Disclaimer: I do NOT own any of these characters, though I wish I did. They all belong to the late,great, Jonathan Larson.
Today was just like every other day in my life. I shivered from the cold, so I pulled my jacket closer around me. Even though I was inside my lousy loft, I could see the cloud of breath rise from my mouth. I quickly pressed my hands over my lips and blew into my hands. It was dark outside; nighttime will do that. I've noticed that pattern since the beginning of time. Our power blew (figures) so candles were lit all around the room, giving the faint hope of light and slightly less of heat. I pushed my glasses back up and stared around the (mostly) empty room.
Today was just like every other day in my life. It sucked.
Papers littered the room, falling off our table, on our floor. Empty bottles of water, wine, and beer added nicely to the collection. Add to that the rest of the miscellaneous trash that mystically found it's way onto our floor, and you have a wonderful view of what passes for our front room. The table is small, slightly broken, accompanied by a couch that I wouldn't sit on in its prime (which had to be years ago) and a seemingly random chair. My camera stand stood in one corner, and the other housed our illegal wood-burning stove, now dark and silent like a tomb because we have nothing left to burn. Our phone is resting nicely on an old dinner tray next to the doorway into the kitchen, mated nicely with our answering machine. A thick extension cord lay across the floor and disappeared from view out the window.
I tried to shake the cold off, but it didn't work. My fingertips were still numb. Where the HELL was Roger? He always had this knack for being untimely early and unreasonably late. He was supposed to be bringing back food with him, with is something I've been wanting very much for the past day. More than I wanted Maureen. I take off my scarf, but put back on, so that it can warm up the neck that is left open due to the hair being so short and spiked up. I walked over to the window, which decorated the wall kiddy-corner from the couch and looked out. I thought I heard something behind me, but I didn't think anything of it.
Nothing but the regulars: some woman in way to little and some guy in way too much conversing in low, hush tones. A cab drives by. Ah, the wonderful sights of the Alphabet city! The woman looks up and blows me a kiss. If I was any lighter, she might've thought I was a ghost. I just so happens that a blonde-haired, green-eyed man isn't a common find in New York's lower East side. Maybe that's why she noticed me. No sign of Roger, I slipped back in and closed the window. I tried to walk, but was choked on my first step. I spun around and saw my scarf had been caught in the window. I opened, pulled my scarf in, and slammed the window shut.
Feeling like a complete moron, I crossed the room to my camera. Ah yes, my camera, the very essence of my being. My life. My love. My work. My camera. I turned it on. Surprising how good of a view of the room I had from right here. I picked up my camera, and turned it on.
It's really quite surprising: the feelings came as if on second nature. I was in director mode. My hands knew their positions. Flashing through my mind was shots that I still needed in order for my film to be completed. This was going to be it. This was going to be my film; my documentary that would make it. Testing the view, I hit record, and began.
"December 11---" a quick glance at my watch---"11:45 PM. Mark, the filmmaker, is alone in the loft he shares with his roommate, Roger, the struggling musician. It's cold, because we have no heat. All of our electrical appliances are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes it's way out the window. In the corner stands our illegal wood-burning stove, whose pipes push their way out the roof. Mark sits alone, waiting for Roger to bring with him the precious commodity of food." My camera followed my dialog, taking in the corresponding items. I heard the sound of the front door being opened and then closed again. I turned off the record button and peeked in through the kitchen to the front door. Roger stood in the kitchen, red-eyed and empty-handed.
"Roger? Did you…um…forget something?" He sat down on the counter. Our kitchen table and chairs were used a long time ago for firewood. Roger is every ladies dream: tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. He talks with a raspy voice that woman find sexy; I'll never understand it. He looked up at me.
"No." He said shortly.
"Yes, you did." I said, setting my camera back on the stand and walking into the kitchen. "You were supposed to get food, remember?" His red-rimmed eyes looked like a sea surrounded by an ocean of blood.
"You get the food around here, Mark," He said groggily.
"Roger, where the hell were you?" I asked him. Wait a minute…I had probably heard Roger walking into the kitchen before. It wouldn't surprise me. "Let me guess, you didn't make it out of the building."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Roger growled. He was not in a good mood, and I was making it worse. I've been in these type of situations several times before. The best defense is none. I decided it was best not to mention this morning.
