Leo Rache. Read online

Leo Rache.

  Pablo D’Stair

  Copyright © 2011 by Pablo D’Stair

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

  www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

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  Cat’s in the well, horse is going bumpety bump

  Back alley Sally is doing the American jump

  Bob Dylan

  i.

  Leo Rache shoplifted a notebook to write poetry for Lea Kincaid in. The theft wasn’t the least bit clever, the book into his pocket he strode to the shop door. To celebrate, he bought cigarettes and smoked them in the open cold by the city canal.

  It'd been months since he'd seen Lea. A chance encounter with her younger sister, in town for a visit, had brought her to mind. He had other things he should think about, but now he couldn't.

  He walked around for awhile and then stole a pen.

  ***

  When he showed the first poem he'd written to his friend Blake Darby, the reaction was mild.

  -I didn't know you wrote poetry.

  -I've just started.

  Blake nodded, reading, rereading, then for some reason reading the piece aloud, taking an emphatic pause at the end.

  -That's alright, man. I write poetry, you know?

  -Sure, that's why I showed it to you.

  -Do you read Wallace Stevens?

  Leo shrugged, admitted he didn't read anybody.

  Blake left the room and came back with a volume of Stevens.

  -Can't I read some of your stuff?

  -Read Stevens first.

  ***

  The coffee he'd been carrying a few hours had gone stale, but he'd already sat, didn't so much care. The bench he chose was away from any of the lampposts, but it was still generally bright enough to read, though past midnight.

  It was his fifth time through the same four poems by Stevens and all he was was irritable and confused.

  Shutting the book up, he spread notebook over knee but couldn't think of anything not trapped in what Stevens sounded like in his head. So, he sighed, took the Stevens and lobbed it into the canal.

  It was thoughtless and he really shouldn't have done it. If Blake asked for it back, he'd have to say something.

  ***

  He purchased an expensive edition of Stevens’ Complete Poems when he couldn’t find an identical edition to the one he’d ruined. He would tell Blake it’d been stolen or that he’d left it behind at a shop and when he went looking it’d been gone. Either way, a book found in the canal wasn’t something that’d be widely reported.

  He sat in the café, barely thinking, wrote out a line or two he didn’t really like.

  When he left, he walked back by the canal, smoking, sighing, gave an apologetic bow. He whispered something to himself he wished he’d written down once he was home and found that he’d forgotten it.

  ii.

  About done for the day, he'd been staring at the tabletop for fifteen minutes. He'd crossed out a few lines, having intended this to be the end, the deletion to complete the piece, but felt guilty somehow. It needed to be replaced, but he was bored and couldn't think with what.

  The girl he thought had met his eyes a few times did so again and this time he ventured a mild look of exasperation. She reacted, pointed to ask if she could come sit where he was. He rubbed his eyes first, then nodded and leaned back.

  -I've seen you here all the time, she said, scooting the chair in taps.

  -Have you? He considered. I suppose I'm here a lot, then yeah?

  ***

  Leo had explained he was working on a volume of poetry and the girl, introduced as Vera, had asked to read some. He left her with the notebook, offhand indicating where the ones he considered done were, but said she could take her time with it.

  His idea was not to return to the same café, be rid of the drafts, he had fair copies of the completed poems, either way.

  He lay on the sofa that night watching paid advertisements, just a bit drunk on wine. He went for a walk, a chain of six cigarettes, another glass of wine when he got home.

  The next day he woke up.

  ***

  He was jittery with coffee, drafting off what he felt was an excellent piece, quite pleased with himself. It was the first one he’d written the word Lea above, but for some reason was hesitant to add the word For. Not liking the sight after a moment, he changed Lea to Leaf and then Leaf to Leaflet then scribbled it all out.

  -Vera sat down across from him. Am I bothering you?

  -No.

  -You always look so anxious while you write.

  He didn’t respond except to finish the thin of coffee at the base of his cup.

  ***

  When Vera asked him what he’d been writing, he

  shrugged that it was just another love poem. She made a frown, but an obvious one.

  -Are those all love poems?

  -Sure.

  -For who?

  -What do you mean?

  Vera took up the new one without asking, Leo yawning, looking out the window. He wondered why Vera hadn’t given his notebook back. She didn’t even have a purse with her. After it’d been a long enough time, he looked back to Vera who seemed to still be reading.

  Without looking up from the page, she asked, eyes closed, if he wanted to go for a walk. He didn’t really, but said Sure and asked for the paper back.

  iii.

  When Leo felt he had a solid set of poems finished, he went to steal a nicer notebook to write them in. He was caught, didn't even try to explain himself. It was, in his opinion, an exaggerated ordeal. The police arrived, took his name and his address, the shop owner took a few photos of him. The eventual consequence was that he had to pay for the notebook.

