Chapter Text
august 3rd, 1925
Sadie Schneider can't help but want to cry.
Mickey's at work and she's trying to fucking make something edible for her and the baby.
He's quiet for the most part but gets fussy a lot of the time.
And her aunt was supposed to be at the house an hour ago so she could go to work.
She's tired.
And she needs her smokes but Mickey took her pack.
The baby starts to fuss a little and she adjusts his head and looks down at him.
Her fingers trail down his nose, onto his cheek, and up his forehead.
She repeats the motion a few times before he calms down.
His eyes open and they are just so...big.
So innocent.
Now she really does want to cry.
august 3rd, 1926
He's very adventurous for a two-year-old, she thinks.
And somewhat of a troublemaker.
The fishbowl she got him as a gift is in pieces on the counter top and her mother is very unhappy with the turn of events.
"He should be careful,"
"He's only two, Mama. He's curious,"
Her mother shakes her head and leaves her alone with him.
He's silent by her knee.
She picks him up and kisses his cheek.
He starts giggling and he smiles at her.
She thinks it's one of the most beautiful things she's seen in a while.
august 3rd, 1927
He's walking slowly around the house.
His mouth is open and he's trying to slow his breathing.
He doesn't wanna get caught now.
The only light guiding him is from the moon.
He finally gets the pantry open and looks for the chocolate he knows his mother hid.
He finds the sweets at the back, behind some bottles, and sits on the floor.
He eats six chocolates before he hears something.
Or more like someone.
He doesn't have time to hide the evidence when his father walks by him.
"You should be in bed,"
He freezes and doesn't know what to say.
He rarely sees him at all, and he's kind of scared.
"Sorry," he whispers.
His father sighs and takes a big gulp of something before he ruffles his hair and leaves the kitchen.
He doesn't see him again for a while.
august 3rd, 1928
He falls down the stairs when no one is home.
He's all alone with a scraped knee.
It hurts.
But he also thinks it hurts more because no one is there.
His grandma was supposed to come and watch him.
He doesn't cry but his nose does start to sniffle.
He takes in a breath and stands up to go back to his room.
It's not until after midnight that he sees his mother.
She kisses his forehead and tells him to dream beautiful dreams.
He does exactly that.
august 3rd, 1929
He's five when he hears his mother cry.
She's wearing this black outfit on the floor of the bathroom, her head near the toilet.
She doesn't notice him yet, but when she does, she takes deep breaths to calm herself down.
"I thought Aunt Mema took you with her," she says.
He grabs the towel near the shower to wipe her face.
"I wanted to stay,"
His mother starts crying a little again.
He's being careful with her and she pulls him down with her for a hug.
He tries not to focus on the smell.
He closes his eyes and stays with her before she tells him to go to bed.
But he can't.
He doesn't understand what's wrong.
august 3rd, 1930
The boys around the neighborhood always ask him to come outside and play.
But he doesn't find it as interesting as walking around the streets, looking at the shops.
He heads into the closest bookstore and looks around.
When his grandma takes him with her for the week, they always stop at the library.
He didn't really like it in the beginning but that changed after he started reading the biographies of people who have passed.
He walks around the aisles and picks out the leather-bound books.
He skims the titles and gently taps the spines.
Sometimes the person at the bookstore lets him "read" a couple of things.
He mostly just likes looking at their pictures.
How they looked as they lived.
He's fascinated.
He leaves when the sun goes down.
A sandwich is left in the fridge for him.
He cleans his mess and does his homework for the day.
After a while, he gets hungry again and decides to make dinner.
The kitchen is...not looking too good.
His mother comes home not a moment later.
She's early.
Really early.
Her brows scrunch in confusion and when she sees him sitting on a chair near the stove...she's surprised.
"What are you doing Leonard?"
He stops his movements and gives her a half smile. "Dinner,"
She shakes her head and goes to ruffle his hair.
His mother kisses his cheek and whispers, "My sweet boy."
He doesn't know it, but it was days like these that mattered.
august 3rd, 1931
His mother says it's important to be grateful for what life has given them.
She only told him this because he was asking about his father.
But he believes her.
