My Friend Leonard by James Frey Page A

map, find Lilly’s station on the map, buy a token, step to the platform, wait. The train comes, I make the transfer, arrive at Lilly’s station. The trip is simple and easy. I now know how to use the elevated train. So much for my bullshit theory.
    I walk, stop at a flower shop, spend eighteen dollars on red roses.
    I give her the roses.
    I give her the last piece of cake.
    I tell her about my day. The best day I’ve had on my own in Chicago.
    I got a promotion.
    I went for a nice, long walk.
    I spent my hard-earned money on something beautiful.
    I ate that beautiful thing, and it was tasty.
    I made a friend.
    I was given a gift.
    I learned something.
    It was a great, great day.
    I tell Lilly I love her, miss her. I spend my last dollar on a token home. Part of me expects Lilly to be waiting for me. I would give everything for her to be waiting for me. She’s not. I’m alone. I lie down, can’t sleep.
    I wait for the darkness.

 
    I start my new job. The bar is small, nondescript, in the lower level of a large building, beneath a clothing store. Eight steps lead from the street to the ten tables, two pinball machines, televisions in two corners continuously playing sports. There is a popcorn machine near the door, the popcorn is free. There are three employees working at any given time, a bartender, waitress, doorman. Bartender Ted and waitress Amy always work the same shift as me. They are boyfriend/girlfriend, and in between serving the dozen or so customers usually in the place, they stand at the corner of the bar smoking cigarettes, giggling, whispering and kissing. I stand outside. It’s cold as hell and I’m always numb. I always have a roll of drink tickets in my pocket. I’m supposed to offer them to anyone and everyone who walks by the bar, they are redeemable for either a free shot of watermelon liqueur or a free kamikaze. No one in the first three days takes me up on the offer, so now I rarely bother. When I do bother I choose people who I’m sure will say no, such as children, the elderly, or the very very well-dressed, and I beg them to go inside, tell them my job is on the line, tell them I desperately need their help. Every single one of them says no. From midnight on, I only see a few people. I stand and shiver and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes I test myself to see how long I can go without moving, I can last about two hours. Sometimes I sing to myself, sing silly love songs with titles like Just Once, Secret Lovers, Lost in Love, Down on Bended Knee. I don’t know how or why I know the words, I just do.
    Sometimes I flip a quarter over and over, keep track of how many times heads, how many times tails, for some reason there are usually moreheads. Sometimes I talk to Lilly. Carry on long conversations with her. Talk about random things, the news, something I saw while I was walking, something I read. I talk to her about our plans the plans we made while I was in jail. Where we wanted to live, the jobs we wanted to get, maybe marriage, maybe kids, what the kids would be named, she wanted a little girl, I wanted a little boy. Sometimes I cry while I talk to her. Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I feel stupid, but I keep talking anyway. Sometimes I just stop, I have her image in my mind, and I have to stop.
    My shift ends at four. I punch out, leave. It’s always dark, the streets empty. I walk south into steel and concrete canyons. I move up and down vacant blocks, stare up at fifty, eighty, hundred and ten story monoliths, watch streetlight shadows move across lower floors, kick deserted papers, cups and bags lying on curbs. I walk down the middle of wide boulevards, stand on the centers of iron bridges, sit alone in huge sprawling plazas, parks, long expanses of dead public grass. I am the only person awake, the city and its citizens are asleep, my footsteps my breath and the whistling screaming wind are all I hear. The city is reduced, ceases to be a city,