#fictional lenny

It's a small crowd from what he's used to, but it's a last minute show. Wednesdays used to be great going out nights back in the sixties, but these days, most people prefer to stay home. Hell, even on weekends. And he doesn't really blame them.

He's been partial to his recliner lately, too. He's an old man.

His brain, though.

His brain still works a mile a minute. He can't stop the freight train that is his mind.

So here he is. November 6th. Midnight.

"I should be sleeping, you know," he chides the audience. "You should be sleeping. And yet..."

It gets a few laughs.

No one really feels much like laughing right now.

He sighs again. "I thought about coming out here wearing my old prison jump suit. Maybe bringing a bucket of handcuffs for all of us to share. We'll probably need them next year. I certainly will, if my body decides to keep living."

No laughs.

"Yes, I know. That wasn't very funny. The handcuffs right now. They're not very funny, are they?" he takes a breath and fiddles with his cane. "I thought maybe love might be something I talk about instead. I always liked love. Well, I always loved love, really, who doesn't?" he pauses. "We know who doesn't. Never mind."

He does get a few more laughs out of that. People are loosening up just a little.

"Possibly the three most powerful words in any language: I love you. So powerful teenagers used to drop like bricks when sung by four guys from England with terrible haircuts."

More laughs.

"they were! What awful haircuts," he complains. "That's not the point. The point is...we are still here. And we still have each other, for a little while longer at least, and while we're here, and we still have each other, let's not waste the time. Life is so long, but time is so, so short. Do not squander one single moment. One single second."

He pauses and shrugs. "I suppose that isn't funny, either. It's hard to be funny tonight. I usually do not have this problem. Usually the jokes about incest and sex and politics and nutjobs like our old new orange dictator just flow, but..." he shrugs again, more exaggerated. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next month. Did you see how he gave a blowjob to that microphone? That rat bastard. Sucking off microphones is my job."

That does get a good laugh, and he grins.

"I suppose the point is...the point is that we do not have to give in to all of the hate and the fear and the bullshit. It doesn't have to be our lives. I mean, in a lot of ways, it will be our lives, because when the federal government is being run by an inept toddler with a size kink, you cannot help it, but still. In our little lives...in our little enclaves with our little families and our little groups...we don't have to. We don't have to."

Midge is working, and Lenny is working on his book, watching the kids while Midge and her parents are all out for the evening. He thought he might hate this. Not being out there, working. Living.

But it feels good to just...take care of everybody. Be the dependable one.

"I think you might be," Lenny says gently, rocking her and rubbing her back.

"It doesn't matter if I sleep," Esther tells him. "What if the world blows up while I'm sleeping?"

"I promise," he says gently. "If I notice the world starting to blow up after you fall asleep, I will wake you."

"Pinky swear?" Esther asks, lifting her head and her hand.

He hooks his pinky with hers. "Pinky swear."

She huffs and slumps against him. "I...might be tired."

"Yes, I know," Lenny nods. He settles her down in her bed and helps her get under the covers. "How about this? You go to sleep now, and if the world remains intact overnight, you and I will hit the bakery for breakfast, and be the heroes of everyone's morning."

Esther considers that for a moment before nodding. "Deal."

"Good," he grins, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams. I'll be in the office if you need me."

"Night, Lenny," the little girl mutters, her eyes drooping.

“You go to too much trouble,” he complains to his daughter as she settles carefully thought out tray of small bite snacks for everyone to nibble on and checks to make certain they have enough ice.

“You didn’t want to celebrate last year because Ethan was gone,” she reminds him gently. “Ethan is back now, so we get to celebrate you turning another year older, and the fact that he’s home safe and sound.”

Abe hesitates for a brief moment, thinking that over. “Did you get the toffee cake?” he asks. “Ethan and I both like the toffee cake.”

“I got the toffee cake,” Miriam confirms, rubbing his arm. “Go relax.”

He nods a little and sighs. “Alright. But don’t complain when there’s so much to clean up at the ending of the evening.”

“I promise you I will not,” Miriam chuckles, turning him around and marching him out of the kitchen.

He wanders down the hallway quietly for a moment, stopping to look at the photos hanging there.

A beautiful family photo from Miriam’s second wedding; standing on the beach at sunset, she and Lenny holding each other tightly with the children making ridiculous faces for the camera around them. A photo of all four children from 1970, laying in the living room on cushy pillows, looking up at the camera happily. An ancient photo of Lenny with a newborn Kitty in his arms. Kitty and Esther hugging in front of a big tree. Abe and Rose sitting together at the piano. Noah and Astrid reading Lily, Lan and Chaim a book. And the most recent addition: Ethan from the day he came home just a month or so ago, sitting with Miriam in Lenny’s garden.

“I like this wall, too,” Lenny’s voice tells him as the younger man walks over.

Abe nods slowly. “It is an indescribably feeling to watch one’s family grow and shift.”

“That it is,” Lenny agrees. “Drink?”

“that would be nice,” Abe admits, following his son-in-law into the office, where Lenny wanders to a small drink card and pours each of them a glass of scotch.

“So? Another year older,” Lenny says, handing him a glass.

Abe takes a sip and appreciates how smooth the obviously expensive liquor is. “It feels like I was marrying Rose a week ago. How did I get so very ancient?”

Lenny shrugs and grins, sitting at the desk. “I think it just sort of happens that way. I could have sworn I was in the Navy yesterday. Though, that might just be the trauma.”

Abe chuckles and sits as well. “I feel...good. About my life. I have some regrets. Obviously that comes with being human. But by and large, I feel as though I’ve done my best. Given what I can to those I care about. Worked hard to be my authentic self.”

“I don’t think anyone could argue with that assessment,” Lenny tells him with a kind grin.

