ca.

1982
Lenny
David Moser
This must be about where John Lennon was shot, said Don. We were in front
of the Dakota apartment building, 15 minutes early for our date with Leonard Bernstein.
The Dakota was nothing like I had imagined it. There was nothing as far as I could see to
distinguish it from all of the buildings around it.
Except the number of security guards. Security was pretty tight, as you can
imagine, since the Beatle had been killed there about two years earlier. We were
scrutinized by half a dozen armed guards (my backpack was thoroughly searched), asked
a lot of questions, and kept in a small, wood-paneled room while someone phoned
Bernsteins apartment. Someone on the phone (not Bernstein) told us he was expecting
us, but we would have to wait. After maybe a half-hour of uncomfortable small talk with
a balding security guard, there was a phone call, and the guards told us we could go up.
Don had brought along a wobbly, glittered pair of costume antennae to wear on
his head, and had bent a plastic straw into a small triangle and wedged it over his nose to
complete the effect. We rang the doorbell and waited. When the door swung open,
standing there was not the Maestro, but rather his diminutive Hispanic maid, who stared
at us suspiciously.
Yes, what is it? she said, eyeing Dons goofy-looking antennae and drinking
straw. Don cleared his throat and earnestly told her we were here to see Lenny. She
motioned us into the corridor and told us to wait while she went to get him. The place
had an antiquated look about it old-fashioned light fixtures, dark wood paneling,
somber-looking furniture which surprised me. I guess I was expecting something
more glitzy. We stood there, half in the entryway, half in the adjoining dining room,
afraid to venture any further, whispering as if we were in a museum. There were ceilinghigh bookcases filled with hardcover books, all neatly arranged. A Sony TV and VCR sat
blinking in a corner looking very out-of-place. It was late afternoon, and we could see
the light of the setting sun in the trees of Central Park through the expansive tinted
windows (which we later found out were made of bullet-proof glass).
After a few minutes Lenny showed up, bellowing out a welcome to Don and
greeting him with an aggressive bear hug and a full-mouth kiss. He was much shorter
than I had imagined, and his famous leonine gray locks seemed thinner than they do on
all the album covers. He was dressed in a style I can only characterize as dapper a
loose-fitting pastel leisure suit, with a European-looking scarf tied around his neck, and
blinding white tennis shoes. In his hand was the obligatory cigarette in an absurdly long,
corny-looking cigarette holder (Lenny is a notorious chain-smoker). He held Don at
arms length, suddenly noticing the antennae and straw-bedecked nose.
Well, well, what did you come as today? he said. As Don Byrd, who else?
And who have you brought with you? He moved toward me as Don introduced me as a
good friend of his and Dougs. Lenny gave me the same bear hug and a short but

passionate kiss, with just a little tongue in it. I could feel the amazing strength of his
upper arms and barrel-chested torso, no doubt from years of conducting. He didnt
release his grip right away, but continued to appraise me, his face just an inch from my
own.
Splendid face, splendid face, he said.
You should see it up close, I said, trying to avoid squirming. He laughed and
released me. He went back to Don and threw an arm around his neck in a championshipwrestling hold.
Don, my boy! Good to see you, he said, planting another kiss on Dons cheek.
He pulled Don into the dining room and I followed. We sat down on some plush chairs
and I stashed my backpack in a corner. Don took off his antennae and drinking straw.
Well, what can I get for you, Don? said Lenny. Anything, anything at all.
Food? Dope? Love?
Only a dope would give him love, I said, wincing at this inexplicably pointless
joke even as I said it. Why in the world would I say such a stupid thing? Lenny winced,
too, and then looked puzzled, repeating my words slowly, as if trying to decipher some
hidden meaning in them.
Only... a... dope... would... give... him... love. Hmm... Is there something Im
missing? he said. Don said something or other to change the subject, and Lennys
attention turned back to Don.
So hows our friend Doug? asked Lenny. Still as unsatisfied as ever? We
talked a bit about Dougs book Gdel, Escher, Bach, which Lenny was a big fan of.
Lenny had met both Don and Doug at Indiana University in Bloomington recently during
a weeklong workshop in which he was conductor/composer/teacher-in-residence. Lenny
expressed concern about Don, whose mother had just recently died. (Lenny didnt seem
to want to pursue this topic too much, though.) The topic of conversation changed
constantly and erratically, with Don and Lenny doing most of the talking. Which was
fine with me. I was hoping he wouldnt ask me any questions. I had never even seen
West Side Story. I couldnt sing you a single theme from, say, Beethovens 2nd
Symphony. All I could think of was the old proverb Better to keep ones mouth shut and
be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt. Id already opened my mouth
twice, once to admit Lennys tongue into it, the second time to utter that stupid joke.
Maybe if I kept it closed from now on, he would assume I was smart like Don, but just
shy and socially inept, like Kafka or Wittgenstein. Or Beethoven.
Lenny couldnt sit still. He was constantly standing up and sitting down again,
and constantly lighting yet another cigarette. The maid came in several times to ask if he
wanted to talk to so-and-so on the phone. There was some question about why the barber
hadnt come today as he was supposed to. It turned out he had come, but an hour late,
after Lenny had already left the apartment for an appointment. Lenny complained about
how hard it was to get a barber to come to your house on time. I tried to imagine what it
would be like to be able to truly sympathize with that problem.
Lenny left the room a few times, which gave us the opportunity to look around a
bit. There was a harpsichord in the dining room, and a grand piano in the living room.
On top of the piano were several framed and autographed photos John F. Kennedy,
Aaron Copland, various musicians and writers. I wondered if Lenny had kissed any of

