A/N: I doubt many people have seen Roger Dodger. The budget for the film was probably so low that they'd have trouble scraping together enough to hire a lawyer to sue me for this. Nevertheless, the film is wonderful and highly recommended to those of the legal age. If good dialogue, wonderful acting, and hand-held cameras are your thing, go see it!
On a more relevant note, this doesn't really require any knowledge of the movie. I'd greatly appreciate any reviews, and in the unlikely instance that someone would like to arrange for some mutual beta-ing, I'm game. Oh, and there are two chapters. I uploaded them at the same time because I'm weird.
Old Acquaintance
New Year's Eve wasn't the only night when people measured the evening's success by how drunk they were at the end of it: it was just the only night they admitted to doing so. And by those standards, tonight was quite a triumph. It was a six-figure salary, a sleek BMW, a spacious, tastefully furnished house in Italy for winter getaways…yes, Roger was drunk. So drunk he'd almost said that aloud, or so lazily inebriated that he hadn't. It was a good observation: witty, self-deprecating, insightful without being searching or revealing.
"Perish the thought," he shuddered. He sipped his scotch, a ridiculous gesture in light of the exorbitant amount he'd poured in the glass. He had a vague notion of champagne on New Year's, a nagging sentiment still dogging him after years of office parties. The scotch, however, slid down his throat with a seasoned dancer's ease and grace. Roger wasn't a man who enjoyed familiarity, this being the one exception. A man's drink, calm and elegant, eloquent, almost, in a way he himself could never be. The literal sense.
The doorbell rang, his date, what should have been anything but the jarring interruption it was. The beginning, that had always been the best part. The hook, the Big Lie. It was advertising. You met a woman, you summed her up, you found a need, you played the man who satisfied that need. Then the laws of economics wormed their way into it: supply and demand, law of diminished returns, whatever. The average commercial lasts only two minutes, with good reason. Relationships, though, they limped along, not ending with a clean cut or dissolve or fade. At least not anymore. Self-righteous anger, barbed accusation, the cold, violent physicality of a slap as the parting touch. Roger could talk anyone into anything. He just never seemed able to talk himself out anymore.
The doorbell rang again. As he was hastily straightening his tie, Roger's jacket sleeve caught on the half empty (half full?) bottle of scotch, sending it tumbling to the floor. A faint frown flickered across his face, then abolishing any hint of expression, Roger carefully and deliberately ground the shards of glass into the rug with his shoe. He returned his attention to the tie.
"Be right there," he muttered at the door.
An image ambushed him as he neared the threshold, a haggard, hard face with eyes that couldn't seem to meet the mirror, couldn't bear to confront even that shallow truth. He remembered Nick's offhand mention of the bottle of scotch Susan kept hidden in the laundry basket, one of the things he'd hated about her, and wondered how he'd let this casual hypocrisy catch him unawares. He sneered at his reflection, glare perfectly in tune with the rest of his appearance. He held the gaze as long as he could, until he realized his hand had flown to his left breast pocket, until he felt the gentle red silk of her scarf between his fingers. He scowled and spun around, swinging the door open easily.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he greeted, trying his best to look guilty or at least apologetic. Lacking experience with either of the two emotions, it was a tough sale. After a couple moments of condemning silence, he tried another tack. "Love your dress," he murmured.
She chuckled dryly, letting the cold façade slip for a mere second before regaining her composure. "I'm here to pick up my things."
Roger raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" This time he felt confident enough to pull her to him and whisper in her ear. "I'm afraid you must have the wrong apartment. This is 52. Try 54; I always hear strange things going on next door."
This time she laughed, genuine, natural laughter that seemed to gush—the only way he could describe it, despite the word's constant misapplication to old ladies commenting on one another's hats. He kissed her.
She pulled back. "You smell like you've practically been bathing in scotch."
It was his turn to laugh, although it ended up as more of an inner flinch accompanied by a snort, by no means a pleasant sound. "Well, that would be one of the side effects of practically bathing in scotch."
She shot him a disparaging look. "We talked about this before. I don't care if you drink, but do it on your own time, not when you want to go out." She gave a cursory glance around his apartment, noted with bitter satisfaction the glass next to his favorite chair, whirled to leave.
He watched dispassionately as she threw open the door. In the hallway she hesitated, her back to him still, and something inside him kicked into high gear. "Genevieve," he entreated in a low, soothing voice, as though he were calming someone irrationally angry. "Gen, turn around."
The muscles in her back tensed and he continued, not taking his eyes off her. "It is New Year's Eve. It is the night for going out and getting drunk. Do you know why? Because it is the one night of the year when you don't have to worry about what will happen the next day. It's the last night, in a manner of speaking." He walked to her, slowly, as stealthily as he could given the circumstances. He was acutely aware of the sound made with each step. When he'd reached her, he placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling them slump beneath even his most delicate touch, and slowly turned her around. "Gen, we can do whatever we want tonight because tomorrow everything begins anew."
He stood there, barely touching her, fully prepared for some sort of blow, whether physical or verbal. He winced as her expression began to change and, impossibly, a smile formed on her lips.
"You're right," she said at length, mouth arcing into a speculative grin.
Roger felt a dark joy at the words, more powerful than all the scotch he'd had that night, more potent than any drug he'd ever tried. The thrill of selling something unnecessary, something useless. And he was prepared to reap the benefits. "What would you like to do?"
"Remember that party I told you about?"
He feigned disinterest. "Vaguely. At the house of some friend of yours…June?"
She humored him. "Joyce."
His eyes widened and he began to cough violently at the name, all the while attempting to discern whether this was a deliberate trap or just the fickle finger of fate flipping him the bird once more.
"You know her?" Genevieve asked, innocently enough.
"No, no," he protested hurriedly. Realizing how preposterous the denial sounded, he backpedaled as much as circumstances would permit. "Well, maybe. Yes, in a manner of speaking."
She laughed aloud.
"What?"
She gave him an affectionate
pat on the back. "I've known you for six months and I've never seen you this
evasive."
"Are you kidding? I'm always this evasive."
She held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry. Flustered, I think I meant to say." She marveled at him. "Everything is always about words with you."
"It's my job." He grinned nervously and shrugged. "Let's go."
She nodded, then gave him a quick once-over. "Your tie needs to be straightened."
He intercepted her hands, already en route to his neck, with a defensive shove. As soon as he'd done it, he cursed himself for the instinctive action. "It's fine. Not like anyone's going to be staring at my tie."
Genevieve rolled her eyes at him. He always fluctuated between loving and hating those damnable eyes. Inscrutable as a rule, they had this look…when she looked at him, at least…like he was leading her to a surprise party she'd known about forever but was acting like she hadn't to avoid hurting his feelings. More bluntly, she could see through all his bullshit. Sometimes when she turned the hazel polygraph on him he felt the urge to just turn away. That or kiss her. Both impulses were irritably hard to resist, but she never seemed to notice.
"Are you coming?" Her voice rang down the hall, bringing him out of his drunken ruminations. Him, daydreaming about a part of a woman that was decidedly not erogenous. He caught that thought before it could continue. The most dangerous of people, after all, was the guy who believed his own bullshit.
He hurried down the hall to catch up with his date.