They sit in silence for a long moment as they drink, Lenny has the window cracked open, letting in a cool, pleasant draft and light birdsong. Abe has always liked how kind Lenny is. How much he cares. Troubled though he may be by addiction and the law, Abe could see instantly, upon meeting the man in jail those many years ago, that there was something to him; that Miriam, if she chose this man, would finally be choosing right.

“Lenny.”

He lifts his eyebrows curiously, looking at Abe. “Yes, Abe?”

“I don’t like asking for promises,” he says. “I don’t think it’s reasonable to ask them of a flawed human being such as yourself.”

Lenny smirks and chuckles a little. “Another fair assessment.”

“But I need to ask you a favor.”

Abe knows the tone of his voice has gone serious, and his son-in-law’s smirk fades.

“Sure,” Lenny says.

Abe nods, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. It’s a big favor, considering the size and scope of their family, but he’s confident in the other man’s ability to see it through. “I need you to look out for everyone once I’m gone.”

Lenny’s mouth twists at the idea of Abe’s passing, and he holds up a wrinkled hand.

“I know,” Abe says. “I know it’s not a terribly upbeat topic to tackle, and especially not on a festive occasion, but it’s important to me. I’m the head of this family. And when I go, I have no doubt that by virtue of strength of will alone, Miriam will take that position, as much as I always thought it would be Noah. But we’re a big group now, and with the children getting older, they’ll start to find partners, likely have children of their own. Miriam will need your help to pay attention. She’s never been very good at it. I’m afraid she might get that from me. You, though.”

There’s a gentle, almost wistful look that flickers across Lenny’s face as he takes in those words, and after a moment he nods slowly.

“It’s not something you have to worry about now,” Abe tells him. “I hope to be around for a few more years at least. But it’s important to plan for these sorts of things.”

“I get it,” Lenny tells him. “And I’d be very happy to grant you the favor.”

Abe grins. “Thank you, Lenny.”

And Susie gets it. The guy’s been in and out of state-run treatment places where they scrambled up his brains with electro shock therapy and more, weirder drugs, and then the workhouse where rumor has it he got the shit kicked out of him for being too mouthy. his lung collapsed apparently at one point before he OD’d that one time.

His shit is fucked, and it makes total sense he wouldn’t have much of a burning desire to get up in front of a room full of people anymore.

Fucking sad as it is. The guy is a fucking genius.

But he’s written a play, and Susie sits down to read it one night. She figures it’ll probably be a little overwrought. A little angry. A little over the top.

She’s wrong.

She’s so fucking wrong, because it’s so fucking beautiful there’s fuckin’ water leaking out of her eyes.

It’s 1973 and she’s crying over Lenny fuckin’ Bruce’s melancholy, understated screenplay about addiction and life and fatherhood and justice and what the fuck.

She finishes at two in the morning, and immediately picks up the phone.

“Oh my god who’s in jail?” Midge’s voice tumbles down the line.

“Get here now,” Susie snaps. “Get here right fuckin’ now, Midge.”

“Susie? What is it, what’s wrong, what happened?”

“Lenny wrote a play and it’s fuckin’ gorgeous and I can’t sit here and process it alone.”

“He wrote a play?” Midge asks, and she sounds proud.

“Get here.”

She hangs up and waits, and it takes Midge about a half hour and then another little while to read the thing, and Susie watches her, sipping whiskey as she waits.

And when she’s done, Midge bursts into fucking tears. Not the leaky quiet ones Susie had.

Real fuckin’ tears.

“Right? It’s so good!”

“It is,” Midge squeaks out. “It’s so good. But- But I- Susie, he- I was so worried that he wasn’t really in there anymore, you know? Like after everything that happened to him, he was just...I mean he’s still Lenny. But he’s so quiet now, and he doesn’t laugh as much anymore, and I just- I was so sad that I thought my friend was gone, but he’s still in there.” She hugs the script to her chest. “We have to get this made.”

Susie nods in agreement as she tries to trade Midge the glass of booze for the screenplay, but the younger woman doesn’t let it go.

And she knows whatever happens between her dearest friend and the mess of a man who wrote a fucking masterpiece, she’s not going to be able to stop it.

“We will,” Susie says. “We’ll get it made.”

*****

Lenny wanders into her office the next day and smiles at Dinah. They’ve developed a strange little friendship where if Dinah knows Lenny is coming she gets him a cherry turnover and if Lenny is coming into the office he grabs her a knish from the street vendor down the road.

They trade, and Lenny takes a bite of the flaky pastry as he takes a seat on the couch, waiting patiently for his turn.

Things are good. He has a quiet apartment in the Village, and his kid is doing good in school, and he cooks dinner for her and he mostly writes opinion pieces and plays script doctor or ghost writer and makes pretty good money doing it.

No one in the industry really wants to touch him. He can’t believe Susie offered to rep him, considering everything. “Degenerate junkie” gets thrown around a lot, even though he’s three years clean, but what can you do?

“Get in here, you tall fuck!” Susie calls.

Lenny shrugs at Dinah and stands again, stepping into the office, finding not just Susie, but Midge. He grins around a mouthful of turnover and offers her a bite, but Midge just reaches up and brushes a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

“We read it,” Susie tells him.

He swallows. “We?” he asks, looking from one woman to the other. “Is it bad? Have you called me in to tell me it smells like unwashed dick cheese in person?”

“No,” Midge assures him. “but unwashed dick cheese is so fucking vivid and I’m stealing it,” she teases.

“It’s not like I’m using it,” Lenny chuckles. “Be my guest.”

“It’s fuckin’ good, Lenny,” Susie tells him. “And we’re gonna get it fuckin’ made. No matter fuckin’ what.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his eyebrows raising, his eyes lighting up a little.

“Yes,” Susie says. “Sit. Let’s talk it out.”