"Nothing," I muttered. "I'm going to get us some food, then. You stay here." Roger didn't shrug or blink or acknowledge that he heard me or knew of my existence in any way. I sighed, went into my room, grabbed my house keys and stopped to pick up my camera.
Once I was ready, I looked in the front room. Sitting on the table with his silent guitar in hand, was Roger. "I'm going down to the Food Emporium." Roger started making notes on a sheet of paper. I sighed. "Okay, I guess I'll be back in a few minutes, then." Still nothing. "Right, well, I'm off." I picked up my keys and left.
The street was relatively empty at this time of night, so there wasn't much to film. Beside that, the lighting was really bad, so all the pictures would be really shitty anyway. Today had absolutely sucked. I usually look on the bright side of things, but today I just couldn't see it.
It started when I woke up this morning. The phone rung; when I tried to reach over for my glasses, I knocked them to the floor.
"Shit," I muttered, searching the ground for my glasses. I found them and pressed them to my face. Like turning on a camera or television, the world suddenly came into focus. Grumbling, I staggered out of bed. After making it out of the bathroom (or what passed for a bathroom: it was a toilet in a room the size of a broom closet), I went in the kitchen to brush my teeth. Roger was there, and he was his normal-unhappy self.
"Mornin' Roger," I said, looking into the near empty refrigerator. He grunted his good morning. I pulled out the empty milk jug and flung it in the garbage. "Do we have any Cap' N' Crunch left?"
"I think we've got what's left of half a box," he said. I went to the cabinet and looked. Sure enough, there was half a box of Cap' N' Crunch left. Having no milk, I ate it dry and out of the box.
"So…how are you?" I asked him. He shot me a dirty look. "I'm fine," I said to his unasked question. "I had a wild night of passionate sex with Maureen, and it involved whipped cream and root beer for some reason."
"Mark," Roger said in his annoyed voice. "You might've jerked off in there last night, because Maureen is with her new girlfriend."
"Sure, kill the fun out of my life," I said sarcastically. Maureen—my one true love and ex girlfriend. Last month she dumped me for someone else.
"I don't have to kill the fun out of your life, Mark. You do that well enough on your own." I bit back my comments.
"Anyway," I said, sitting on counter, my sneakers banging against the cabinets. It's not uncommon to sleep with shoes on. Most times, it's too cold not to. "What are you doing today?" Silence in response. "Me, I'm just going to work on my film, then I was thinking about going down to the Kat Scratch, but I might not go down there tonight. The guy said if I brought my camera in there one more time, he'd throw me out for good." I gave a small shrug.
"Shows you're not wanted," Roger muttered. I jumped down off the counter.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked him, slightly cross. Okay, first he says I destroy my life, and now he's saying I'm not wanted. What the hell?
"It means, Mark, that you are two busy sticking your camera in everyone's face that you don't notice how annoying it is. It's about time someone actually stepped up—"
"Shut up, Roger!" I growled. "You have no feet to stand on."
The rest of the day went pretty much completely down hill from there. Roger was continually pissed at me for seemingly no reason, and I had to work twice as hard so as to not step on his toes. Now he doesn't even bring food back when that was what I asked him to do. I don't believe he left the building. Hell, I don't even thing he left the loft. He hasn't in six months. Not since April—
I'm not going to think about it. But I shivered anyway. The thought was almost too much for me to take. The scene flashed in my eyes like a movie still, and I had to shake my head to clear the image from my mind. My breath rose in steam in front of my face. It was only slightly colder outside because there's a breeze out here. I made it to the Food Emporium, and was not surprised to see it was closed. I rubbed my eyes. I didn't want to go home right now. Now with Roger being the stupid shit-head he's being. I could always go down to the Life Café…
Oh, fuck it. I'll to the Kat Scratch anyway. At least there'll be something to do there. So, changing direction, I walked down toward the Kat Scratch. Who knows? Maybe it'll cheer me up. Nothing like a fog of smoke to delude the senses.
