Title: Immortalize

Genre: Humor/Friendship

Rating: T

Summary: You might say I was Roger Davis' best friend. Mark POV Something of an informal eulogy about Roger.

Notes: You may notice that scenes, situations and dialogue in this were heavily inspired by Tommy Boy and SLC Punk! I DO NOT OWN AND THESE HILARIOUS MOVIES GET ALL THE CREDIT FOR THAT.

You might say I was Roger Davis' best friend. Sure, I never knew someone as well as I knew the guy, but I wouldn't exactly call myself the go-to man for information about him. Roger always had an element of mystery to him, like he was really more than he let on. And doubtless, he was.

And now, as I think about it more and more - maybe I never really knew Roger Davis. He was a complex individual, layered deeply with folds of personality and wit. And Roger Davis is impossible to immortalize - you're asking me to tell you a bit about him... and I can't help but wonder - what the hell am I supposed to say?

That the man was an utmost example of integrity and wisdom?

That he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize?

Because he sure as hell wasn't... and he sure as hell didn't.

And yet, Roger Davis was one damn good friend, and a good person at that. And here I set about to immortalize the man who can't be immortalized.

Golden moments? We sure had a few...

We met in kindergarten. As you can imagine, I was the pinnacle of dorkiness, and by the third day of class, I still hadn't made a single friend. Roger was transferred to my class... he's actually a year younger than me, and they kicked him out of preschool, because he was advanced.

I know what you're thinking - but believe me, Roger could be a fucking genius when he wanted to, it was all a matter of if he chose to apply himself.

I remember it was lunchtime... and I was sitting alone at the end of the table, chewing slowly on a mouthful of cauliflower, and probably looking quite morose. A clang caused me to jump and look up, and there Roger was, seated before me, having slammed his lunch in front of him with a huff.

"Can you believe those lunch ladies?" He scoffed, "They asked me, 'Spinach or broccoli?' And of course I said neither. But look at this lunch tray -" And he pointed down at his tray.

First of all, I was shocked that someone was sitting near me, much less talking to me, so I remained silent for a moment. Then I spoke meekly, "Broccoli and spinach."

"Yeah... they gave me both. Well, they're buttheads, all right. I'm packing my lunch tomorrow." Roger replied cheekily, using the plastic spoon to push the offending vegetable matter away from the rest of his food. I stared at him, and he must have sensed that I was, for he looked back at me. "Whatsa matter with you?" He asked, eyeing me.

"What do you mean?" I questioned; eyes back on my lunch.

"Well - you're all by yourself. And you keep looking at me funny... and you're eating the lunch ladies' cauliflower. There's gotta be something wrong with you." He pointed at me with his fork. "You're Marky, right?"

"Mark." I corrected quietly.

"Okay, Marky." He plowed on. "Roger. Davis. But you can just call me Roger. I only get called Roger Davis when I'm in trouble."

And so, we had met. I could tell right away that I liked him, so I began to talking freely with him as we ate. Then he asked me, "Wanna be friends, Marky?"

And of course, I was excited that he'd asked. The moment was only spoiled when two of the meaner boys in the kindergarten class, Martin Andrews and Jimmy Gallagher, approached.

Having already encountered them, I sunk low in my seat, but Roger, unfazed, merely looked at them as they stood before us.

"Hey, loser." Martin quipped to me. "You - Roger... you want to come and sit with us? Mark is so stupid; you don't want to be friends with him."

Roger didn't reply, sipping his milk nosily through a straw.

"Yeah, Roger - he's weird." Jimmy added. My sensitive five year-old heart couldn't take it, and I nearly burst into tears, thinking they were going to steal my new friend from me.

After a few more childish remarks, Martin threw his empty milk carton at me. It bounced off my head, and my jaw dropped, indignant. At that moment, Roger's noisy slurping ceased and he slammed his milk carton on the table.

He stood, about a good four inches shorter than the two of them. They stared at him, perplexed. "Leave Marky alone." He said, voice hardened.

Of course, they both started giggling madly.

"I mean it." He added.

"Whatcha gonna do? You're supposed to be in preschool. You're still a baby..." Martin told him.

"Yeah." Jimmy added. "Baby!"

Roger cocked his head to one side. "I'm not a baby."

"Yes you are - and if you want to stay here with Mark, you're a LOSER baby." Jimmy said, high-fiving Martin. That was the last straw.

Roger stomped one foot and yelled, "Listen up, you little spazoids! I know where you live and I've seen where you sleep! I swear to everything holy that your mothers will cry when they see what I've done to you!"

And you know what? At the time, I didn't really understand what he'd said or where the hell he'd heard such a thing, but as the two boys walked away submissively, successfully quelled, Roger was my hero. And from that moment on, we were inseperable. Seriously. BFFS, no doubt.