He's most grateful for her and his grandmother, his aunts, and the few cousins.
They are family.
His family.
It just makes him sad sometimes thinking about his father.
Mickey's busy doing his own thing though.
He doesn't blame him much.
He's got his mother after all.
august 3rd, 1932
He wants a dog.
He actually wants a sibling.
As much as he likes his cousins when he stays with his aunts, he wants someone that is going to be with him when his mother isn't.
The family thinks it's a terrible idea.
His grandmother specifically.
"He's not responsible enough,"
"Mama, this could teach him—
"You can get him a dog then. But when he stays with me, the dog can't come."
He stops asking.
He should have asked for a fish.
He sighs and thinks about the dogs he's noticed near the alleys.
He starts to carry slices of ham in his pockets for them.
When he sees them, he pats them on the head and scratches their ears.
He sits on the curb with them and doesn't let them feel alone.
Feel alone as he does anyway.
But it can't be like this forever...can it?
august 3rd, 1933
He's nine when goes to the theatre for the 1st time.
He snuck in with the boys from the neighborhood.
People are kissing in the back and he's so out of it because they are just existing.
He never thought the theatre would be exhilarating.
On the walk back home, he goes in through the window from the kitchen that he left open.
His mother is sitting at the table.
She's all ready for bed and has a smoke between her fingers.
He sits next to her and bows his head.
"I'm sorry,"
"I know you're home by yourself half the time but you can't sneak out. The monsters come out at night to play, Leonard."
A part of him knows what she means.
He nods his head and doesn't even think about sneaking out again.
That is until he's a teenager.
august 3rd, 1934—1941
Times were easier he thinks.
Everything was Bellmore
The smoke breaks with the boys was always something to look forward to.
Wellington C. Mepham High School holds memories that are limited to being fond.
The chick he kissed for the first time happened there.
Also the first time he went down on someone.
He smirks a little at the thought.
But he goes back to patting the soil to even it out.
He wipes the dirt off his hands and sighs.
Dengler's Farm.
One of the only positives of working there is, it's peaceful.
He doesn't think about how he hasn't seen or talked to his mother for a while.
Or the fact that he feels...lonely.
He blocks it out.
It doesn't matter anyway.
august 3rd, 1942—1945
He's 16 when he joins the United States Navy.
He doesn't really know what he's doing.
But he goes on, with his head held high.
For the most part.
And then something happens.
He dresses in drag for the boys.
It's a joke.
But people don't have a fucking sense of humor.
Meaning his commanding officers.
He even tried convincing the ship's medical officer that he was expiring some...tendencies.
They did not take it well.
He ended up with a Dishonorable Discharge in July.
The only good thing was that he had not admitted or been found guilty of any breach of naval regulations and successfully applied to have his discharge changed to Under Honorable Conditions...by reason of unsustainability for the naval service.
Sheesh.
He's done.
He's fucking done.
august 3rd, 1946
After a while of living with his father (in California)—which revolved around a few words of "morning," "got cash?" "see you later," and "what the fuck are you doing?,"—he heads back to the city.
The scene in Cali wasn't much, to be frank.
New York is where he'd become a creature of the night.
He just had this feeling...
But ya know, life had a way of slapping him in the fucking face.
There were a bunch of other people on the same boat as him.
Fuck.
One locale where they congregated was a diner: Hanson's.
This is where he met Joe Ancis.
Oh, what a man.
A meticulous guiding light he needed in this business.
But the doubt fades away.
And he does the gigs.
He takes the stage as Lenny Marsalle at the Victory Club, as a stand–in master of ceremonies for one of his mother's shows.
He kills.
He feels fucking amazing.
He hopes this sticks.
august 3rd, 1947
He decided something needed to change.
Enter stage left: Lenny Fucking Bruce.
It sticks.
People laugh.
People listen.
It's a little crazy how they are in rapt attention with his spiels.
But he likes it.
No.
He loves it.
His 1st stand-up performance in Brooklyn flew by.
People didn't stop clapping.
He earned $12 and a free spaghetti dinner.
He could get used to this.
august 3rd, 1948—1950
Lenny Bruce was a name people started to know.
