye start walking try to walk off my fear it doesn't work. I walk all day walk until my legs hurt my feet hurt it doesn't work. I go back to my apartment read the Tao it doesn't work. I tell myself I have nothing to be scared of it doesn't work. I tell myself that she's not going to hurt me it doesn't matter. I tell myself I can deal with whatever comes I have been through worse endured worse it doesn't go away.

Brooke calls asks me how I'm doing I tell her okay. She asks if I want to meet her at a bar she's going out with Heather I say yes. Maybe I'll see her and feel differently, maybe, maybe.

I take a shower, change clothes, walk to the Local Option. I get there I see Brooke and Heather sitting at a table. I walk over to them as I walk I see Brooke looks upset. I arrive I speak.

Hi.

Hi.

Hi, Heather.

Hi, James.

I look at Brooke.

How you doing?

Brooke glances at Heather, looks back at me.

I'm fine.

I pull up a chair, sit across from her.

What's wrong?

Nothing.

Something's wrong.

It doesn't matter.

Yes it does.

She shakes her head.

Just tell me.

She glances at Heather again, looks back at me.

We were standing at the bar and some guy came up next to me and grabbed my ass. I asked him what he was doing and he said grabbing your sweet ass and he did it again.

Is he here?

It doesn't matter.

Is he here?

Heather points to three guys standing against the bar, speaks.

He's the one in the middle.

I stand up.

I'll be right back.

Brooke speaks.

What are you going to do?

Don't worry about it.

I start walking toward the three against the bar. A gate inside of me opens. I am flooded with rage, fear, aggression, an urge to protect and an urge to inflict, an overwhelming urge to destroy destroy destroy. I know this feeling lived with it for years the Fury is back. I don't like it, it almost killed me before, it is back. My heart starts pounding. I clench my fists, clench my jaw. Every cell in my body tenses, prepares, tightens up, coils. My mind slows down my eyes focus on three men leaning against the bar. They are all about the same size as me, they are facing the bar, facing away from me. They wear pressed khakis, leather shoes, stiff-starched shirts, expensive watches. They have clean-shaven faces and short, conservative haircuts. They may wipe me out, I may wipe them out, maybe nothing happens. I'm trying to control myself, trying to prepare.

I stop a couple of feet behind them, speak.

Excuse me.

No response. I raise my voice.

Excuse me.

One of the others not the one in the middle turns around.

Yeah?

I want to talk to your friend.

He taps his friend on the shoulder, motions toward me. The one in the middle turns around.

Yeah?

My heart is pounding. I motion to Brooke and Heather, who are watching us.

Don't touch her again. Don't touch her friend.

His friends turn toward me.

What?

She doesn't want you touching her again. It was inappropriate the first time, there shouldn't be a second time.

Who are you?

Doesn't matter.

Did she ask you to talk to me?

Doesn't matter.

I stare at him. He looks back at me. I'm nervous tense scared ready to go not sure what I'm going to do about his friends. He looks at each of them, looks back at me.

There are three of us and one of you.

I stare at him. Three of them, one of me. I don't know what I'm going to do.

I don't care how many of you there are. Don't touch her again.

We stare at each other. I see Derek reach beneath the bar for a short, thick, wooden club he walks toward us, speaks.

James?

I look up at him.

There a problem?

I look back at the one in the middle, he looks toward Derek, sees the club.

He speaks.

No problem.

He turns back to me.

Tell your friend I'm sorry.

Thank you.

I walk back to the table sit down with Brooke and Heather. Brooke speaks.

What happened?

He told me to tell you he's sorry.

What'd you say to him?

It doesn't matter. He's not going to touch you again.

She takes my hand.

Thank you.

Don't worry about it.

She can feel me shaking.

Are you okay?

I'll calm down in a few minutes.

She smiles.

Thank you for doing it.

I nod.

Sure.

I sit with them, drink a cola or two, smoke, wait to calm down. My hands stop shaking but the calm never comes. The Fury stays with me, taunts me, says drink motherfucker drink motherfucker, says destroy destroy, says I'm going to hurt you. I haven't felt like this felt the Fury like this since rehab I already feel fragile and vulnerable. I don't want to be in a bar right now. I want to make the Fury go away and alcohol destroys it. I want to drink. With each moment the need grows, grows, each moment is more of a struggle to resist. I need to leave. I want to drink. I need to leave. I wait for the three at the bar to leave first, I don't want Brooke alone with the one in the middle. They leave after an hour I watch them go I wait five minutes stand, look at Brooke, speak.

I gotta go.

What's wrong?

I just can't be here right now.

I'll come with you.

Stay here, have a good night. I need to be alone.

I lean over, kiss her goodbye, walk out of the bar. I start walking down the street. I want to calm down. I want this Fury to leave me. I want to feel safe, I want the urges to go away. This shouldn't be so difficult this shouldn't be bothering me. I know my problems are nothing. I know I have been through worse, seen worse, felt worse. I know my problems are minuscule and pathetic compared to other problems in the World. I know I should get the fuck over them and deal. Knowing, however, doesn't make a difference. If anything, knowing just makes me feel stupid, feel weak, feel worse.