There was a time when I thought I'd lose him as my best friend. I remember, it must have been fourth grade, when a new kid joined the class... Harry. Harry was from Britain, and at first, Roger was impressed. Those guys have great accents, you know.

He had an intriguing background too. Tragic, but intriguing. His entire family died in a plane crash when he was five, and Roger soon found out the kid was rich... his bank account bulging with insurance money from the incident. At first, this was tempting to Roger, to befriend the rich kid.

Until he found out that Harry liked to show off and buy a load of stupid crap with his money. And until we realized Harry was a snob. He thought all Americans were hicks. Naturally, this really upset Roger.

But that was it; Roger and I were always a rock solid friendship. And we skimmed through elementary and middle school as the losers. And Roger didn't seem to care. He was my only friend for such a long time, and I remember how almost every weekend we'd get together and play or something.

One time we sold lemonade. That was hilarious.

This middle-aged guy walks over, holding his daughter's hand, she was probably about six. Anyway... the guy eyes us for a second, and then I ask him, "Would you like to buy some lemonade?" It was for fucking twenty five cents, and Roger and I had spent the whole morning mixing it up. It was delicious, but the guy looked at it like it was poison. "Well?" Roger asked, seeing the look on his face, clearly not liking it. You may not know it, but Roger was quite the little salesman. And he didn't want to lose a single sale.

The guy says, "I don't know... I usually buy Minute Maid Lemonade... the kind with the little cartons that come in a box. There's a one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee on that."

Roger sighed as if the guy is stupid. "What's your name?" He asked the man. "Ted."

Roger nodded and started, "Let's think about this for a sec, Ted, why would somebody put a guarantee on a box? Hmmm, very interesting."

Ted squinted one eyeball at Roger, but said, "Go on, I'm listening."

"Here's the way I see it, Ted." Roger said importantly. "Guy puts a fancy guarantee on a box 'cause he wants you to feel all warm and toasty inside."

Ted nodded in agreement, "Yeah, makes a man feel good."

"'Course it does." Roger replied, "Why shouldn't it? You figure you put that little box under your pillow at night, the Guarantee Fairy might come by and leave a quarter, am I right, Ted?"

Roger seemed to have lost him for a moment, " What's your point?"

"The point is, how do you know the fairy isn't a crazy glue sniffer? 'Building model airplanes' says the little fairy; well, we're not buying it." Roger said, dramatically waving his hands around. "He sneaks into your house once, that's all it takes. The next thing you know, there's money missing off the dresser, and your daughter's knocked up. I've seen it a hundred times." That Roger, so eloquent.

Ted looked confused, "But why do they put a guarantee on the box?"

"Because they know all they sold you was a guaranteed piece of shit. That's all it is, isn't it?" Roger asked Ted. "Hey, if you want me to take a dump in a box and mark it guaranteed, I will. I got spare time. But for now, for your customer's sake, for your daughter's sake, you might wanna think about buying a quality product from me." And Roger held out a fresh plastic cup of lemonade.

There was a pause, but then Ted handed him a quarter. "Okay, I'll buy from you." Roger was good with people in that way, I think we were probably twelve or thirteen then. And Roger never seemed to mind that him being my best friend made him out to be a nerd.

He never thought I was a loser, but I remember one time, he made the move of actually calling me a nerd, in passing conversation. I think it was because I refused to hang out with him one afternoon, and instead I worked on my math homework. I knew he didn't mean it, so I merely laughed in his face and answered, "Have fun, Roger. I'll go with you next time, but right now...my fellow nerds and I will retire to the nerdery with our calculators."

It was also around the time of eighth grade that Harry began to seek Roger as a friend again, but by now, Roger knew the truth about Harry's character and what he thought of Americans. Roger had nothing against British people in general, but there were times he wanted to strangle that Harry kid.

I was standing with Roger at his locker after the bell once, when Harry came over and started talking to him. Roger ignored him at first, rummaging through his messy books and folders, pretending to be looking for something. But when Harry never took the hint, Roger turned around, slamming his locker. Keep in mind that by now, Roger's vocabulary was definitely overflowing with curse words. He said to Harry, "Well, you know what? I'm not a fucking hick, Harry! I know you think I am, you think everyone is, but I'm just not. Get over yourself, Mr. High and Mighty Brit! I don't wear cowboy boots. I hate the fucking rodeo. Horses smell like shit to me...and I don't fuck anyone in my own bloodline. By definition, I'm not a redneck, and I'm also not a hick. No, siree, Harry. Oh, the sun never sets on the British Empire? Well, the sun never sets on my asshole!"

And with a snappy "Come on, Mark" he stormed away. We grew up a little more (at least I did) and soon we were in high school. Those were the days, all right.

I remember distinctly the first time Roger tried to get a job. He waltzed proudly into a women's clothing store, wearing his favorite shirt, which was black and said, "FUCK YOU!" in red letters. The clothing store woman asked him dubiously, "Can I help you?"