He couldn't believe it.
He started meeting so many people every night it was...he was living.
He was living his life now.
Him and the boys were smoking pot in the alley when one of them asks, "Ever done this?"
He pulls out a spoon and needle.
Along with something else that he's heard of.
He shakes his head and finishes the smoke.
The guy—Ben—says it's something to be worshiped.
He tries it.
He feels at ease. Almost phenomenal.
His mother was right.
The monsters do come out to play at night.
He was sucked in.
It's over.
august 3rd, 1951
He's a married man on vacation with his wife.
They go to California for a week.
They get high. They drink. They fuck.
It's paradise.
They are on the floor of the hotel room after some activities when she says, "Do you ever wish you were different?"
He should say yes. But all that comes out of his mouth is no.
He relishes in the notion of doing whatever the fuck he wants.
Honey says the same thing and gives him a watery smile before chugging down the whisky.
He sits up and rests against the bed, smoking what they just bought.
She lays her head on his lap and sighs.
"Love you, Lenny."
He pushes her hair out of her face and places it behind her ear.
"Love you too,"
They should go on vacation more often.
august 3rd, 1952
A girl kisses him after his set.
Honey doesn't stop looking at how he's laughing it off.
When they get to the apartment they can't even enjoy the H he just bought. They don't speak for a while.
He sits on the bed and takes off his tie.
He can tell she's upset.
He sighs and glances at her.
"What's wrong?"
She huffs. "You seriously don't know?"
He gives her a frown and shakes his head.
She rolls her eyes.
"That chick kissed you! What the fuck do you think I'm mad about?!"
He pauses and stares, his tie is halfway off.
"It didn't mean anything—
"To you Lenny. It didn't mean anything to you. But I'm your wife."
He shakes his head.
"You think I don't notice the fucking men? I am not a fucking idiot, Honey."
Her cheeks flush red and she backs away out of the room.
He falls asleep alone.
He doesn't know how it got to this.
august 3rd, 1953
They are in California again.
He's smoking the weed she bought in the alley.
He kisses her cheek and she sighs.
She takes his hand.
They needed this.
All the issues. All the arrests. It's getting to them.
"Lenny," she whispers.
"Hm,"
Her fingers trace his palms and she gets him to look at her.
"I miss us," her eyes start to water.
"Honey—"
He kisses the side of her head and pulls her close.
She cries.
He doesn't know what to say.
But he holds her and tells her everything is going to be okay.
august 3rd, 1954
They start fighting more.
They start doing dope whenever. Nearly every day.
They fuck any chance they have.
She cries more.
He hides.
It doesn't feel good.
Well, it doesn't feel like it used to.
This is not a love story.
It's a sickness he's developed into the script.
But blocks out the noise and kisses her hip before he does things with his tongue.
She pulls his hair.
It hurts.
He doesn't stop chasing the feeling.
august 3rd, 1955
The baby's almost here.
And he's fuckin' terrified.
His father was barely in his life at all.
But he can't help that part of him that wants to be there. Someone that'll take care of them.
Maybe the poison drips through.
He tells this all to his mother when she comes over one evening.
She pats his shoulder.
"Like my mother was there for you, I'll be here for the baby,"
He smiles at her.
"Thanks, Ma."
She nods and grabs his hand.
"You'll be a good dad, Leonard,"
It's a perfect saying.
And he appreciates what she's trying to do.
He just doesn't believe her.
Only time will tell though.
august 3rd, 1956
She's tiny in his arms.
Her mouth is open and she keeps trying to yank his tie.
He adjusts her and twirls her around to get her to giggle.
Her smile is big and that makes him smile too.
"Don't make her puke, Lenny," Honey tells him.
He scoffs.
"She's ok. Ain't that right Kitty?"
The baby touches his cheek and scraps her hand against his stubble.
"Yeah, I know I gotta shave."
He kisses her slobbery cheek and melts.
She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.
He sways a little.
Honey looks at them for a second.
She should want this.
Especially with someone that cares about vacations and birthdays and just spending time together.
But she likes doing her own thing.
She misses the weed they would smoke in the alleys. And the free drinks from the men that had gaudy watches. The gifts she's received. The nights out without having to worry about well...anything. She especially misses those nights.