them. Well, Copland yes; Kennedy, probably not. Just a handshake, no doubt. He
probably kissed Jackies hand, though.
Over the phone the day before our visit, Lenny had told Don that one of the things
he wanted to do tonight was to go attend a dress rehearsal of a play which his son
Alexander, an aspiring young New York actor, was appearing in. The cast of the play had
arranged a special dress rehearsal just for Lenny, but Lenny said we would be welcome to
come along. The dress rehearsal was at 8:00, and the theater was somewhere near
Washington Square, quite a distance away from the Dakota. At 7:30, Lenny looked at his
watch and said, We better eat a light supper. The dress rehearsal starts in half an hour.
Lenny called the maid, requested supper, and we continued our discussion.
Within minutes there were miraculously plates and food on the kitchen table.
What kind of beer do you want? Lenny asked us.
What kind do you have? I asked.
Any kind, said Lenny.
A Becks dark, then, I said. The maid appeared with it a few moments later,
along with everyone elses drinks, and we sat down to eat. One unusual dish on the table
was pickled okra.
Do you like this stuff? said Lenny, popping one in his mouth. I love it. Don
commented that many people dont like okra, because they find it unpleasantly slimy.
So what? said Lenny, Lots of things are slimy. Snot is slimy. Semen is slimy.
We eat those things. It doesnt bother me at all. He kept a lit cigarette by his plate as he
talked.
At one point he turned to me and abruptly said I have just one question for you.
How do you stand on circumcision? I gulped the rest of my okra down and answered
that I wasnt sure what he meant, exactly.
I mean, he went on, that I know about Don, but Im not sure about you. As
my face was still blank, he continued. I mean, do you consider your ancestry to include
the likes of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? Are you of the Hebrew persuasion?
Hes not Jewish, no, Don answered for me.
Then I have another question, Lenny said. Why are you trying to look like
Jesus Christ? Its true that I had a beard, my hair was somewhat longish and parted in
the middle, and I was wearing a kind of buttonless muslin shirt which I suppose looked
vaguely Biblical. But my looks were the result of a penchant for comfort, convenience,
and entropy; I may have looked messy but not Messianic. I began to mumble the
beginnings of some account of my sartorial tastes.
It doesnt matter, Lenny interrupted, I like Jesus Christ. He was a wonderful
man. My wife was a Christian. We had a priest by her bedside when she was dying. I
had no objections. Jesus is great. I love Jesus, as a matter of fact. When you find out
what the real Jesus was like, the historical Jesus, you cant help but fall in love with the
man. This led to a discussion of the Essenes, the ascetic, monastic brotherhood of
Palestinian Jews which Jesus was supposedly a member of. Lenny had just read a book
about them, so he was full of information. The Essenes, who existed from the 2nd
century B.C. to about the 2nd century A.D., held all property in common in a quasicommunistic social arrangement. They pretty much shunned women. They lived in
caves. They fasted a lot. The more I found out about the historical Jesus, the more I
realized any resemblance between him and me was purely superficial.

