by Robert Markland Smith.
Everyone loves Leonard. But me, I used to hate Leonard Cohen. I would go to parties, and this poet would be boasting of having had breakfast with Leonard, and having shown Leonard his manuscript. And yes, Leonard loved his manuscript, and do you know Leonard? Why yes, I know Leonard. I was asked to write an epitaph for him when he dies. And yes, everyone I know in Montreal – and his dog – knew Leonard.
Except for me. I didn’t know Leonard. I would see his books sold in the late seventies in used bookstores. And every time I turned the TV on, there was Leonard. OOOOOH, how I used to cringe whenever I saw Leonard on TV. And as for his ex-girlfriend Suzanne, well she cut me off because she thought I was crazy and dangerous.
But I am not dangerous. I just told Suzanne that my parents used to hypnotize me into being a spy for them among the artist crowd. I told that to Suzanne because I was off my medication, and well, I had to tell her something…
But I am not dangerous. I just hate Leonard.
Let me explain why. I used to write poetry. Well, probably pretty bad poetry. I guess it was bad, because every publisher in sight and every magazine editor in Canada rejected my material. I even contemplated making it in the States to be accepted here. So I tried even harder to get published. Something was missing. I was not Leonard Cohen. So I hated him.
Nothing personal, Mr. Cohen. But you could blow your nose on a piece of paper, submit it to McClelland & Stewart, and they would sell it. Worldwide.
I used to wonder if Leonard has sold his soul in order to make it. I never found out.
I saw Leonard live twice. The first time was in December 1969, the year the police went on strike in Montreal. I ended up in the Douglas that year. And didn’t Leonard come and give a concert for the mentally ill that winter, at the Dalse Center. I was there in the audience, and I was thrilled. Hey, it was a good concert. I had had a bad trip on acid, and Leonard said to the patients, “You people are the political prisoners of our society.” Just what I wanted to hear, because I was a politico. A radical. I wanted to plant bombs, but didn’t know how.
Anyway, that was in 1969. In 1983, I was out of the Douglas, one day in October. I had just gotten out, by the way, when I was in a smoked meat restaurant on the Main called – what else? The Main, when suddenly, I saw him. Him. You know. The ladies’ man.
He was dining with two beautiful ladies at the table next to mine. I whispered to the waitress, “Excuse me, is that Leonard Cohen?”
“Uh-hm,” she whispered, meaning yes.
So I surreptitiously finished my smoked meat sandwich, and got my nerve up. I walked right up to the next table over and asked him, boldly I must say, “Are you Leonard Cohen?”
And he looked at me right in the eye, without batting an eyelash, and exclaimed, in a disarming way: “YES I AM!!!”
And lo and behold, I immediately began to stutter, “M-m-m-my na-na-name is Ro-ro-ro-robert S-s-s-smith…”
I started fidgeting as I stood in front of their table, and I said, stuttering some more, “I-I-I-I ma-ma-mailed you my boo-boo-book I’ve be-be-been so happy since I go-go-go-got my lobotomy.”
I managed to blurt that out, and he almost smiled as he answered me, “Yes, it is sitting on my coffee table at home. Tell me, did you really have a lobotomy!!?”
And I burst out with, “No-no-no, but I just got out of the Douglas!!” I said it so fast I wasn’t even sure they heard me. Then I added, “I go-go-got your address from my fr-fr-friend Jo-jo-john Max…”
And once again, he gave me a disarming Zen master smile, as I turned around abruptly and walked embarrassed out of the restaurant. As I was walking out, one of the ladies dining with Leonard whispered to him, “That man was just like a little mouse!”
And I went home and proceeded to have a nervous breakdown that lasted ten months.
July 28, 2002