But they have a baby now.
She sighs and walks out of the room for a smoke.
He makes a face.
He tightens his hold on Kitty and has this feeling.
The feeling of something ending.
august 3rd, 1957
He needs to call his mother.
It's been a while and he feels awful.
His arm is killing him and he wishes he had time to relax before this gig...but he needs to call her.
She answers on the first ring.
"Hello?"
He huffs a breath and places the phone between his shoulder and cheek.
"Hi, Ma."
"Oh, you remembered to call now?"
"Yes, I am in fact doing swell, thank you for the pleasantries."
"Lenny," she says for him to cut the crap.
His fingers trace the bridge of his nose.
"How is she doing?"
"She misses her dad. She asks for you every day."
"Can I talk to her?"
His mother sighs and he hears muffled talking.
"She's here,"
"Hey, Kitty. How's my best girl doing?"
He hears a muffled shriek.
"Da!"
He smiles.
"I'll visit soon, I promise, okay Kit? I'm gonna go see you,"
She laughs and his mother huffs.
"Come soon alright? We miss you,"
His smile turns into a frown.
"I miss you both too,"
He shows up two days later with open arms and tickets to Disneyland.
It's not enough.
august 3rd, 1958
He's not doing too well but he's also doing fucking amazing apparently.
He decides to tell his manager that he needs to take a week off at least.
He goes down to California to visit his mother and Kitty.
It's a long trip and he hates how his stomach feels loose. He gets two drinks to calm his nerves.
This itch—
On the way to the house, he smokes most of his new pack.
The itch is only gone for a moment.
His mother sees him standing on the porch and her nose wrinkles.
She can smell the cigarettes and booze.
"Come inside,"
He nods and follows after her.
Kitty is sitting on the couch.
She has a blanket around her shoulders and is watching the television.
She sees him and jumps.
"Dad!"
He goes to pick her up and tries to smile.
Her excitement dies down by his face.
But she gives him a hug. She has missed him after all.
It's not every day she gets her dad's hugs.
He's a terrible father.
If he were to look in a mirror right now, he would see the blurry face of Micky Schneider.
He sits down on the couch, Kitty still in his arms, and realized he should have done this a long time ago.
He should have visited more.
He rubs his palm on her back and lets out a small sigh.
"I've missed you, Kit,"
I'm sorry dies on his tongue.
She closes her eyes and just keeps holding him.
They fall asleep on the couch.
He doesn't let go.
august 3rd, 1959
He doesn't like that she comes across his mind more often than not.
He doesn't get it either.
He's never had this issue before.
She's stuck in his brain.
Like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
He lights his smoke and sighs.
He gets one more drink.
His fingers trace the rim of the glass multiple times before he catches a whiff of something floral.
Ah, fuck.
She sits next to him and smiles. It's a grin that makes his chest feel funny.
He's going to go insane.
Well, more insane.
"Hi,"
"Hey,"
She looks him up and down through her lashes and then orders her martini with multiple olives.
He doesn't notice. Only because he can't look at her.
His eyes are trained on his glass.
"How are things?" she asks.
"Fine," is all that slips out.
She makes a face but doesn't say anything else.
"How are you?"
"Well, other than exhausted...I don't know. I probably should be home right now, but I wanted a drink." She dips her head. "And I saw you through the window, thought I'd say hello,"
He turns his head, cigarette in hand like it always is, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Ah, well for little old me I appreciate the sentiment,"
She rolls her eyes and he can tell she's flushing.
That makes him grin.
But he hides it with his hand.
"But how are you doing?"
She's really persistent, one of the things he admires about her.
He can't deal with this right now though.
"I'm fine. Legal bullshit, regular bullshit, ya know how it goes."
But she doesn't know.
And he wants it to stay like that.
Do you really?
Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. N—
He sighs quietly.
She's staring at him and he looks away.
He downs his drink and puts his jacket on.
He slips out two crumpled bills and gives her a small smile.
"I'll see you, okay?"
She clears her throat. He can tell she's somewhat disappointed but of what...he doesn't know.