On and on he went. Lenny was interested in everything, and had an opinion on

every topic. He seemed to have read every book, heard (and usually conducted or
played) every piece of music, met every famous person. Any remark by Don or me
would engender an exposition, a paean, a lament, a sermon, a snide attack, a passionate
and idiosyncratic discourse. A few minutes in his presence was enough to give one the
sense of his prodigious intellect and wide-ranging erudition.
Lenny is so oral. He seemed to me to be primarily an insatiable mouth, as he sat
at the table snarfing down a sandwich, puffing on his cigarette, coughing his raspy
smokers cough, and talking, talking. His speech is peppered with phrases of French,
Italian, and German, famous quotes, cryptic allusions, brilliant insights, banal
observations, brutally frank questions, and constant and gratuitous references to sex.
Lenny is obsessed with sex. Sex is a constant metaphor, an ever-ready framework
for his observations and comments. He once said I only ask one thing of a piece of
music: that it give me an orgasm. And its clear that an orgasm, in one form or another,
is what hes always seeking in everything he does. (Once during a New York
Philharmonic rehearsal of the overture to Wagners Tannhauser, Bernstein stopped the
orchestra and addressed the brass section, saying Come on! You can give me more
volume than that, you big hunky brutes! The amused members of the brass section
showed up the next day wearing T-shirts bearing the words Hunky Brutes.)
Lenny is intense. And tiring. I couldnt keep up with him as well as Don could.
At one point a young man came into the room, Lennys amanuensis of sorts (Ive
forgotten his name). They discussed the logistics of something-or-other, and Lenny
ended the conversation by giving the guy a little pop quiz on Verdi operas. (He
performed dutifully and passed with flying colors, considering how awkward it must
have been to be put on the spot like that. I remember hoping he was paid well.)
It was 8:15. We were already late for the dress rehearsal at the theater near
Washington Square. Lenny told the maid to arrange for the limo to pick us up at the gate
to the Dakota. The three of us walked across the courtyard back toward the guarded
entrance. Lenny pointed out the apartments of Yoko Ono and Gilda Radner. He
expressed sorrow at John Lennons death. He was a nice man, said Lenny, They were
such nice neighbors. Lenny had his arms around Don a lot, and was kissing him on the
cheek. Don wasnt resisting really, but it was obvious to me that he felt a bit
uncomfortable with Lennys octopus-like attention.
We passed by the guards at the gate and got into a waiting black limo with tinted
windows. Don got in first, then me, leaving a place by the window for Lenny.
Do me a favor and switch places with Don, Lenny said to me, I want to sit
next to him. I did so, awkwardly stuffing my backpack between my legs. (Why did I
bring the damn thing, anyway?) Lenny shut the door and the driver pulled the car out.
He was wearing a black chauffeurs uniform with the hat and everything. He turned
around to us and introduced himself.
Hi, he said, Im Bob. Im your chauffeur for the evening. Where would you
like to go? Lenny told him where.
And Bob, said Lenny, Were pretty late already, if you know what I mean.
Yep, said Bob, immediately running a red light.
Lennys hands were all over Don. Don was still not exactly resisting Lennys
advances, but he was obviously extremely uncomfortable with the situation. Don and I