Roger stuck his neck out and said, "Yeah, I called about the job."

She was taken aback. "You called?"

"Yeah, I wanna sell clothes, women's clothes." Roger told her seriously.

"I don't know." She looked him up and down. "Have you ever had experience?" Roger was stupefied. "With what?"

The clothing store woman replied, "Women's clothes?"

"What the fuck would I be doing with women's clothes?" Roger asked, "I'm fifteen, damn it! Sicko woman... oh, and let me tell you, I got MAD respect for transvestites, but I am definitely not one."

She turned bright red." No, no, no, I mean, have you ever worked in retail?"

Roger blanked. "Huh?"

"You know, selling... clothes?"

Roger glared at her and said, "Well if I was selling clothes already, what would I be doing here?" He then took a breath and continued, "I really don't think this is the right way to start a working relationship. You got a real, real bad attitude, lady. In fact I don't even want your job, I don't care how much you'd pay me, cause I got integrity, in-fucking-tegrity. WAAAH."

And he marched out. And you wonder why Roger had such an adversity to jobs and the working world?

Soon after that, Harry decided to move back to Britain. Probably because America was too full of hicks in his eyes. Roger was secretly overjoyed, but acted sorrowful. He tapped Harry on the shoulder and told him, "It's such a shame you're leaving. My days shall be pained without you, Harry."

Harry scoffed and said, "That's what's wrong with you Americans, you're always looking for pain."

Roger sighed, and then replied with a straight face. "Yeah well... it pains me to hear you say that, Harry, it really does."

And after Harry left, my worries were over. That summer, I took him with me when we went to my grandmother's farm. She lived near a lake, so we went boating. And as we were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, on the incredibly calm lake, these two skinny little boys started yelling insults at us.

I remember how childish and stupid they were, yet Roger pretended to be hurt, which fueled their fire. Then, suddenly, Roger turned around and yelled, "You better pray to the god of skinny punks that this wind doesn't pick up, 'cause I'll come over there, and jam an oar up your ass!"

Oh, how he relished the looks on their faces.

Later that night, Roger snuck me out into the pasture of Grammy's farm. He crouched low in the grasses, concentrating. "Look at 'em there, pretty maids all in a row. I want the one on the left; she's perfect. Which one d'you want? Huh, huh, huh?"

"Does it make a difference?" I asked him, looking doubtful.

"Oh yeah. Wait a second. Is this your first time?" Roger asked, in shock.

"Yeah Roger, it is."

"God, you're gonna remember this the rest of your life. Can't believe you've never been cow tipping before. Get ready to live. Oh yes. Ssshhhh. She's sleepin'. What you do is, you put your shoulder into her and you push." He told me.

I made a face, "And?"

"They fall over, hee, hee, hee." Roger was weird back then. Erm, always was, I guess.

"And this doesn't strike you as kinda... dumb?" I asked him.

He smiled. "We're best friends in high school now, Mark, we're gonna be doing lots of dumb stuff together. Wait 'til Christmas break."

When we got back from Grammy's, my bedroom at my house in Scarsdale was being refurbished into an office for my dad. I inherited the attic, which Roger thought was awesome. I showed my new room to him, all set up and newly furnished. He ran in, looking around. "Hey, there's even a fridge! You could put six packs of bee..." he glanced up, seeing my dad standing in the doorway." ... soda in here..."

I also remember us beginning high school... and though it may seem odd, I recall distinctly the topic of our first essay in high school.

It was in history class. The topic was: Political and Economic Systems of England. And do you want to know what Roger wrote? Of course you do. One whole sentence. Capitalized at the beginning, period at the end. He even made a copy and sent it to Harry.

And both the teacher and Harry looked down at his paper, reading: "See, to me, England is nothing more then a big fucking American state like North Dakota or Canada."

He, of course, got an F. Roger never did well in History. His other classes had average grades, except for English and Language, in which he always got an A. At one point, the guidance counselor was concerned that Roger's sinking grades in history throughout his high school career would not allow him to graduate.

The day final grades were posted, Roger pushed anxiously through the crowd, scanning the list for his name. "D plus?... Oh, my God... I passed! I passed! Oh, man!" And he screamed. "I got a D plus! I am gonna graduate!" Grabbing the nearest stranger, which wasn't me at the time... scrawny little me was at the back of the crowd, still trying to push my way through. Anyway, Roger hugged this girl tight, and she looked awed and surprised at this, until he released her and said softly, "I wish we'd known each other... this is a little awkward." Then he bolted off down the hallway. "I got a D plus! I'm gonna graduate! Give me five!"

Shortly after this, Roger punched a window. "Because he was bored". He didn't do anything about the cut on his hand... nothing. I mean, absolutely nothing. It got really gross-looking, but he just wrapped it up...in a dirty old T-shirt, and he left it like that for weeks.