"Yeah,"
"Bye, Midge."
"Bye, Lenny."
He leaves.
But before he walks right, he turns around and sees her looking at him.
She turns away immediately.
Her hair swooshed a little.
He's still smiling when he gets home.
august 3rd, 1960
He's still in Florida.
He looks around the hotel room and sighs.
He's thinking about her again.
Seems to be one of the few things he does nowadays.
That night at the Fontainebleau was...that was one of the best moments in his life.
She was someone to help out in the beginning.
He knows this business and it's about fucking connections and chances most of the time.
He's the fairy godmother not prince charming.
It's just...when they were dancing he felt something a little like lov—
Nope.
He's gotta stop.
It's just difficult.
They've shared multiple moments.
But they are always heading in different directions.
He sighs again and rests his head against the wall.
He could do something—
The phone starts to ring.
He thinks he should just let it go but decides to pick it up.
He rests it between his shoulder and cheek.
"Hello?"
He hears heavy breathing, nothing else. He wants to chuck the phone at the wall.
"Listen, pal, if you've got your cock out, call someone else that's into this."
He hears a cut-off laugh.
His annoyance dies down immediately. He'd know that laugh anywhere.
"Upper West Side, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"How did you know it was me?"
"Well, I don't know anyone else that laughs like you,"
"You know what—" she pauses "Nevermind,"
It's quiet for a beat before he asks, "So, how are things in the city?"
She sighs and he wishes they were talking face to face.
"I should take a break,"
"Now where have I heard that before..."
"I'm serious, Lenny. I'm—" A pause. "I don't think I can do this anymore," she whispers.
"He looks at the blank wall and tries to think of the right thing to say.
"You can," he replies.
He knows she's going to be even bigger than him someday. He just knows it deep in his bones.
"That's helpful, thank you." She mutters.
"For how long we've known each other, you should know I don't lie." He adjusts the phone and sits up to stand.
He grabs his pack and lights a smoke.
"You're a comic," His fingers trace his nose to calm down the fucking itch that never seems to go away.
"When you're on that stage, you make people listen. You get laughs and everything, but when you have people in the palm of your hand...there is nothing like it. You've got it, Midge. I know you've got it. It just takes time. Just keep working. "
She huffs a breath.
"If you called for compliments, I charge ya know."
He hears that laugh and melts a little.
"I didn't call for compliments. We're friends, Lenny,"
Friends.
Hm.
Right.
It seems like a simplified word for what they are.
Even though it is true...they are friends.
"Yeah, friends." He whispers.
It's quiet.
"How's Florida?" she says.
"Sunny. Humid. Still, the same as when you were here,"
He can almost picture her eyes rolling at his avoidance.
"So, nothing new?"
"Got a new tie. That count?"
"No..."
"Rats,"
He finishes the cigarette before lighting another.
"Nothing's new, Midge."
The purple bruises on his arm are new. The weight loss is new. The self-loathing he feels is new (though not really). The months that go by when he hasn't called his mother are most definitely new.
But he's not going to mention any of this.
He's not gonna tell her anything because not much has changed with him.
"That can't be true—"
"Yeah, well..."
He doesn't finish his thought.
He sighs and he knows she's disappointed once again.
"Why do you do that?" she surprises him.
He'd honestly thought they'd do this dance forever.
"Do what," He already knows what she's going to ask.
"Ignore my questions or dismiss them. I'm not gonna blab to the papers if that's what you're worried about. I know how important and famous you are—"
"It's not that, alright."
"Then what?"
He thinks for a moment. That saying his mother told him when he snuck out creates a cacophony in his head.
He shakes his head to quiet it down.
"I'm juvenile, Midge. Most of my life is in the papers alone. None of it is a lie. Pick one up."
"I'm talking to you right now, though."
"Fine. Uhhhmm..."
He should give her one thing to hold onto he thinks.
"I miss New York," he says.
It's true. The dope in Florida pales in comparison to the city. Also, he misses the jazz clubs and his old buddies. He misses her too, no matter how much he doesn't want to admit it.
"I miss my usual haunts. Florida's alright but nothing like New York." He smiles a little before saying, "It would also be nice not being awake in the middle of the night for calls like these. Fuckin' time zones,"
She snorts.