both tried to make small talk with Bob. We found out he was an out-of-work actor. He
liked driving a limo because his hours were flexible. He didnt ask what we did.
Lenny started kissing Don repeatedly on the mouth and talking to him in a low
voice. Bob and I were basically no longer part of the conversation. Bob kept his eyes on
the road and kept running stop lights at sixty miles an hour. I felt relaxed. I felt what was
happening had little to do with me.
Dons sentences kept being interrupted by Lennys full-mouth kisses:
Yeah, you know Lenny, that reminds me of the mmphffff...
This went on for some time. Luckily, Bobs driving was virtuoso stuff, very
efficient. As we approached the theater everyones attention was diverted by logistics of
following street signs and parking. Bob parked the limo in front of a fire hydrant, and
Lenny, Don, and I went into the theater. A few people were in the lobby, waiting for us.
Lenny apologized for the delay. Someone assured him there was absolutely no problem,
and we were escorted into the theater.
It was a very intimate place, seating only a couple hundred people maybe.
Lennys son came out and talked with Lenny for a few minutes. Don and I stood talking
in the aisles. Several people came up and introduced themselves. They were very
interested in us. Several beautiful women smiled at me from across the room. Some
people in the control booth were turning various colored spotlights on and off, so that
sometimes we were all red, sometimes blue, sometimes yellow. Someone put on some
flute and piano music on the sound system that sounded to me like Aaron Copland,
though Don and I werent sure. Lenny stopped talking for a second and cocked his ear.
Thats Copland, he said, A piece called `Duo for Flute and Piano. Say, is
there any coffee around here?
Coming right up! yelled someone, running into the wings. A few moments later
we were handed mugs of hot coffee, and we sat down to watch the play. We were the
only people in the audience.
I cant really remember much about the play. It was vaguely Tennessee Williamsish, set in a small town, with one of the characters living in the past and another character
wanting to break out of the stifling little world everyone else was trapped in, etc. etc., that
sort of thing. Lennys son was so-so. He didnt have a very large role. Lenny was sitting
a few seats away from Don and me, smoking and looking a little bored.
At the plays conclusion we made as much applause as three people can. Lenny
jumped to his feet. He blew a kiss to his son.
This production, he said, as if addressing a full auditorium, is magnificent.
Deeply moving. Everyone was absolutely magnificent, truly. He blew a few more
kisses to the cast assembled on stage. All eyes were on him, and he seemed, for the first
time that evening, somewhat at a loss for words. (Bernstein is famous for gushing,
hyperbolic post-performance praise. After the Indiana University Opera Theater
performed his Mass at Tanglewood in 1988, Lenny rushed to the stage and grabbed the
microphone. I have to say something, he said. This was one of the finest
performances Ive ever seen, not only of my Mass, but of anything. He went on. This
performance is a great miracle. The miracle of youth. The miracle of faith. The
ceaseless miracle of America.)
The cast dispersed and Lenny went down to the stage to hug his son some more.
Don and I went out to the lobby and talked to the director of the play for a while. He

probably thought we had something to do with acting and drama. And maybe we did, in
some sense. Lenny finally came out and we got back into the limo.
It was pretty late by now, and Lenny had to get back to prepare for a trip he was
taking the next day, I dont remember to where. The party was about to be over. The
obvious question was where to drop Don and me off. First, however, Don wanted to have
a heart-to-heart talk with Lenny alone. I guessed that he basically just wanted Lenny
to know that his unrelenting and insistent fondling and kissing were getting out of hand.
(Don had already seen Lenny on several occasions, and had corresponded with him and
talked on the phone with him. This was maybe the first time he had so overtly sexual
with Don, and since it wasnt clear where their relationship was going from here, it
seemed important for Don to get things straightened out. Unclear how Lenny viewed the
whole thing.) Anyway, for Don and Lenny to have a talk would entail finding a bar or
someplace where the two of them could talk for a few minutes.
Its getting rather late, Don, said Lenny, You really want to have this talk, even
though its going to be inconvenient? Don replied that he thought it was indeed
important.
Bob drove to an area where there was lots of nightlife and double-parked the car
while Don and Lenny went into a neon-lit yuppie bar to talk. Bob relaxed, took off his
hat and turned on the radio to a soft-rock station. I asked him some more about acting
and the New York drama scene. Bob said he didnt want to be a superstar, he just wanted
to be famous enough to make a lot of money fast so that he could buy a plot of land and
raise horses. Horses were his first love. I didnt know much about horses, so I asked him
a couple of questions about being a chauffeur; if it was hard to drive in New York City,
and if he chauffeured a lot of famous people around. He just answered Oh, yeah to
both questions. I cant remember what else we talked about.
Lenny and Don came back and we drove back to the vicinity of the Dakota. On
the way there I saw some liquor billboard in Italian which I could sort of understand all
except one word, so I pointed the billboard out to Lenny and asked him to translate. He
did so, and then launched into an impromptu discussion of the heuristics for turning one
Romance language into another (such as the fact that the `l in French words like place
becomes an `i in Italian, piazza). We talked about a lot of other things, but I cant
remember them now. Lennys arm was still around Don, but he had cut out the kissing.
And that was it. We got out of the car and said goodbye, back in the world of
plebeian folk. A few minutes later we were in the subway again. I remember seeing,
coincidentally, the initials `LB spray-painted among the graffiti on one of the cars. There
was a violinist on the platform playing of the Bach partitas for unaccompanied violin, the
gorgeous E major one. I stood there for a while and sort of tried to conduct the piece,
though the violinist ignored me completely.
David Moser
1990