I walk for hours, for the rest of the night. I walk and I look and I don't find anything no answers nothing. I'm the same person feel the same as
when I walked out of the bar. I don't want to admit it but I know I can't go on I'm not ready to be with anyone but myself. She could hurt me. I am protective of her, feelings that strong are dangerous for me. I'm scared. I go to her apartment I say hello to the doorman he knows me now I go upstairs knock on her door. It's nine in the morning she should be up she answers the door in her pajamas. She smiles, speaks.

You don't look so good.

I'm not.

She invites me inside I walk into her apartment. I walk into her living room sit down on her couch, she walks into the kitchen.

You want a cup of coffee?

Sure.

She pours two cups, puts some milk in her cup, walks in the living room.

She hands me one of the cups, sits down next to me. She kisses me on the cheek, pulls back.

You look sad.

I shrug.

What's wrong?

I look down, shake my head. I hate myself, hate my weakness, hate that I can't go on. She puts her hand on my hand.

What's wrong?

I look up, shake my head, bite my lip. She watches me for a moment, reaches for her cigarettes.

You want a smoke?

I nod. She hands me a cigarette, lights it, lights one for herself, looks at me.

You can't go on, can you?

No.

Why?

I just can't.

Did I do something?

I shake my head, bite my lip. I don't want to cry.

Then what's wrong?

I'm just fucked-up. Confused and scared and fucked-up.

A tear starts rolling down one of my cheeks.

It doesn't have anything to do with you.

Both cheeks.

And I wish it wasn't this way.

Tears down both cheeks she nods, leans forward, puts her arms around me, speaks.

I thought this might happen. I could see you hurting all the time and wanted to do something for you. I don't know what happened to you before, but I'm sorry, and I hope you can get over it, and if you need a friend, you know where I am.

I let her hold me and I cry. I'm sick of fucking crying there has been too much in the last year too much. I'm sick of crying. Brooke holds me and lets me and even though nothing is right and I hate myself for leaving her I feel okay because she's holding me.

I cry.

I'm so fucking sick of it.

I cry.

 

I
find Leonard's card five names five numbers I start at the top pick up my phone dial the first number it rings rings rings a voice.

Yeah?

Mr. Sinatra available?

No.

Voice hangs up the phone I dial the next number. Ring ring a voice.

Hello?

Mr. Kennedy available?

No.

Next number.

Mr. Bob Hope please?

He's not here.

Next number.

Joe DiMaggio around?

Nope.

Final number.

May I speak to Leonard?

Who's this?

James.

He's not here. You want to leave a message?

Tell him I called.

Will do.

Thanks.

I hang up. Five minutes later my phone rings. I pick it up.

Hello?

My son, you called.

Yeah.

What's wrong?

Nothing. I want to go back to work.

Why?

I just do.

You left her, didn't you?

Why do you think that?

I can hear it.

Yeah, I left her.

I'm sorry.

Shit happens.

Don't try to be cool with me. You're upset. I can hear it in your voice.

You're right, I am upset. Nothing to do but move on, try to keep myself occupied. That's why I want to work.

I'll see what we got, maybe try to come visit later this week. Cheer your ass up.

That would be cool.

You need anything?

What I need I can't have.

That's the fucking truth. Keep away.

Call me if you're coming.

I will.

Thanks, Leonard.

Goodbye, my son.

I hang up.

What I need I can't have. I drink coffee smoke cigarettes read the Tao go for long walks wander the galleries of the art museum talk to Lilly don't sleep. Time moves slowly. What I need I can't have. I want to stay occupied. I wait for the phone to ring.

 

K
nock on my door. It's around noon I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling I get up knock again I stand in front of the door.

Who is it?

I hear Leonard's voice.

Mr. Happy and his Cheer Squad.

I laugh, open the door. Leonard and the Snapper walk into my apartment. I speak.

This is a surprise.

Leonard speaks.

We got some business in New York. We set up our travel schedule so we have an eight-hour lay-over.

I look at Snapper.

How you doing, Snap?

I'm the fucking Cheer Squad. Nothing better than that.

I laugh again. Leonard speaks.

Throw on some nice clothes and grab your credit card, we have an appointment.

Where?

Surprise.

What are we doing?

Bringing some beauty to your life.

What's that mean?

It means throw on some nice clothes and grab your credit card, we have an appointment.

I need to take a shower.

Fine. We'll wait.

I go into the bathroom, take a quick shower, go to my room, put on my nice clothes, Leonard and the Snapper and I leave. We walk to the curb
get into a large white Benz start driving downtown. Leonard asks me if I'm hungry I say no, he says he's hungry we stop at a small restaurant he eats a green salad. He finishes the salad we get back into the car drive into the gallery district of Chicago park the car on the street get out of the car start walking down the street. Leonard speaks.

Do you know what happened to this neighborhood a couple years ago?

I have no idea.

The art market crashed and it, like every gallery district in the country, got fucking crushed. Do you know what that means for us?

I have no idea.

It means most of these galleries are on the verge of bankruptcy and they're desperate to sell their inventories and they're willing to make very, very, very good fucking deals. Do you know why we're here?

