“Officer,” I say, and hold up the rectangle of paper. “My ticket’s not working.”

“Just go under,” he says, and then takes a slurp from his bucket-sized Styrofoam coffee cup and turns his back.

I crawl under the turnstile and walk out into the early-morning sunshine.

I’m not really sure what my plan is, but somehow I wind up walking past Lauren’s house, which is right next door to her father’s church.

Standing across the street looking at the house, I sort of feel like the house is looking back at me—like the two second-floor windows are eyes and the row of downstairs windows are a mouth. Kind of like what you see in old horror movies—the house coming to life like a face.

I have this stupid fantasy where I ring the doorbell and Lauren answers in a white bathrobe—that gives me a nice V-shot of her chest—and wearing the silver cross I gave her. We talk and I thank her for praying for me and she says it’s great that I’m still alive and we both agree that kissing was a mistake, before we shake hands and wish each other well—like everything is forgiven. But it’s all just bullshit and I know I messed up with Lauren in a way that can’t be fixed easily, which is so unbearably depressing.

“Fuck,” I say in real life, standing on the sidewalk across the street from Lauren’s house, shaking my head.

I know I’m an asshole for forcing Lauren to kiss me—a hypocrite even.

A bad person.

I walk away.

I’ll probably never talk to Lauren again and I’m okay with that.

It’s best.

Maybe I only pursued her because I knew a relationship between us was impossible. Like she was a safe test for me, because she had so much religion crammed into her brain that things would never go too far. But I ended up failing the test, so what does that mean?

I don’t know.

It’s kind of horrible that she’s the first girl I ever kissed, because I’ll always remember her as my first girl kiss, which will remind me of everything else that happened afterward. And I start to worry that every single time I kiss a girl from now on will trigger a flood of memories that will take me back to last night. Like maybe I’ll never be able to enjoy kissing at all.

All that gets me feeling depressed again, so I head over to Walt’s and key in.

THIRTY-SIX

I hear the TV blaring.

Walt sometimes has trouble hearing, so I’m not surprised by the volume.

What surprises me is this: he’s watching Bogart films this early in the morning.

I hear Katharine Hepburn’s uppity voice and know he’s watching The African Queen again.

“HELLO?” I say as loud as possible as I walk under the chandelier.

Walt doesn’t answer and when he sees me standing in the room’s entranceway, he sort of jumps in his recliner, looks at me for a few seconds, turns off the movie with the remote, and says, “Leonard?”

“It’s me. In the flesh.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Been watching Bogie all night. I was really worried about you. I thought that—I called your home, but no one answered and—”

We just look at each other for a long time because he doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking and I don’t want to talk about last night.

Finally, he regains his composure, falls back into the safety of our routine, picks up his Bogart hat off the arm of his recliner, pops it onto his head, and pulls his old-time movie-star face.70

“Is something the matter, Mr. Allnut? Tell me,” he says, his jaw barely moving, his voice higher that natural, playing Rose Sayer, Katharine Hepburn’s character in The African Queen.

I adjust my Bogart hat—even though Bogie doesn’t wear this type of hat in this movie—and say, “Nothing. Nothing you’d understand.”

“I simply can’t imagine what could be the matter. It’s been such a pleasant day. What is it?” he says, staying in character.

But suddenly, I don’t really want to trade Bogart movie quotes anymore, so I take off my hat and, using my regular speaking voice, I say, “Yesterday was bad, Walt. Really terrible.”

His eyes open so wide. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

Words escape me—I mean, how would I even begin to explain it all to the old man?

In an effort to avoid eye contact, I stare at the picture of Walt’s dead wife who hangs eternally young on the wall.

Sea-foam green blouse.

Blond Bogart-era hairstyle.

Mysterious eyes that pop and seem to be watching me.

She doesn’t look much older than eighteen in the photo but she’s dead now. I know Walt misses her terribly because I catch him gazing at the picture with this sad look in his eyes. I wonder what my future wife will look like and if I’ll hang her picture on my wall—maybe in Lighthouse 1.

“And what’s with the goofy medal on your shirt?”

Walt’s staring at my heart now. His eyebrows are zigzags.

I look down and remember Herr Silverman’s creation. I’m not sure I can explain the significance of the medal without getting into all the bullshit I went through last night, so I say, “I know I acted strange yesterday. I’m sorry. And I’ll tell you everything you want to know later, Walt. I swear to god. I’ll answer every question you got. But for now, could we just watch the rest of the movie together wearing our Bogart hats? Can we do that? It would mean a lot to me if you just let me watch the movie with you. I’m really tired. I don’t have much left in the proverbial tank. It was a hell of a night. It really was. I need some Bogart. Bogie medicine. Whadda ya say?”