Then, when we were in line to buy burgers at the Speedy Burger Palace, Roger fell to the ground, fainted.

The blond cashier looked at me anxiously, "Is he gonna be okay?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "Oh, yeah. He'll be fine. I'm sure. Thank you, though." And I took him to an Urgent Care Center. He reawakened, pissed as hell. Soon, he was sitting in an examination room, and in walks a doctor and nurse.

"Hi, how are we doing?" The doctor asked. Roger glared at him, and oh... if looks could kill the doctor would have died. PAINFULLY.

"Okay. Can I take a look at that? Okay. All right." And he unwrapped Roger's hand. I nearly threw up, I swear.

"Oh, what the heck did we do here?" He asked Roger.

"Fell off my bike." Roger said through his teeth.

"I think that wound's the most infected thing I've ever seen." The doctor told me. I nodded, woozy. Roger merely scowled.

"I hate doctors, man. I hate 'em."

"Well, you're lucky this boy brought you here. Okay? Because without me you'd be dead."

Roger was unfazed, and the doctor turned to the nurse. "Patty, we need a gram of amoxicillin."

Suddenly, Roger was frantic. "No, no! No, I'm fine! I'm fine!" He smacked the doctor away went he drew close with the needle. "Get that fucking needle away from me, man! No, I don't do needles! Get off me! Get off! Goddamn it! No! No! You pack of murderers! No! No needles! Help me! Help me!"

We all know that Roger saying "I don't do needles" would become so terribly ironic. But I digress.

Almost a month later, I was walking into a hospital room, Roger was sitting up on the bed, staring into the abyss. He did look remotely happy to see me though. "Listen, buddy." I said to him. "I've got good news. They say today's gonna be your last day."

He looked up, astonished. "Today?"

"Today." I confirmed.

"Thank God! These doctors can kiss my ass!" Roger screamed in joy.

The nurse who had been checking his vitals laughed and said, "Knock it off, tough guy, or I'll give you another shot." And she walked out.

Roger glared. "That woman fucking hates me, man... but Mark, I'm going crazy, I think. How long have I been in here?"

"Three weeks." I said grimly.

"OH MY GOD." He breathed.

"Anyone come visit you?" I asked him conversationally.

"No, no. Just you. Just you. And my mom." He said distantly. "I've been quarantined, man. They named a disease after me."

"You are a disease." I told him and he laughed. "Uh, what about your father, Rog?"

"What about my father?" Roger questioned.

"I just thought... He didn't..." I stammered.

"Oh, no. He didn't come. He doesn't even know. And he won't... not until he opens the next copy of Watson's Medical Guide. New version comes out every year, you know. And there it will be, big as life, in bold print even: Davisitis. Davisitis of the Hand. But I'm free, huh? I'm free."

Roger came back to school to learn that budget cuts in Scarsdale Public Schools were going to cause us to lose our free class period. He was incensed, and wrote a letter to the Superintendent. It said: "Hey, you know what, Miss Superintendent? You can reach down and pull that meter stick out of your fat ass... you know why? Because you CAN'T take that away from us. Exhibit A. It's my only exhibit, really, but, you know what? I think it's pretty fuckin' good. Fuck off and die."

It didn't work. Roger hated that fact.

But he was cheered when he finally got the cash to get himself a broken-down car. Of course, first time he and I went out for a drive, he carelessly set an open bag of M&Ms on the dashboard.

First turn he made, they immediately poured into an open slot.

"Oh, that sounds good: melted chocolate inside the dash, that really ups the resale value." He cursed and grabbed the wrapper.

"I think you'll be okay here, they have a thin candy shell. I'm surprised you didn't know that." I told him smartly.

"I think your brain has a thick candy shell." Roger said under his breath.

"Oh yeah?" I tried, "Well... your brain has... the um, the shell on it."

"Are you talking?" Roger asked in sarcasm.

"Shut up, Roger. What did I say about eating in the car anyways?"

"It's not good cause it spoils your dinner?" The attempt was shameful. But anyways, back on topic. That old car, as beat-up as it was... Roger and I sure got a lot out of it.

Senior year in high school, Roger would force me along when we'd try to get beer. I never felt good about it - Roger was always a weight on my conscience, as you can imagine. Beer in supermarkets in Scarsdale is weak, 3 points instead of the normal 6 points of alchohol. It's the religious influence, and a pain in the ass. Now to Roger, it made no sense. He always said, "If you've got alchohol, you've got alchohol. So why 3 instead of 6? You know a drunk's just going to drink twice as many beers to get drunk, so you not only have a drunk on your hands, you have a drunk who's fat and gross. There's nothing worse."

And so once, Roger organized this whole elaborate charade. He told me everything to do and say, and that night, we went for a drive to the nearest Stop and Go Superstore where he could get "the good stuff".