  A few hours later, still feeling foreign walking around, he found another shop to steal another notebook from. He was caught again, but was able, blathering in panic, to convince the store to leave the police out of it if he agreed to pay double for the thing.

  ***

  Vera caught up to him when he was leaving the café that night. She told him he looked pretty miserable and he told her an abbreviated narrative of the day. She offered to steal a notebook for him or at least to help him.

  -No, it was just bad luck. My mind is elsewhere.

  -Where?

  -He blew an ugly breath, Nowhere, riffled through his pockets for his cigarettes.

  Vera just kept pace with him a few blocks then asked if he wanted to come with her to meet some of her friends.

  -I'm just gonna call it a night, actually.

  She walked with him all the way to his building and he awkwardly accepted her invitation to a get together the next day.

  ***

  There were twenty people in the middle sized apartment, a half-dozen more on the alleyway balcony.

  Vera, already intoxicated when he arrived, was always in this or that group.

  Leo included himself here and there, but it was somewhat tense for him. The majority of people were writers, poets, the ones who weren't were painters or guys working on dissertations. Everyone would recommend something he should read and he’d repeatedly, more and more guardedly, explain he didn't really read, just wrote.

  -How do you know what's out there, then? a certain guy asked, bewildered.

  -I don't really care about what's out there he sighed in response.

  He caught himself holding gaze with a girl for the fiftieth time, decided he needed to knock it off.

  ***

  Someone recogni
zed him as one of Blake's friends. He finished his wine, found Vera, thanked her for inviting him, said he'd be heading out. She seemed surprised, but her drunkenness could’ve explained that. He gave her his number, said she could call him later and she gave him a hug after reciting the number aloud.

  Blake was asleep with the television on when he got home. Leo had another glass of wine, then went to bed.

  It was three in the morning when Vera called. He answered, pretending he'd been asleep. After she said Hi he playacted being confused about the time.

  -I thought it was morning. Is everything alright?

  -Where did you go? she whined. Then, a giggle, she asked could she come over.

  iiii.

  He punched out from work, left sluggishly. It’d been an accident, his leaving the completed, enveloped, addressed book of poems at home, but since he had he was able to indulge in one more set of hesitations, misgivings. And equally as much, he could consider for another little while the idea of being bolder. As it stood, he was not including a proper return address.

  He could. Or, he could send the book but not the explanatory letter. Or the book, the explanatory letter, but leave his name off. He’d not asked any friend for advice on the matter, wondered if that made him deviant somehow, the whole thing deviant.

  ***

  It was freezing cold and he walked around until three in the morning. He was quite exhausted, mind fitful, the cigarettes he’d light kept burning out, being lit, burning out.

  In a sudden rise of energy, he approached a mailbox, tossed the package in. Then, he crossed the street, sat on a bench there and stared at the squat postal box.

  Not even drugstores were open the whole walk back to the apartment.

  He fell asleep in front of the television, at one point blinking awake a few seconds. Darla, the girl Blake was seeing, in t-shirt and panties skittishly ducked to the fridge to grab a bottled water.

  ***

  Vera left four messages over the course of two days, but then in the three days following those left none.

  He found it odd to not have her telephone number, but realized he’d not ever asked for it. She hadn’t left it in any of the messages he played back.

  When he got to the café that night she was seated, reading from some book. He loitered in the aisles, touching the spines of books. Then he waited outside, up the block smoking.

  When she exited, he made it seem he was just arriving, said he was sorry he’d missed her and was sorry to not’ve called her back.

  ***

  He mentioned to her, while they sat, about how he’d thrown Blake’s copy of Stevens’ poetry into the canal.

  -Don’t you like Stevens?

  -I don’t think I do. I don’t know. It got on my nerves.

  Because it was he who’d brought up the subject of poets, he did his best not to get testy as she went on about some of her favorites, awhile. But it got annoying, because she obviously was increasingly disbelieving him that he didn’t know about any of them.

  -What about T.S. Eliot? she said, a brattish little flirt to the question.

  He sighed more than he needed to and they both sat quietly for another twenty minutes.

  v.

  He was fired for it being discovered he’d been grifting from the register and taking merchandise, beside. The scene was terrible. He’d had to feign earnest regret, apology. They’d only discovered a fraction of what he’d made off with and he didn’t want them thinking there was more.

  He sat in a movie theatre, annoyed he hadn’t gloated.

  He bought a ticket for a second movie, but didn’t stay to watch it.

  Honestly, he’d liked the job, never should’ve started stealing from it.

  It hadn’t even crossed his mind about Blake being home, so right away he had to explain about everything. Blake was kind enough to take a shot with him, but the interaction hardly had any energy.

  ***

  As he lacked the luxury of being able to go without a job even a short time, Leo spent the morning and afternoon collecting applications, littering his resume here and there. He went to the café to fill out what needed to be filled out, anxious every time he needed to leave off his most recent job and any references from it. Certainly he’d be able to talk his way through that in an interview, but it was a nuisance.