He looks at me for a second or two—examines my face, trying to figure my angle out—and then says, “Sure. Sure. Bogart. We can do that,” real cautiously, like maybe he thinks I’m trying to trick him, even though I’m being utterly sincere and honest—maybe for the first time in years.

I put my Bogart hat back on and sit down at the end of the couch closest to his recliner.

He hits play on his remote and the picture on the TV comes to life.

It’s the part where their boat gets stuck in mud, and when Bogart tries to free it by getting into the water, he returns covered in leeches. Since they’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, they think they’re going to die. But Rose prays and it starts to rain and the river rises and they’re saved miraculously. A whole bunch of other stuff happens with evil Germans, which I already know. My eyes glaze over, I zone out, and mostly think about how close I came to killing Asher and myself last night. How it almost seemed like I was watching a movie when I had the gun pointed at my classmate—like it wasn’t even real. How fucked-up scary that seems now that my head is straight. As I sit here next to Walt, I feel kind of grateful for this moment, as strange as that sounds—like I just narrowly avoided some awful, demented fate.

I feel kind of lucky.

It worries me that I can be so explosive one day—volatile enough to commit a murder-suicide—and then the next day I’m watching Bogart save the day with Walt, like nothing happened at all, and nothing is urgent, and I really don’t have to do anything to set the world right or escape my own mind.

I’d like to feel okay all the time—to have the ability to sit and function without feeling so much pressure, without feeling as though blood is going to spurt from my eyes and fingers and toes if I don’t do something.

When the movie ends, Walt clicks off the TV and says, “You know, I was thinking.”

“And?” I say.

“Why did you give me this hat yesterday? I mean, what was so special about yesterday?”

“It was my birthday. I turned eighteen.”

“Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you tell anybody? I feel like a cheapskate now. I would’ve bought you a present.”

I smile and say, “I bought your hat at the thrift store for four dollars and fifty cents. It’s not really an old movie prop. Bogie never wore it.”

“Yeah, I know, Rockefeller,” he says. “I like it anyway. So what did you do to celebrate your birthday?”

I almost laugh, because Walt asked the question so innocently, like I’m just a regular kid who had a regular birthday.

Walt’s the only person in the world who would think I’m capable of being regular like that, and I kind of love him for it.

“Can I tell you what happened to me on my birthday later? I’m still kind of tired. And I don’t feel like talking about it right now.”

Walt looks at me a second, takes off his Bogart hat, and then says, “Lauren Bacall approaching Bogart at the bar in The Big Sleep,” and then in a girlish, husky Bacall voice he says, “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

I remember the scene and the lines, so playing Bogart I say, “How are you today?”

“Better than last night.”

“Well, I can agree on that,” I say.

“That’s a start,” he says, breaking character. “That’s a start.”

I force a smile, but it’s awkward and Walt knows it.

Am I better than last night?

I dunno.

But I don’t feel angry anymore.

“You going to school today?” Walt says, just before the silence gets strange.

“I’m thinking I’ll take the day off. And I have to go home now. I haven’t been home since yesterday. I need a shower,” I say even though I don’t really give a shit about taking a shower. “Movie later tonight?”

He flips open his Zippo with his thumb—making that scrappy clink noise—lights up a cigarette, takes a pull, and exhales his smoky words. “Sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship, Leonard. It really does.”

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

He smiles in this really good, honest way—better than Bogie even.

I take it in and, when our smiling at each other starts to feel too awkward, I turn and walk away.

“Leonard?”

I spin around to face Walt.

“I’m glad you visited me this morning.”

As he blows another lungful of smoke at the ceiling, his eyes twinkle under his Bogart hat brighter than the orange cherry on his Pall Mall, and I get the sense that even though we just watch old Bogart movies together and never really talk about anything but Bogie-related topics, maybe Walt knows me better than anyone else in the world, as strange as that sounds. Maybe we’ve been communicating effectively through Bogart-related quotes all along. Maybe I’m better than I thought when it comes to communication, at least with people like Walt.

And maybe there are other people like Walt out there—waiting for me to find them.

Maybe.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The kitchen mirror in my house is still in pieces, so when I look into the sink a million little jagged minnows return my stare.

I open the fridge and see my hair wrapped in pink paper, and I think, “What the fuck?” and “Who was I yesterday?” and “What the fuck?” again.

I should clean it all up, but I simply don’t have the strength.

It’s so much easier to shut the refrigerator door, which is totally a metaphor, I realize, for my life.

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