I remember that all we did was walk in and the man behind the desk recoiled, saying, "What the hell are you?" I forgot to mention that Roger had made his hair blue with spray-in dye and had covered me in realistic-looking temporary tattoos... even given me a fake nose ring.

And I sighed a little internally before replying, "Oooh, we come from the east in search of the Messiah! We followed that big star..." And I pointed at the whitewashed ceiling.

"Yeah, we bring gold, and frankincense." Blue-haired Roger added. You have to understand how much willpower it took to do this. I couldn't look that man in the eye or look at Roger, so I continued to stare blankly at the ceiling.

"You see it?" I pointed.

"And myrrh." Roger added in as an afterthought.

"Myrrh." We said together.

The liquor store man was of course, baffled. "You do what?"

"Followed the star...' I murmured dazedly.

"Oh my God. Who let you boys out of the state institute? We'd better get you boys back in the hospital."

Roger stepped forth. "No, no, no, no, no, it's all right, man. We're from England." I shot him a look, but he eyed me in a way that said "Work with me here, Marky." "England?" The man questioned.

"Yeah, man... that's probably why we seem... weird to you." Such a stupid thing to say. Clearly such a crack on English people would have normally been seen as suspicious, for we all know that not all people in England are weird, just as not all Americans enjoy looking for pain.

Nevertheless, the liquor store cashier man shrugged. "England, huh? Well, that explains it... I guess. You boys enjoying your stay here in the great U.S. of A?"

Roger nodded quickly, and I could tell he was trying so hard not to bust out laughing. "Sure thing. It's a great land."

It was at that moment, a little old lady emerged from within the store, coming up behind the man. One look at us was all it took. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

"It's all right, Mother." The man covered. "They're from England."

"Oh that figures, don't it?" She asked, calmed down instantly. She looked closer at Roger. "What the hell did they do to your hair?"

"It was a medical experiment, but he's going to be okay." I put in, doing my best to look concerned.

She gasped, clasping the bony fingers of one hand over her mouth. "You poor boy!"

And we did it. We got away with it that night, "quite a steal" Roger said. And mark my words, this wasn't the only time Roger would come up with some stupid ass scheme in that mind of his.

God only knows how his mind worked. And I pity God for that knowledge.

At one time, Roger swore that he would invent one and a half percent milk. It seemed random, but he had an explanation. He said that, according to society, if you drank two percent it meant you didn't care enough about your health, and if you drank one percent you were obsessed with losing weight. I didn't quite get it and tried to tell him that some people might think that but lots of others might not. He ignored me, naturally, and told me that you should have a midpoint between the percents. And he vowed to create it.

Only I stopped hearing about this goal for a long while, and forgot about it, actually, until I was sitting in the loft one day with Roger, and Collins stumbled in, high as ever.

"Hey... hey, Rog..." Collins muttered drearily. "What was the milk you were going to invent? One..."

"And a half percent." Roger finished, smiling.

"I knew it!" Collins yelled, flopping into a chair. "Why can't I remember it?"

"Try an association, like, uh: Let's say the average person uses ninety six point eight percent of their brain. Just assume for a quick sec. How much do you use? 1 and a half percent. The rest is clogged with malted hops and bong resin."

Good times, good times.

I'm sure I don't have to tell you that Roger was always a cocky bastard. Hm? Yeah, I thought not.

That sort of reminds me of a time when Benny came into the loft, about to go on a date with a mystery girl, who we would soon learn was Alison.

Now, Roger was already pissed off because Benny came in all dressed up in a suit, talking about going to some fancy restaurant with a hot babe. This was during his withdrawal, so I'm sure that influenced his behavior, but it is still funny as hell.

Maureen had gone around to the corner store and bought Roger some yogurt. Fucking yogurt. He was astonished at first, but Maureen launched into a tirade about how good yogurt is for a person's health and how it would help him feel better.

Roger had nothing against yogurt, I suppose, so after some coaxing, he opened one of the mini-plastic cups and went to go find a spoon. Benny was standing around, looking dumbly for his stupid tie.

Roger sidled over, looking him up and down, eyes finally resting on his shiny black shoes. "Hey Benny." He mumbled, through a mouthful of strawberry yogurt. "Nice shoes. Who's the lucky lady? That stupid ass Muffy girl again?"

Benny glared at him. "Her name is ALISON, Roger. And by the way, these shoes are Italian. They're worth more than your life."

Roger nodded, face blank, and then turned the yogurt cup over, dumping all of the pink goop all over the freshly shined shoes.

He walked away without another word or glance to Benny.

And Collins and I bawled with laughter.

And yes, Roger was that same hilarious asshole back in his even younger days too. I will never forget the time I signed Roger up to tutor freshmen when we were juniors. English was strangely always Roger's best subject, and so I signed his name to tutor in that area.