  When Vera asked why the job wasn’t listed, he said They wouldn’t have kind things to say about me. But an hour later, tired, less concerned, he made a show of bravado, told her how much he’d actually robbed them of.

  ***

  He’d disliked the movie he’d seen the previous day, but when Vera asked if he wanted to see it he just said he’d heard it was terrible. Vera turned out to like it quite a bit. He was in a better mood, so made a game of saying he liked it, too.

  They stopped for cigarettes. They stopped for bottled water. Vera asked if he wanted to get some wine and walk around.

  -Celebrate your new job? she said, using her knee to jostle his leg.

  -Maybe later, he said.

  While he lit her a cigarette from his, she asked which job he wanted.

  -Maybe later, he said, blowing smoke.

  It seemed to make Vera very happy he’d said it.

  ***

  At the canal, she took a folded paper from her pocket.

  -I want to hear your voice say this.

  He didn’t recognize the poem, at first, it’d been recopied, wasn’t part of anything he’d finished.

  -I don’t really read my stuff, Vera.

  She stood, said if he read it she’d tell him what panties she was wearing.

  -Alright.

  He stood. She sat. He read the poem.

  -She said Again?

  He read it again.

  She moved from the lighted path, began unbuttoning her pants.

  -He frowned, lit a cigarette. I thought you said you’d tell me.

  She chuckled, said she couldn’t remember, turned a moment.

  -They’re my Halloween panties. Faded orange, little skulls on them.

  She sat next to him, hand out for a cigarette.

  vi.

  Leaving for class, Blake told Leo his birthday present was he didn’t have to worry about his half of the rent that month.

  -I’ll pay it as soon as I can.

  -If you can’t pay next month, it’ll be trouble. But really don’t worry for now.

  Leo had three more interviews later that day, none he felt were promising. He ironed his suit, bought cigarettes, rode around on the train to kill time.

  In between the first and second interview, he started a new poem for Lea on a napkin.

  He didn’t go to the last interview, eyed some notebooks, couldn’t get up the nerve to steal one.

  ***

  Vera called. Blake and his girlfriend had left, probably wouldn’t be back, so Leo asked if she wanted to come over. She was just on a break at work, she said, but asked if later was alright.

  -Call when you’re off, it’ll probably be alright.

  He was very bored, antsy, four poems all unfinished on scraps he’d dug out of his suit pockets each day when he got in.

  Vera showed up with a typewriter and said Happy Birthday.

  -Ink ribbons are kind of hard to track down, so I got a few.

  The thing seemed a burden where they arranged it on his desk. He humored her by answering interview questions, letting her type his responses down.

  ***

  -I write poetry, too, Vera said, coming back from the bathroom. I guessed you were a poet even before you started bringing your notebook all the time.

  He nodded and thought about saying he needed a new notebook, then hesitated, then said it.

  -It’s not that I don’t like the typewriter.

  She seemed genuinely surprised by the remark.

  -I wouldn’t think that. Don’t think that.

  -I don’t. He sighed, drained his wine. I don’t.

  -Do you want to go get a notebook, now?
>
  She stood on her toes when she asked, stretched. Then when he said Yes and went for his coat, she did so again, breathing out, saying Okay. Her eyes didn’t seem focused.

  ***

  Just as he was finally getting himself out of bed, his telephone rang. He was asked to come in for a second interview, a group interview. It was short notice, but somehow his application had been set to one side. He showered in a rush, dressed, got the train. Outside of the building, he realized he’d forgotten which job it was. He shut his eyes, remembering, stamped his foot and lit a cigarette. It’d been some scam company needing reps, work on commission. Three hours after he should’ve interviewed, his phone rang and the company left another message. They’d missed him, earlier, but had another group session slated for later in the day.

  vii

  Having no idea who Lea Kincaid was, Blake had left the letter from her on the kitchen counter with the other mail. Leo was spreading peanut butter onto a cracker when he focused on it. He poured himself some wine, downed it, already giddy though the letter sat untouched.

  He walked around with it in his pocket. He sat by the canal blowing smoke down his nose, touching the thing until it felt like it was his.

  Leo, of course I remember you. I thought you'd stolen twenty dollars from me for months before I realized it was Julia.

  He didn't read any further than that for awhile. Not because of anything, he just liked the letter in his pocket while he smoked.

  ***

  He didn't want to go home that night, didn't want to be anywhere. He kept trying to convince himself it wouldn't be idiotic to rent a hotel room, but knew it would be. He felt away, didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't actually anyplace.

  The letter had been forwarded to Lea, who’d been moving around lately. Lea wrote this’d actually been good because otherwise her boyfriend might’ve found it odd.