My Friend Leonard by James Frey

You want a piece of cake?
    What?
    I just bought a cake. You want a piece?
    What kind is it?
    White on white.
    I need some cigarettes.
    If you want cake, I’ll be in my apartment.
    Mickey skulks away. I go to my apartment. I open the door, go to my little kitchen, set the cake on the counter. I open it, my oh my it is a beautiful cake. I get two plastic plates and a knife. I cut two pieces away and set them on the plates. I take the rest of the cake and I sit on the floor next to my bed. I carefully pick it up and take a big bite out of it. I chew my bite slowly, savoring the light, moist, airy cake and the sweet, thick, creamy frosting. I take another bite, another another. It’s a great cake. More than suitable for my promotion celebration.
    About halfway through my eating of the cake, there is a knock at my door. I stand, walk over, open it. Mickey is standing at the door, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He speaks.
    You have cake and frosting on your face.
    I smile.
    Is there any left?
    I saved some for you.
    He steps inside my apartment. I walk to the kitchen, get one of the plates with cake on it, get a plastic fork, give them to him. We sit on the floor, and as we eat, he tells me about his day.
    He is miserable. His boyfriend broke up with him at breakfast, told him he needed someone with more ambition than Mickey, someone whowanted more out of life than a job as building superintendent. Mickey told him it was temporary, that he was working to make it as a painter, that he felt his dreams were going to come true. The boyfriend said I need more than your dreams, Mickey, and he walked out.
    Mickey starts to cry. I eat my cake. I make sure to get some extra frosting on my face. When Mickey looks up, he sees me and he laughs. I speak. If you don’t eat yours . . .
    He laughs, starts eating. As we eat, we talk, he asks me where I’m from I tell him Cleveland, he asks why I moved here I say I moved for a girl, he asks if we’re still together I say yes we’re still together. I ask him the same things he’s from a small town in Indiana and moved here so he could be himself, could live as a gay man without being harassed, could try to make it as a painter. I ask him what he paints he says he’d rather show me than tell me. He finishes his cake and he stands and he leaves my apartment.
    I keep eating, I’m almost done. Five minutes later Mickey comes back with a painting and sets it carefully on the floor in front of me.
    It is a small painting, maybe six inches by six inches. The canvas is black at the edges. The rest of it is covered with tiny faces. Some are smiling, some are laughing, some are screaming, some are crying. The faces are painted in perfect miniature detail, they look like little photographs, and it’s a beautiful painting, beautiful and horrifying, full joy and misery, laughter and sorrow. Mickey speaks.
    What do you think?
    It’s great.
    You want it?
    Absolutely.
    It’s yours.
    Thank you.
    If you need a nail to hang it,
    I’ve got them.
    Once I decide where to put it.
    I’m gonna go. Thanks for the cake.
    Thanks for the painting.
    Sure.
    And forget about the boyfriend, that shallow fucker.
    He laughs.
    Yeah.
    He leaves. I finish my cake. When I’m done, I lick my lips and fingers and clean the excess from my chin and cheeks. I want to see Lilly. I usually walk to see her, but I’m tired, so I decide to take the train. I’ve never used the elevated train system of Chicago. I have been told it is simple and easy. I’m wary of it. Most of the time someone says something is simple and easy it turns out to be complicated and difficult.
    I put on my warm clothes. Get my last twenty dollars from beneath my mattress, which is where I keep my money. I wrap the last piece of cake, carefully wrap it. I leave, walk to the nearest train station. I look at the map, colored lines weaving through and across each other. I find the station on the