He wanted to fucking kill me for doing it, but I told him he would get extra credit. For some reason, that didn't seem to excite him much. I didn't realize that since he already had an A in the class, extra credit had no appeal to him.

So there we were, arranged at little tables in the school library. I was tutoring a freshmen in Algebra, but my student partner hadn't even walked in before I noticed that Roger's had.

Turns out, Roger's freshman partner was Dwayne Cook.

Dwayne was a pimply, gangly, and all around disgusting kid. It wasn't like he was unpopular because kids were mean and made him so. It was almost like the kid TRIED to be unappealing for friendship or even basic communication. And that he was. I mean, Roger and I were never the extremes of popularity, and Roger was always higher on the popularity totem pole than me... this kid was the lowest of low.

So Roger, obviously bored to tears, could have cared less if he were about to tutor a raccoon.

He barely looked at Dwayne before tossing a book at him, and saying abruptly, "It's called reading. Top to bottom, left to right. Group words together as a sentence. Take Tylenol for any headaches. Midol for any cramps."

And he gathered his stuff and left. Just like that. Bookbag, guitar case... and he was gone.

Dwanye merely turned to me, confused. "What's Midol?"

What do you tell the guy?

And by the way, I'm not joking about Roger doing amazing in English class. He really did. I remember we had these journals we had to write essays in everyday, and sometimes we'd read one aloud to the class.

One day, Collins got suspended for being involved in a fight, and it intrigued Roger so much that he wrote a whole paper on it and read it in front of the class. I'll never forget the looks on everyone's faces, including the teacher. It was titled: "The Fight: What Does it Mean, and Where Does it Come From? An Essay."

And here is what it was.

"Homo sapiens. A man. He is alone in the universe. A teenage punk, basically. Can be a little shit at times, sure. But still a man. He is alone in the universe. But he connects. How? Men hit each other. Ooh! No clearer way to evaluate whether or not you're alive. Now, complications. A reason to fight: Somebody's different. Difference creates dispute. Dispute is a reason to fight. Now, to fight is a reason to feel pain. Life is pain. So to fight, with reason...is to be alive with reason.

Final analysis: To fight: A reason to live. Problems and contradictions: Collins is an anarchist. He believes that there should be no rules, only chaos. Fighting appears to be chaos, and when we slam in a pit at a rock show, it sure is. But when we fight for a reason, there is a system.

We fight for what we stand for... chaos. But fighting is a structure. Fighting is to establish power, power is government... and government is NOT anarchy. Government is war, and war... is fighting. The circle goes like this: Our little skirmishes as men... are cheaper versions of conventional warfare. War implies extreme government... because wars are fought to enforce rules or ideals, even freedom. But other people's ideals forced on someone else... even if it is something like freedom, is still a rule.

Not anarchy. This contradiction became clear to me in the light of Collins' suspension. And hell, most of us, are like Collins... we like to fight. Why do we love to fight? I still don't understand it.

For Collins, it goes against his beliefs, as a true anarchist, but there it was. Competition, fighting, capitalism... government, the system. And you know what? It's what we always do as men. There's a circle, even! Rednecks kick the shit out of punks, punks kick the shit out of posers... posers kick the shit out of skinheads, skinheads take out the metal guys... the metal guys beat the living shit out of everyone else. And it turns out, some of them do nothing in their own defense...like they are the new hippies. What is the point? Final summation? None."

You'd better believe Roger got an A plus on that essay.

In the times that followed, Roger and I seldom looked back upon or talked about our high school years. I do recall a certain instance, however, when Collins was over and he found a dusty old yearbook from his senior year.

That would have made Roger and I sophomores. And I distinctly remember, after skimming through a couple pages, Collins snapping the book shut and crossing over to Roger, saying, "Maybe we weren't the smartest guys on in the school. Maybe we spent too much time puking off balconies. But we had fun, huh?"

And Roger, with a twinkle in his eye, stood up. "Yet you somehow made valedictorian, Thomas. In-fucking-credible. How could I forget your valedictorian speech?" And he swayed, pretending to be hopelessly drunk and or stoned, saying haggardly, "Now, some of us are leaving, and that is sad. But this isn't the end. No way. We're gonna show this world a thing or two. We're gonna show..." And he fell forward, passing out onto the couch, mocking Collins' literal stage dive.

That's not all I can tell you about Roger and I in our youthful days. Let me tell you another road trip story. Over summer vacation one year, I wanted to visit my uncle in Davenport. Roger tagged along, mostly because he could drive, had a car, and otherwise I'd have to take a bus all the way there or, Lord help me, have my mother drive me there. Now, rather, we stopped to visit Roger's relatives in Ohio on the way, and let's just say I sort of embarrassed him big time in front of his great-aunt. So he was fucking furious at me. We pulled up at a gas station and I looked at the gas meter. "She's a quart low." I observed slowly, and Roger scoffed.

