Roger was hiding in his room. In the loft had assembled Mark's family – his mother and father, Cindy, and her two brats.
Roger wasn't exactly fond of children. David was 8 and Michael was 3. Roger rolled his eyes, sitting cross-legged on his bed and hugging his guitar a little more tightly to his chest. He had promised Mark he'd play nice. And he had, for a good long time. He'd smiled until his face felt like it would bleed from the effort. And when he'd felt a sarcastic comment rising to his lips, he'd bitten them.
But then it all got to be too much. Mr. Cohen inspecting the windowsill for film crews on the street below. Just in case. Mrs. Cohen running a finger over everything, checking for dust. Muttering things like, "squalor" and "giant rats" and "crocodiles in the sewers". Cindy continually asking the kids if they wanted a treat every time one of them screamed or cried – which they did often. And then runny noses and caramel-sticky fingers got a little too close to his Fender and he ran for his room, simply returning Mark's dirty look.
Roger wondered what time it was. Mark's family was going to be going to a show at around 7 while Maureen watched the youngest brat. If Roger had been paying attention, his stomach would have clenched when he heard the familiar "Speak!" of the answering machine.
He also would have probably ran for the fire escape.
But he didn't; he simply smirked when he heard Mrs. Cohen's voice float through his door, demanding why they couldn't have a nice, normal message. And then a few moments later there was a knock on his door.
"Who is it?"
He heard a sigh. "It's me," Mark said, opening the door and carefully shutting it behind him, sending a fearful glance back into the loft. Roger sneered at him.
"Enjoying playtime?"
Mark looked at him sharply. "Don't think I'm going to forgive you for leaving me alone with them."
Roger laughed, but it was cut short as Mark continued.
"But you can make it up to me."
Roger looked up at him suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"
"Maureen cancelled." Mark stated bluntly. "I need you to watch Michael while we go to the show. Not only would the giant plant scare him to death, but he'd cry through the whole thing and get us thrown out."
Roger grimaced. "I can't believe you're actually going to that thing."
Mark smiled grimly. "Yeah, well, it's that or spend another three hours locked up here in the loft listening to my mother lecture me about safety during drug deals."
Roger cast a malevolent look towards his bathroom door. "Fine. I'll do it."
Mark's shoulders dropped. "Thanks. Just – just don't set him on fire or something."
Roger laughed. "I give no money-back guarantees."
Mark sighed. It was going to be a long night.
- - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - -
Roger sat on the living room couch, a pile of little plastic toys sitting beside him, and Michael sitting on the floor, watching him with big solemn eyes. This had been going on for about half an hour before Michael started to absently pick his nose. Roger groaned.
Suddenly a little voice piped up. "Pway?"
Roger regarded him in surprise. "You actually speak?"
The tiny face below him started to crumple slightly. "Mawk?"
"Oh, shit," Roger muttered under his voice. "Okay, okay, we'll play."
He grabbed up a little plastic car but it was too late. The kid started wailing. Roger looked around helplessly, cursing Mark for leaving him with this and Cindy for ever having sex.
"Okay, okay, just – just shut up," Roger said desperately, looking around the loft. Had Cindy left any of those fucking caramels around? His eyes fell on a bag in the kitchen, and he jumped up, resisting the urge to put his hands over his ears. He rummaged in the bag a moment, then hurried back to Michael triumphantly.
"Here, Michael, you want a caramel?" Roger asked, waving the candy in the kid's face. Michael quieted, looking at Roger's hands with huge blue eyes that reminded him of Mark's.
"Feet?" he asked tremulously.
"No, no, a caramel – candy?" Roger attempted, waving the candy again, trying to get his point across.
Michael reached for the caramel, stubbornness scrunching up his face. "Feet!"
Understanding dawned. "Oh, are you trying to say 'treat'?"
"Feet!" Michael exclaimed happily as Roger finally handed him the caramel.
Roger watched the kid happily chew, his mouth open as he struggled with the stickiness of the caramel. So, the kid said 'feet' for 'treat' … then that meant …
Roger smiled as Michael finished his treat, looking up at Roger expectantly. Roger picked up a small toy truck from the pile of toys beside him.
"Cars!" Michael said excitedly. Roger shook his head, smiling.
"Not quite. We're gonna teach you a new word tonight, kid."
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - -
Roger lay on his bed, helpless in fits of laughter as he heard chaos reigning beyond his bedroom door. All the women were hysterical. He heard crying, frantic steps, and a little voice piping up, "Fuck! Fuck!" again and again.
As soon as Cindy had walked into the apartment, holding David's hand, Michael had run over to his mother, brandishing the truck he and Roger had been playing with.
"Fuck!" he said proudly, and Roger had choked down a laugh and slunk off to his room in the commotion that had ensued.
Roger was still laughing when Mark barged into his room, not bothering to knock. His face was flushed red and his eyes looked a little wild.
"I am never speaking to you again. And I am going to make you fucking pay," Mark hissed, throwing a quick look back into the loft as his mother whooped with a particularly loud sob.
Roger put his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. When he'd collected himself, he gulped and said, "Don't you mean I'm going to trucking pay?"
Mark shook his head, looking furious, as Roger fell back on his bed, laughing.
Maybe kids weren't so bad after all.