"Well come back," she says it like nothing.
And maybe it is, but she's the one saying it.
"Maybe," is all he tells her.
They talk until he sees the sun come up.
Yeah, he's fucked.
extra: [Written in smugged black ink on a crumpled piece of paper from a journal. Sits in an envelope stuffed behind a picture of Lenny Bruce and Midge Maisel from her debut night at The Gaslight. Date Not Marked. Rumored Date: 1961. Unsent — Found by Kitty & Isabella Bruce, Ethan & Esther Maisel in a box of California home: 1971]
Midge,
You will probably never see this letter. And it's fine. I'm not one for letting all my secrets out.
I don't know if you remember, but years ago at The Vanguard you asked the audience, ‘Is Lenny Bruce boring at home?’
I might as well come clean and admit that I am a bore to be around. I press my socks when I've got a gig. I try to read every morning if you can believe it. Autobiographies have been my poison of choice.
The normal and mundane things that don't go with being Lenny Bruce.
But anyway, I wanted to tell you about this idea. An idea that ricochets in my mind.
It's of us.
Of me and you existing in the same space. It's not part of the script, I know. The idea of Society's Juvenile Delinquent and the Mad Divorcé of the Upper West Side, together. It's fucking comical.
Or at least...maybe in this universe, it is.
Not in the other one.
In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you. At breakfast, we'd be laughing over the runny eggs or the dick jokes we make and compare. It's a ball of a time.
We take the kids out on summer trips, though I know you have this fascination with the Catskills. Just every once in a while, ya know?
But we're a family.
It's the type of fantasy that comes to mind when I can't sleep. Which is often. I think of how my daughter would get along with yours. She's a sweet kid. You'd love her. She's obsessed with pink and Barbie.
I don't know. I don't know what I'm writing.
I just sometimes wish we were heading in the same direction and didn't dance around each other.
And I know we have a lot to hash out — Carnegie Hall...I miss you, Midge.
I'm sorry.
Yours, Lenny
———
The kids all glance at each other.
"Wow," Isabella breathes out.
They look at the boxes around them.
Cocktail napkins, coasters, books, pictures, albums, tickets, cameras, films, autographs, matches from clubs, etc all hold meaning.
They hold stories.
Ones that they have never heard.
"What are you kids doing?"
And then, that's when he walks in.
His face is scrunched up in confusion as his eyes take in the four kids sitting on the floor, a couple of boxes sitting in front of them.
"...Nothing," Isabella decided to kick the boxes away and smile innocently.
"Funny. Hilarious even." He takes a step toward them. "So what's up?"
And then he sees the picture and the frame open.
"Oh," He sits down between Kitty and Esther and looks at the crumpled piece of paper.
He reads it after years of being stuffed being the picture and wants to cry.
Esther pats his shoulder and smiles at him. "It's beautiful,"
He gives her a small grin and nods.
"Carnegie Hall," he says.
He wrote it in that blue room, his last night.
It feels like a lifetime ago. Yet not at all.
He huffs a breath and folds the paper.
"It's quiet for once." A pause. "Hello! Lenny! I thought you were home!?" He can hear her walking around the house.
"In the basement!" he tells her.
"What are you doing in the basement?" she asks.
"Going down memory lane, sweetheart!"
He can hear a long exaggerated huff and sees her come in with a look of surprise.
"Sacrifice in 15?,"
They all snort expect Isabella. Her brows scrunch up just like her father's and Midge goes to sit next to her.
The picture of them from all those years ago catches her attention now.
"Fuck," she whispers.
He passes the paper to her then.
She looks at his face and then at his hand.
She reads it.
Her eyes water and she remembers every single moment they've shared so far.
The life they have together.
YOUR LUCKY NUMBERS ARE — 46, 24, 11, 6, & 5
To this day, she still thinks about that tiny piece of paper.
She still has it too. It sits on her night table.
Because she is lucky.
They have the kids, their house, their careers, and memories that are intertwined between them since that night in the back of the cop car.
My head turned a long time ago.
It's beautiful, this life.