"Oh, yeah? Then guess what, open it back up and put it in! That's your penance for your puppet show back there. And while you're at it, fill it up with gas, okay?" He snapped, pausing, then reaching for the door handle and hauling himself out. "I'm gonna ask directions to the next huge embarrassing failure." He finished, and walked toward the building.

"You're a huge embarrassing failure." I whispered, kind of annoyed that he was so pissed at me.

"What?" He demanded, swinging around to glare at me.

"Nothing." I shot back innocently. And he went inside. Meanwhile the car needed backing up so I could reach the gas tank with the hose. Roger had strictly forbidden me from even sitting behind the wheel of his junker, but he was already mad at me, so I figured I had nothing to lose.

Only I forgot one thing.

The door was open. I put it in reverse and with a grotesque crunching of metal, the door was bent open, having been pushed against the side of the pump, sticking out oddly. In a panic, I jumped out, and with strain, pulled the dented door back to its normal position.

Roger was still inside. Later, when he stopped acting so fucking mad at me, he told me the guy in there was incredibly rude. All Roger asked was, "Hey chief, could you tell me how far it is to Davenport?"

"8 miles." The guy replied quickly and almost hotly.

"I can't find it on this map." Roger laid the map out on the counter.

"Well, get yourself a new map." The guy told Roger smugly.

You realize Roger was in no mood for his sass.

"Son of a..." Roger whispered under his breath, then he continued slowly, emphasizing every word, "Well, it's gotta be on the map, Davenport, because you say it's 8 miles away."

The guy didn't say a word, so Roger added, "And you're really smart...yet it's not on the map."

"I'm picking up your sarcasm." He told Roger.

"I should hope so, pal... because I'm laying it on pretty thick." Roger answered, gesturing to the map.

The guy sighed and pointed at the map, as if Roger were a stupid ass. Maybe he was.

"That's a map of Illinois, which we're in. On the border of Iowa. Which is where Davenport is, 8 miles away. You're in the wrong state. Get yourself a new map." And the guy snapped his gum for effect.

Roger fake-smiled. "That wasn't so hard, was it? How much do I owe your for gas?"

"You didn't pump any." Because of my panicked door-smashing incident, remember? Well, of course Roger knew nothing about that yet.

"What?!" And he marched outside to find me, innocently sitting in the passenger seat, casting side-long glances at the driver's side door. "Why didn't you pump any gas?" Roger demanded.

He sounded tired. "They're all out. They only got diesel. Better go to the next station." I lied.

Roger sighed loudly and reached for the door. It wouldn't open. He pulled harder, confused. And I cringed, as he pulled one last time, and with a clang, the entire door crashed at his feet. He stood there, still gripping the metal door handle in his hand.

I mustered up the ability not to burst out laughing and give myself away, asking him quietly, "What'd you do?"

He knew it was somehow my doing, of course.

So there, in the gas station parking lot, he vowed to kill me.

Under his breath, but I heard him.

He dropped that car door and cracked his knuckles, seething. I'll admit, I was a bit scared, but I held my resolve for a moment. He backed up a few steps, moving into the grass near the side of the road. "That's it, Marky."

"What?"

"You fucking know what! Get out of the car!" And his nostrils flared. Wow, that was terrifying.

I laughed noiselessly, and said cockily, "Look, Mommy, the rhino's getting too close to the car!" Wrong thing to say, especially since Roger really did resemble an angry rhino at this point.

Roger merely dragged his lips back into a devilish smile. "Him too afraid to get out, him just a little guy." He said in an evil baby voice.

I couldn't just sit there and take that. I wrenched my door open. "All right, that's it, Roger, I'm gonna wail on you."

Roger laughed loudly and continued, "Hey, boys and girls, it's the great Pumpkinheaded Albino Mofo! How about a round of applause for the Mofo?"

I clenched a small fist. "You don't want none of me; think it through."

He laughed again. I'm sure it was funny, me trying to be intimidating, I mean. "Just gimme your best shot." Roger coaxed.

And yes, I hit him.

"That was it? Come on you can do better than that, can't you Captain Limp Wrist? Try again!"

So I punched him again.

Roger started laughing hysterically. "Hey everybody; is there a window open; I feel a draft!"

At this point, I was getting pissed, so I took two swings at him.

He patted me on the shoulder. "If I wanted a kiss, I'd call your mother!"

Mad by now, I eyed a two by four plank of wood lying on the side of the road. Barely thinking, I picked it up and smacked Roger in the side of the head, hard.

Roger cursed under his breath and his eyes rolled back. "That was a good one." And he slumped into the grass.

A bolt of worry shot through me, but then my eyes caught sight of a sign across the road and I moved toward it. "HEY, PIZZA!"

You'd better believe that when Roger came to, he was even more angry at me, and to make things clear, I was pissed at him too.