The Kat Scratch Club is a strip joint. S&M dancers show off everything they've got with men stuffing bills into their underwear. Don't misunderstand me. I don't go there for the girls. Well, that's a bonus. Come on: sexy women doing things to a pole that's almost guaranteed to make anyone stand straight up. It's a wonderful time. I always wondered, though, what the fascination of it was. Perhaps some men like to picture those women doing whatever their doing to those poles on their personals, but lets get realistic. There's no way in hell that would happen. Me? I go because of the dancing. I'm not a sick pervert, but the way the girl's bodies move—I'm just enchanted by it. The fact that they aren't wearing anything adds; but it's the grace they have. Men just can't copy it, no matter how hard we try. I shivered again, this time trying to picture a male S&M dancer up there, strutting his stuff and pole dancing. That was a thought I didn't want either. I REALLY didn't want that thought.
"Ahhh—" I was grossed out. Luckily, I just got to the Kat Scratch. The bouncer didn't know me, so I just muttered something that sounded like "Oh my God, what is he doing to that woman—Awww, man!" He turned around, and I slipped into the club. It was an easy entrance. Just as I predicted it, a fog of smoke appeared. The clinking of glass on wood sounded as men set down their drinks. Everything around me was red, including some of the lights. Some of the men in the club sat back, enjoying the show, others sat hunched forward, nursing their drinks. I walked past a crowd of men trying to stuff some bills into the leather underwear of some girl wearing a mask over her eyes that looked something like cat woman's. She even had two leather ears that poked out of an explosion of frizzy black hair. She had a whip in her hand, panties, but was other wise exposed. I noticed she had her nipple pierced. As I walked past, I couldn't help but think that we made eye contact. I shook it off and took a seat in the far back, not to close, but close enough to bring out my camera in peace. I hunched low in my seat, half covered my darkness, and began to film.
"Women who live in Alphabet City are given little choice but to take up jobs as S&M dancers or prostitutes, selling themselves for enough to live check to check." I thought the narration in my head. It sounded pretty good to me. Oh yeah, this is going to make a hellova shot. I heard someone coming toward me, so I shut my camera off quickly and hide it behind me.
"Sitting here alone?" A raspy woman's voice asked me.
"Yes ma'am." I said. I could almost feel her smile.
"May I join you?" She asked me. I looked up and saw a face that wore too much make up. Her teeth were yellow, and her hair was blonde to the point of fake. She looked like she had been thin once, but put on weight and lost it again, her skin looking like it had stretched and hung lose on her. Something (I imagined, like a large toad) I cringed when she sat down next to me and took out a cigar and lit it, releasing the smoke through her mouth like a snake.
"So what are you doing here alone, handsome?" She asked, her voice even more caked with tar. I had to struggle to keep my composure. She was easily twice my size.
"Well, you know, the misses wouldn't like this kind of thing." I said with a shrug. I was hopping she take the "I'm taken" hint and leave. Instead, she laughed and squeezed my thigh way to close for me to be comfortable.
"What the misses doesn't know won't hurt her," She said. "My name is Kelly, what's yours?"
"Roger," I lied quickly.
"Roger, eh? Well, you're a cute little one, Roger. How would you feel about taking a look at what I can offer?" She leaned on the table, closer to me than I would have liked.
"I'm not into that kind of thing," I managed to say. I slid my camera down a slight ways, scooting my chair over. She grinned again, showing her golden teeth.
"Sure you are, handsome." She leaned close. Too close. "Once you see what I've got to give you."
"No, ma'am—"
"You got class, I like that."
"Miss, please," I said. "I'm really not interested." Kelly—or whatever her name was—looked slightly put out.
"Are you saying that I'm not good enough for you?"
"NO!" I had to think of something, fast. "No, it's not that, it's just that—"
"Hey!" A male voice called. "How many times to I have to tell you! If you bring that thing in here again, I'll kick you out!" Damn! They found my camera!
"Listen, man, I was—"
"Aw, sugar, you wouldn't really kick me out would you?" The man (His name is Bob. He runs and owns the Kat Scratch Club) grabbed the hooker by the wrist.
"Out with you, now." He said, leading her to the door. I tried hard to bury myself into the corner, but Bob came back.
"She wasn't bothering you, was she?"
"A little," I admitted.
"Sorry about that sir." He said. "I've had trouble with her."
"It's not a problem," I said, trying not to look like myself as much as I could. It wasn't working.
