Leonard

Leonard Franks had a massive collection of blank notebooks. Without a bookshelf each one migrated to the coves of his apartment. The more elegant ones scooted closer to the desk with hopes to be seen first, their smooth matte surfaces coming in every color from plum to buttered corn. The ones covered with “Look to the Stars…” and “Live Inspired” napped in drawers of nightstands or could be caught gossiping under the sofa. Whatever their antic of choice one thing was for certain, they were always multiplying. Leonard was always in the market for one more; something about those blank pages in the bookstore made him feel the potential of his thoughts having a place where they mattered.

The rest of the world was, in essence, the worst. Everyone was caught up in their own fervor, charmed only by traits they could find in a mirror, and the stories told were all building toward a punch line more than relevant information. Leonard felt no room to breathe. How many times he had fumbled out into the world, ready to mingle having learned something new, and it fell on deaf ears and mouths waiting for their turn to talk. “This one”, he thinks to himself, running his fingertips over the soft ruled pages of a particularly stunning Frida Kahlo Moleskine, “Someday I’ll write myself all over this one; no one to interrupt or add uninvited advice.” He could be a writer, you know, if only he had the time. His job at Lulu’s Laundromat took almost all of his time. The phone rings (a call about an extended vehicle warranty to a man without a car) and Leonard sets the blank notebook on top of the fridge and pushes “someday” further away.

Saturday morning, Leonard scoots his feet over to his door to pick up his paper. He skips a plate and resolves to vacuum later while eating his toast. He ponders a nap and lays down on his couch, his neck will have to suffer since the pillows are all the way in his bedroom. His eyes lose focus and drift to center; he pleasantly falls into the afternoon. Two hours later his eyes reluctantly open, oddly looking to the left of the TV as if he had heard something. He notices a little black book next to a pile of clothes on the floor, one he doesn’t remember bringing home. There’s a pen next to it, had he actually written in this one? He opens it to find, in his own handwriting:

21 34 41 42 50 7

He dials the numbers in his phone, disconnected. He dials the numbers backward in his phone, disconnected. He stares at the page, wondering how many other people had written a riddle for themselves, and are they stupid or genius? He decides to think about it later and daydreams about a cheeseburger with both ketchup and mayonnaise. He contemplates putting on pants as a lotto commercial comes on, he watches with his mouth agape as a hypothesis about his riddle pours into his head. “The game is afoot”, Sherlock Holmes might have said; Leonard starts looking for his pants.

Later that evening he finds the door to Randall’s is propped open, Leonard trips in having, again, forgotten the step up. He gives a hearty laugh as nothing can bother him tonight. Brushing himself off he scans the bar looking for anyone else ready to have a Saturday night. All backs are turned other than Randy, the bartender, who gives a courteous head nod and promptly turns his attention to a rack of glasses. He surveys the crowd: Brandy’s a martyr, Jimmy and Clive only talk about Civil War reenactments, Tommy and Matt never shut up, and then there’s Sam who never wanted the 70’s to end. He decides to go with the lesser of evils. Slapping Jimmy and Clive on the backs like they're old army buddies, Leonard sits next to them only to find his camaraderie ended their conversation. He fidgets with the buttons on his shirt a bit then stares forward.

“What’ll it be, Lenny?” Randy asks. “Whiskey, neat, go ahead and give me the good stuff.” Lenny responds, his eyebrows bouncing around like ticker tape that reads “Breaking News.” Lenny misses his cue to say “Much obliged” when Rudy sets down the glass in front of him, too busy surveying the scene for eye contact. He smells the whiskey, he sips the whiskey, he purses his lips, and exhales loudly. And just like always, his mind sinks into a dark coat closet, having never been invited to the party but refusing to leave. The whiskey may or may not help, but he isn’t going to let his night get ruined. He pinches the lotto ticket in his pocket to double check that it’s real, downs his whiskey in one gulp, waves his hand yelling “Garcon” at Randy to order a refill, and smiles to himself imagining coats brushing his face. Lenny misses his cue again and can hear Randy saying “Lenny seems to be in a mood tonight” as he kisses his glass and drinks, pinky up. What he did not hear is Brandy’s response: “Yeah, he usually never shuts up."

Sunday morning, Leonard scoots his feet over to his door to pick up his paper. He sprawls the Sunday edition all over his couch, skipping right to the Sports section. While reading about the Yankees’ terrible trade he sees the little black book out of the corner of his eye, this time on the coffee table nestled among abandoned pistachio shells . Unable to help himself he throws the Sports section behind him and kisses the front cover of the book. He opens it to look at the numbers again and he sees something new, also written in his handwriting:

People don’t like you.

It creeps up his spine and swells his chest. Why did he write that? And it isn’t true; it’s a dumb thing to write. He has plenty of friends down at Randall’s. Sure they were barflies and weren’t the most intelligent people but they were friends, right? Leonard gets up to brew coffee, hoping he had drunkenly bought some better coffee on his way home last night. He had not.

After reading the rules over and over, Leonard addresses the ticket for the post and counts from April 3rd to April 17th over and over in his head. Then he dares to let his head imagine the number 20,000. He had won $20,000 freaking dollars. Over half a year’s salary. He could get a car or maybe go to Branson like he always wanted and still have enough left for a nice savings account. Or, hell, maybe he would just quit his job.

That afternoon, Leonard rubs his fingers, greasy from his cheeseburger with ketchup and mayonnaise, all over the business section before calling his Mom. After chattering with her about the weather, his job and other niceties, Leonard hears his Mom sigh saying, “Lenny is this important, I’m kind of in the middle of something” and he stares at the black coffee he hadn’t finished, thinking about the little black book he scoffed at hours before. His heart pounding through his fingertips, Leonard hangs up the phone and looks for his pants. Maybe tonight he’ll sit next to Brandy. Or maybe he’ll just sit by himself.

The next morning, his head was pounding as he checked the cabinets to see if he had bought better coffee. He had not. He catches his reflection in the coffee pot and sees swelling in his left eye and a scratch across the bridge of his nose, unaware if he fell or fell on someone’s fist. He grabs the frozen cauliflower he’ll never eat from the freezer, plops it on his face, moves some blank notebooks, plops on the couch, and stares into the dull ring that will be the rest of his day. His good eye sizes up the little black book. He tries to ignore it, but knows he can’t. Holding his breath he opens it:

You’ve won money, now lose your excuses.

And there it was, the truth, in his own handwriting.

***

“Why don’t you let me buy you a shooter?” bellows Clive from the corner of the bar. “Oh, for Lenny it’s on the house tonight” grins Randy. It had been a year since Leonard had heeded the advice from the mysterious notebook. A year since he stopped talking so much and started listening and finally filling those notebooks with what he heard. The result was a five series book deal about his town and the people in it. “We are damn famous” breathes Brandy through her deeply floral perfume “and we have you to thank for it.” Leonard smiles at her saying “No, it is thanks to you all” while picturing himself leaving the coat closet never to return.