My Friend Leonard (10 page)

After the game we go to a restaurant. It's a simple Italian restaurant on the west side of the city, not far from the stadium. We walk in and Leonard and Snapper greet the owner, who leads us into a room behind
the main dining room. The room has a long, simple table covered with a white tablecloth, there are ten chairs around it. We sit and the owner asks what we would like to drink, colas for Leonard and me, a glass of red wine for Snapper. Leonard looks at me, speaks.

You give notice today?

I shake my head.

Nope.

Why not?

Spent the day in a museum.

Snapper speaks.

What'd you see?

All kinds of stuff.

Leonard speaks.

Get more specific, my son.

Do you know anything about art?

Leonard looks at Snapper.

Do we know anything about art?

Quite a bit, actually.

Leonard turns to me.

We know quite a bit.

I laugh.

How?

How? We read. We go to museums and galleries. We pay attention.

I would have never thought . . .

Snapper speaks.

Tell him how we got into it.

Leonard speaks.

I have a house on the beach outside of LA. Every summer the town puts on this thing called the Pageant of the Masters.

Snapper speaks.

I love the Pageant of the Masters.

Leonard nods.

What they do is make stage sets that look actually like famous paintings.

So let's say they were doing The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci.

They'd get a bunch of men, dress them up so they look exactly like the Apostles in the painting. They'd get another fella and make him look like
the Jesus in the painting. They'd put everyone at a table that looked like the table in the painting in a room that looked exactly like the room in the painting. Then they pose in painting poses and they sit there.

Snapper speaks.

It's beautiful.

Leonard speaks.

And tons of people come see the paintings, which have now been brought to life.

Snapper speaks.

They look so real it's crazy.

Leonard speaks.

We've been going every summer for years.

Snapper speaks.

And every summer it gets better and better.

Leonard speaks.

We're knowledgeable about everything from Pre-Renaissance work to the Post-Impressionists.

Snapper speaks.

They don't do modern art very well. Too hard to break a real person down into some form of cubism, pure abstraction or minimalism.

Leonard speaks.

They do Matisse and Modigliani. Don't forget about them.

Snapper speaks.

I shouldn't have forgotten Matisse, but Modigliani is boring.

Leonard speaks.

His work is not as dynamic as some.

Snapper speaks.

It's boring. Fucking boring.

Leonard turns to me.

What do you think, my son?

About Modigliani or this conversation?

Both.

I like Modigliani. I think those women are weird and gorgeous. I'm sort of shocked by the conversation.

Everybody thinks we're barbarians, but we've got soft, sensitive, sophisticated sides to us.

Snapper speaks.

I'm very soft, sensitive and sophisticated.

I laugh. The door opens, waiters start bringing in food, Platters of antipasti, mozzarella and tomato, fried calamari, fried zucchini, zuppa di clams, Caesar salad, crostini with chopped liver. There is more food than the three of us could eat, I ask Leonard if he's expecting anyone else. He tells me that there may be a few people stopping by to say hello.

We start eating. The smell of the food on the table and the smells drifting into the room from the nearby kitchen, garlic oregano olive oil peppers Parmesan pesto, roasting chicken beef and veal, sautéed spinach and scampi, strong espresso and chocolate, ignite my hunger I start eating. I eat slowly, one thing at a time, though the addict in me and the alcoholic in me say go go go more more more. As we eat, we talk, talk about the game we just saw, Leonard and Snapper debate the merits of this restaurant against Italian restaurants in Manhattan and the Bronx. As we finish the first course, the door opens and two men step into the room. Both are large, thick, menacing men, with short hair, simple dark suits. Leonard and Snapper rise, greet them, introduce them to me. Both slip me cards when we shake hands, which I slip into my pocket. I'm curious to know what the cards are, what they say, who these men are, but I know I should wait, look at them later, if they wanted me to look at them now, they would have handed them to me, not slipped them to me.

As more food arrives, large platters of food, spaghetti with meatballs, linguini with clam sauce, penne rigatoni pappardelle, chicken scarpariello, chicken contadino, chicken cacciatore, veal cutlets chops, veal saltimbocca, osso bucco, lobster oreganato, scampi fra diavolo, more people arrive. The table is filled, there are people standing around the table, in every corner of the room. I meet men some obviously Italian some not all wearing dark suits and wedding rings, I get slipped card after card. I meet women all beautiful some with the men, none wear wedding rings, I get slipped a couple of phone numbers. There are handshakes, kisses on cheeks, back-slaps, laughter laughter laughter. There are cigars, cigarettes, red wine, white wine, beer, cocktails, colas for me I love an ice-cold cola. Leonard and Snapper are having a great time, laughing and happy, when I'm not talking to someone I'm watching them. Leonard commands the room everyone is aware of his presence when he talks to them, they listen, as he
moves from person to person, group to group, the attention is always focused on him.

Hours pass quickly pass. It's late, the room is still crowded. I'm full, tired, wired on caffeine and nicotine. My clothes smell like deep, strong cigars.

My shirt has stains on it grease and tomato sauce. My pocket is full of cards. I tell Leonard I'm going home I feel like I can sleep, he walks me outside. I speak.

You have a lot of friends, Leonard.

Most of those people were there to meet you.

Why?

You ask them what they do for a living?

No.

You look at those cards they gave you?

No.

Look at them when you get home.

Why?

Every card you got tonight is more or less a get out of jail free card. You come work for me and nothing is going to happen to you. Every person in there will guarantee it.

I laugh.

You're not gonna stop are you.

Not until you stop working at the bar.

I'll give notice tomorrow.

Leonard smiles.