"If she ever bothers you again, just let me know and we'll send her out." Bob said professionally. In the background, I heard the snapping of a whip and applause. Damn. I missed her dance. I glanced up at the stage and saw her looking at me. I looked back at Bob.
"What did she bring in here that she got kicked out for?" I felt the dancers' eyes on me.
"Her dick," he said. I was completely horrified when he said that and watched him walk away feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. She was a man! I felt like I just got raped or something. I needed to take a shower. I waved the bar tender over to me. He looked annoyed to come over to my table, but did anyway.
"Something strong—now." I asked. He rolled his eyes and went back to the bar, bringing back a drink. I took one sip and almost choked as the alcohol burned my throat. I remembered suddenly why I hated to drink. Closing my eyes, I downed the rest of the drink.
Slowly, the Kat Scratch emptied. I was left alone, drowning in my thoughts and the one drink I had. Around two AM, there was only five people left, and some girl who looked both scared and excited dancing. Someone pulled up a chair at my table, sitting in it backwards. I looked and noticed the girl. She was still wearing the cat-woman mask and ears, but now she wore a black top and tight blue vinyl pants.
"Hey," she said to me.
"Hi." I said, slightly awkwardly. It's not every day that a beautiful woman tries to start a conversation with me. She eyed me carefully.
"I've seen you here before," she said. The bartender brought her out a drink. "Thanks Rick," she said, before returning her attention back to me.
"Yeah, I've been here before. What's your name?"
"Ma—Mark. Cohen."
"Mark. You're usually with that tall blonde. The good looking one." There was the punch line. Everyone always asks me about Roger. How Roger is, if Roger is seeing anyone, if they can have Roger's number. When we go out in public together, Roger always gets all the attention and I'm just there like some sort of decorative statue.
"What about my friend, Mark?" He said once to a group of girls who came over to him. They all looked at me and waved, before returning attention quickly back to Roger again. The bartender, sensing a conversation coming, gave me another of whatever he gave me before. I thought about objecting, but figured screw it.
"Yeah, I'm usually here with him. He's at home now, though." I said. She smiled. She had a nice smile.
"Thanks for telling me, but I wasn't really asking about him," She said. I was stunned. "I was just wondering if you were the one with him usually."
"Oh, yeah." I said.
"What happened, did you two have a fight or something?" I gave a small chuckle and took a drink of whatever the bartender gave me. It went down easier this time.
"No, no, we're not a couple. I'm not gay," I said. There was a twinkle, a catch in her eye, and she smiled. I felt myself blush.
"Are you seeing anyone?" She asked me. I was contemplating saying yes. I still loved Maureen, and I think I always will. However, there was a beautiful girl right in front of me—
"No," I said. "I mean…I was, but she doesn't like me anymore."
"Aw, I'm sorry to hear that," She said, setting her hand lightly on mine. I liked the feeling. "Did she leave you for someone else?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Aw, what's his name?"
"I don't think—" She flashed that beautiful smile of hers in my direction again, cutting me off mid-sentence.
"C'mon, what's his name?" She asked again. "I have to know so I can kick his ass." I snorted into my drink. I muttered the name. "What?" She asked me.
"Joanne." I said. Her eyes got wide with understanding.
"Oh. Lordie." She said, swinging around and sitting so she could skim her foot up my leg.
"What about you? Are you seeing anyone?" I tried to naturally move my leg. I don't think it worked very well, but she didn't let on if it didn't.
"No." She said simply. I felt a lot of heat rush to my face. She smiled and touched my cheek lightly. "You're blushing." She said. I tried to look as if I always had beautiful women talking to me. She laughed, a pure lovely sound.
"Look, it's still early," She said, looking at her watch. "You wanna get out of here?"
"Yes," I said quickly. She smiled and took my hand. I grabbed my camera and together, we walked out. I just noticed she had a tail attached to her belt, so she looked like a cat. We smiled and laughed all the way home.
This was so out of character for me. I don't believe in one-night stands, but here we were, absentmindedly walking back to my apartment. What was going to happen once we got there, I don't know.
"Well, this is my stop," I said as we reached the building. This was too good to last.
"Really?" She looked excited. "I live here too!" It just dawned on me.
"Are you the girl that JUST moved in?" I asked her. She nodded.