To buy art?

More specifically.

I don't know.

We're here to find you a Picasso.

You're kidding me.

Leonard looks at Snapper.

Am I kidding him?

Snapper looks at me.

He ain't fucking kidding you.

I look at Leonard.

I can't afford a Picasso.

You can't afford a painting. You can't afford a large drawing or an important drawing, but you can most likely afford something small.

Snapper speaks.

Picasso's work is surprisingly affordable.

Leonard speaks.

Snap has a couple of his own.

Snapper speaks.

I have a nice crayon drawing of a woman's head and a pencil drawing of a dove.

Leonard speaks.

And he got 'em cheap because dealers need to sell.

We stop in front of a building. Leonard speaks.

I did some research before we arrived. There's a place in here. High-end, but not super high-end. They have nice pieces in stock and they're in a deep, deep financial hole.

He opens the door and we step into the building. The gallery is on the second floor, we walk up a flight of stairs. Snapper opens a polished steel door we step into a large open room with white walls a gray wood floor and a lofted ceiling. Art hangs on the walls, some pieces are large abstract colorful some are small simple drawings, some are minimal monotone panels. In the back corner of the room there is a reception desk, behind it a door that leads into an office. Leonard looks at me, speaks.

Let's go back there.

We walk toward the office. As we approach it, an attractive woman in her late thirties steps out. She has short black hair, wears deep red lipstick, a black suit. She smiles.

May I help you?

Leonard speaks.

We're looking for Picasso drawings.

I have a few.

We'd like to see them.

Come with me.

We walk through the door into a small room. There is a large cabinet against one wall, the drawers are labeled with artists' names, a couple of small framed drawings sit on top of it. There are two chairs against another wall, a door against a third. The woman speaks.

Have a seat, I'll be right back.

Snapper offers us the chairs we sit. The woman walks through the door, quietly closes it behind her. I look at Leonard, speak.

This is fucking weird.

He laughs.

Why do you think it's weird?

The idea that I might be going home with a Picasso is just weird.

Get over it.

I laugh.

What do I do with it when I get home?

You put it on your fucking wall, what do you think you do?

What if someone steals it?

Leonard looks at Snapper.

Snapper?

Snapper looks at me.

You find 'em and you fucking shoot 'em.

I laugh. The woman opens the door. She steps into the room with one small drawing, probably eight by ten, and a slightly larger one, probably ten by twelve. She moves the drawings currently on the cabinet and replaces them with the new ones. We stand and look at them.

Leonard speaks.

If what you see doesn't move you, make you smile, make you happy, make you feel something, then fuck it, don't buy it.

I laugh. The woman laughs. I look back at the drawings. The woman speaks.

You feel anything?

I shake my head.

No.

I have more.

She picks up the drawings, leaves, comes back a few moments later with two more. I look at them feel nothing she leaves brings back two more nothing two more. I like one of them. It's two pieces of paper set on top of each other, a smiling male face is simply drawn in blue crayon across both of them. The word
papiers
is scrawled in gray pencil across the top of the lower piece of paper, the word
colles
is scrawled along the bottom of the top piece of paper. A large star, also in gray pencil, is haphazardly drawn over both pieces and the blue face, Picasso signed his name in large letters along the bottom. The work is about fourteen inches wide and twenty-eight inches tall, and it is housed in an old, ornate, black, carved-wood frame. I look at it and it makes me smile. I imagine Picasso sitting in a messy studio somewhere in France, I imagine him making it while he was bored, I imagine him sticking it in a drawer and forgetting about it. Maybe he gave it away, maybe he sold it when he needed some money, maybe someone found it after he died, I don't know how it ended up here, in this gallery in Chicago, but I look at it and it makes me smile and I know it's going home with me.

I ask the woman how much she tells me, Leonard says no way, that's above-market and he gives her a number. She responds they go back and
forth back and forth until they arrive at an agreeable price. They look at me I smile and say okay.

I give the woman my credit card she says she prefers checks. I say I prefer credit cards she says okay she rings it up. I sign the slip. She asks me if I'd like it delivered, I say no I'll take it with me.

I pick it up, take it off the cabinet. Leonard and Snapper and I thank the woman and we walk out of the gallery. I carry the Picasso under my arm. I smile as I walk I have a Picasso under my arm I think it's completely ridiculous. Leonard looks at me, smiles, speaks.

You look good with that thing.

I laugh. He looks at Snapper, speaks.

He looks good with it, doesn't he?

Snapper speaks.

It really fits him.

Maybe he should come back tomorrow and buy another one.

Why not? You only live once.

That is certainly the truth. You only live once, buy Picassos whenever possible.

We laugh, walk down the street back to the Mercedes, get inside, pull away. We drive back to my apartment. Leonard says they have to get to the airport, they have a flight in a few hours. I say thank you for stopping it has been a great day. Leonard says no problem, we'll be back soon.

I get out of the car, they pull away. I walk into my apartment. I don't have a hammer or a nail so I lean my Picasso against the wall near my bed. I laugh every time I see it.