Ha-ha! That's great news.

I laugh.

We don't use contracts, but I'm gonna give you a signing bonus.

I laugh again. He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a wad of rolled cash held together by a rubber band. He hands it to me.

I can't take this, Leonard.

Sure you can, and you're gonna.

No way. This is a ton of dough, I haven't done shit to earn it.

So what. Take it. It's your starting-up money.

No.

I hold the cash toward him. He shakes his head.

We've been through this before, my son.

What?

When someone wants to do something nice for you, don't argue, don't resist, don't say no, don't try to change their mind. Just smile and say thank you and think about how fortunate you are to have generous people in your life.

That's a lot of fucking money, Leonard.

Just smile and say thank you.

I put the cash in my pocket.

Thank you, Leonard.

It's good to have you, great to have you!

I laugh.

I need to go home.

Hold on.

He walks to a black town car sitting at the curb, knocks on the window.

The window rolls down, he speaks to the driver, shakes his hand, turns to me.

You have a ride.

I walk to the car.

Thanks for the game, dinner, the cash.

That's your signing bonus. You're gonna earn it.

I laugh.

Yeah. Since I got you to quit, and take a real job, I'll be leaving in the morning.

Safe travels.

Thank you.

When do I start?

Not sure. Somebody will come see you.

And they'll also tell me what I'm supposed to do?

Yeah.

Cool.

See you soon, my son.

Thanks for everything, Leonard.

He nods. I get in the backseat of the car.

I go home.

 

M
y mother comes to visit me. My parents live in Tokyo and I don't see them very often. They are responsible for getting me into the treatment center. I haven't always liked them, and I have hurt them over and over and over through the course of my life, but they have always loved me. I am lucky to have them.

My mother sees my apartment, laughs. She asks me where I sleep, where I sit, I tell her the floor. She shakes her head and says not good, James, not good. She calls someone in Michigan, which is where they used to live, they still have a house it sits empty now. She asks the person about furniture in storage, how easy is it to access, she asks if they can send me a bed and a desk and a table. She hangs up, says I'll have a bed and a desk and a table in a few days.

We go downtown. We walk down Michigan Avenue. My mother and father are both from suburban Chicago, met here, were married here. They didn't have any money when they were married, they spent their honeymoon in a downtown hotel. As we walk, my mother points out restaurants they went to, parks where they sat, held hands, kissed, stores where they wandered, looking at things they couldn't afford, hoping someday, someday. It's nice to hear her memories, I like that she's sharing them with me. It feels like a door opening, a door to her, to my father, to their life. It's a door that I have never acknowledged before, a door that I'm happy to step through, a door I'm fortunate to have still be open.

We go to lunch. A fancy place, a place my mother knows and loves, she tries to eat there every time she's in town. We wait for a table, sit, napkins on lap, glasses of water. My Mom starts asking me questions. How are you doing, I'm okay. How are you feeling, depends, I go up and down, way up and way down, mostly I'm down. Is it hard staying sober, yeah it is, every second of every day is a struggle, I know I'll die if I do it, sometimes I feel
like I want to die. Do you need help, no, I'll get through it, I gotta believe I'll get through it. She asks about Lilly, I just shake my head. She asks what happened, I just shake my head, say it didn't work out, I don't want to talk about it, can't talk about it. She says that's too bad, I had hoped that would work out for you. I cannot respond.

As we finish our meal, someone approaches our table. I vaguely recognize the person, but can't place him.

James?

Yeah?

David. From school.

I still can't place him, pretend.

Yeah, how you doing?

Good. What are you doing here?

This is my Mom. We're eating lunch.

He looks at my mom.

Nice to meet you.

Mom speaks.

You too.

He looks back at me.

I'm surprised to see you because I heard you were in prison. For popping some cop.

My mom cringes.

Where'd you hear that?

I'm not sure.

As you can see, I'm not.

I guess. You living here now?

Yeah.

You wanna get together sometime?

Sure.

He reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet.

You still partying?

I shake my head.

No.

He takes a card from his wallet, hands it to me.

If you ever get the urge, call me.

Will do.

See you later.

Yeah.

He walks away. I look at my mom. She speaks.

I hope you never call him.

I won't.

He seemed like an asshole.

I laugh. My mom has never spoken like that around me. I have no idea who he is. I know I went to school with him, but other than that, nothing. Good. He's an asshole. I laugh again. We finish, leave, walk some more. My mom shares more of her memories, I listen, walk further through the door. We see the hotel where they spent their wedding night, a pizza place that my grandfather loved, a department store where my grandmother liked to buy presents. We see a jersey from the Chicago hockey team. My parents went to one of the team's games the night after they were married. They couldn't afford to do anything else, it was a big evening for them.

It starts to get dark, close to the time my mom will leave. Before she leaves, she wants to buy me some plates, forks, spoons, knives. Right now I use paper and plastic that I get from take-out restaurants. She thinks having normal possessions like plates, forks, spoons, knives will help normalize my existence, help me adjust more easily. We go to a store, look around, everything I like is black. My mom laughs, thinks it's strange that I like black plates and black utensils. I tell her that as much as she wants me to normalize, there are some parts of me that will always be a bit off. She laughs. We get all of the beautiful, semi-normal, black items.

We go back to my apartment. Put everything in the cabinets above my sink. My Mom has a car coming to pick her up, take her to the airport, she says she needs to go. I thank her for the day, a great day, probably the best day I have ever had with her. She smiles, starts to cry, she's happy, happy I'm alive, happy I'm becoming human, happy we can spend a day together without screaming. I give her a hug, walk her out, open the car door for her. The car pulls away.