"Yeah. That must make you my new neighbor."
"Odd place to meet your neighbor," I said with a laugh. She smiled. We walked in together, and stopped one floor under mine.
"This is my loft," She said.
"I live in the one just above," I said. There was a moment of silence. "Do you want to come in?" she asked. This was the moment of truth. I looked up and could almost see Roger sitting there, being depressed. I didn't want to just go home. I really didn't.
"Sure." I said. She smiled and let me in. Her loft was slightly different than ours in that it had furniture. I sat down at the table, while she got something for us to drink. She came over and sat down next to me.
"So…." She said. There was another moment of silence. I absentmindedly began moving my finger around the top of the beer can, not drinking it because that stuff was nasty: I don't drink beer. She took a long drink before looking at me.
"Are we going to do this?" She asked me. I looked at her, my "what the hell?" face clear as day. She sat on my lap. "You don't seriously think I invited you back to my house to talk, do you?" She did have a strong point, and she was a beautiful women. I was a single man, she was a single woman. She was willing. She seemed to see my train of thought across my face, because she got up and got something, coming back and handing me a condom.
"Does that make you feel better?" She asked me. I took it and she reached down between my legs and pat.
"That is a little strange—" I said sitting up taller in my chair. She smiled. "C'mon," She said, taking my hand and leading me toward what I assume was her room. She paused. "There's something I should tell you," she said. "One reason I insist we use the rubber is because I have AIDS."
"No pressure," I muttered. But as soon as she said that, I remembered something I've been fighting to get out of my head. It started with Roger…our fight about getting out of the house…he didn't leave because of April.
Then, as if in a film, I saw the whole thing. I came into the loft, Roger after me. I went into my room when the sent of something rotting filled my nostrils.
"God, what is that?" I said. Nothing answered me. "Roger?" I turned around and found out quiet clearly. Roger's girlfriend, April, was lying on the bathroom floor face down. Blood was everywhere: on the sink and mirror, the floor was pooled with it. A piece of glass lay a few inches from my foot. There were fingerprints of caked blood on it. The blood was like jelly, thick from drying. One look at the body told me everything I needed to know: she had slit her wrists.
Fighting back the urge to vomit, I ran into the hallway, the image of April imprinted on my mind. I came in the kitchen to see Roger, staring hard at a note on the table.
"What is that?" I asked him. He didn't move or say anything. "Roger, what IS IT?" I was getting panicky. He still didn't say anything, just frozen in time. I ran over and looked at the note. It was from April, and it only had three words on it. "We've got AIDS."
"Oh my God…" I muttered. "Roger, go to Collins house. Go." He didn't move. "Roger, MOVE!" I barked, pushing him toward the door. He groped for the note, so I gave it to him. He didn't say much, but walked as a dead man would have walked. Instead of going in, he walked back into the loft as if in a trance, looked in the bathroom, gave a bitter laugh, then slammed his bedroom door shut so hard it cracked the plaster on the wall. I called the cops, and they came to clean up the mess April's suicidal self left behind.
"Mark?" The woman's voice brought me back from my sudden memory. "Mark, are you okay?" I felt cold and weak at the same time.
"I have to go…" I said. I couldn't…I wouldn't.
"Mark, what's wrong?" She pleaded with me. I felt trapped. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get some air. I couldn't breath, I—"Mark, listen to me!" She said. I looked at her. "Mark, it's okay, alright?" She said. I nodded. "Look, I really like you…but if you're not…" She trailed off.
"Look," I said. "I'm sorry…I really gotta go." I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Maybe some other time, okay?" She nodded and bolted out the door as fast as I could, taking my camera with me. I went right up to my loft, past Roger and into my room. I slammed the door shut and was panting. I needed to clear my head. I heard Roger set his guitar aside and shuffle around; maybe he was going to check on me? Who knows? And right now, I didn't really care. I just rolled into a tight ball and focused on going to sleep, trying to get the image of April out of my head. I felt twice as lonely as I did before, knowing that right under me was a beautiful woman I could have slept with but didn't. Oh well. Her open acceptance of my choice meant more to me than anything else. I'll have to thank her for that. With a shaky breath, I took off my glasses, the world becoming a blur, much like my life, and I just it go out of focus and tried to sleep.