Yeah, we got back in the car with little problems, even though Roger made it very evident that he hated driving without a door on his side. I bet it did look dumb. Anyway, we traveled awhile longer without many problems.

Then, of course, I had to pee. Curse my small albino bladder! I bugged Roger to pull over until he finally did, but not at a rest stop. In a small grassy clearing with a few trees. I had to piss so badly, I didn't care at this point. I ran toward the tree, screaming, "Lord, I never had to tinkle so bad in all my life!"

Of course, soon after I started doing my business, I heard the ignition switch start and Roger, sure enough, started to drive away. "What the...?" I shrieked, "Oh, Roger, you're a riot." I said with sarcasm and hurried up so I could chase after him. "Stop the car!"

Then I yelped. "Son of a..." He stopped the car and looked at me as if I was the one with the problem. "What the hell's gotten into you? My thing got stuck in my zipper and I got piss all over my pants!" I screamed.

And suffice it to say, he found that to be payback enough and he laughed his ass off, no longer mad at me.

Bastard though he was, you could try to hold a civil conversation with him now and then. I remember, shortly after I started dating Maureen, he asked me, "Do you love her?"

The question startled me. I wanted to instantly reply, "Of course I love her!"

But the words caught in my throat.

He eyed me seriously and I began, "I don't know. I'd have to think about that..." "It's not really a thinking question." He interrupted.

With a sigh, I started again. "Well, you know, I...I worship her and all. She's like a goddess. If she died, I'd die. If she told me to cut off my left arm, I'd probably do it. If she told me to go smash my camera in the street, I'd probably do it."

He made a childish face at me, sticking out his tongue and grimacing. "All right, all right, I get it."

But I had to finish the thought. I leaned back and said slowly. "Yeah, I guess I love Maureen. It's weird, man... I never thought I'd fall in love."

I truly didn't. I mean, out of the both of us, Roger always could more easily find a girl than awkward Marky. All through high school, I never had a girlfriend. And even though Roger wasn't as popular as he could have been (due to being friends with me), he seemed to be quite the catch among the girls.

His parents thought that this had an effect on his grade point average, when I knew that it was only that Roger didn't give a shit. Near the end of senior year, Roger's parents sat him down for that big talk. He told me all about it.

His mother and father pushed him into the big chair in their living room and they stood across from him, staring down at him like birds of prey.

"Thank you for giving us an hour of your time. Your mother and I found this to be rather important." Roger's father, the one he never liked, began.

"You finished high school." His mother said warmly, beaming at her son.

"Thank God. And now it's your time to do good." His father put in.

"This rebellion thing you're going through, we understand it." His mother tried to explain kindly, and Roger rolled his eyes.

"Not completely, but we respect it." Mr. Davis amended. "Now you should think about what is right for you."

"We want you to be free, darling, always." His mother cooed, rubbing her manicured fingers on his shoulder.

"Yeah. But be practical, Roger. You got a chance to go to Harvard. You're a bright kid, don't have perfect grades, but you're alright. And you've got me as an alumnus." His father told him, and Roger stared at the wall.

"It can't hurt, Roggie. But only if it makes you happy." Mrs. Davis said, almost teary.

"Look, if you want to rebel there, you can do it." His father reasoned. "I went to Woodstock. Me and the guys had a lot of fun. We did our thing there. We got behind some causes, though. We fought for some very strong causes. We ended, collectively, we ended that goddamn war in 'Nam... so that guys like you could be free."

"There's all these possibilities for you, Roger. Carry the torch now." His mother said softly to him.

"Okay? I can see by looking at you that you're ready." His father eyed him meaningfully.

"And I'm proud that you're an individual." His mother stressed.

"Very proud."

"So proud."

"One thing." His father said in his serious tone. "This may not be easy to hear, but the hair. Maybe... tone it down a bit. The whole thing that you're doing. With the bleach and spikes. In my day, it was long hair, beatniks, paisley. You know. That stuff. Not like that kind of thing. This whole thing you're doing... I'm baffled. And not just me. A regular guy in the street's gonna be baffled too."

"And we're hip, we're cool. We understand that you express yourself like this, but..." His mother added.

"It's just those people in the real world are never gonna get it." His father told him.

"They're not gonna get this in New York." His mother said, almost in sympathy. "Darling, we sound like OUR parents." Mr. Davis said with a sigh to Roger's mother.

"Yeah. It's difficult, dear. We just want to support you." His mother shook Roger's shoulder, trying to get a reply out of him.

"A hundred percent. Take the ball and run with it. Make a difference." His father knelt down to be eye level with Roger.

His mother kissed Roger's hair. He always hated when she did that. "But always with love. Remember that, Roger. Always with love."

Then his dad tried to get back on topic. "The good news is, you are virtually clear and ready for college."

Roger then stood up, surprising both parents. "Oh, time out! I just want to ask real quick: if I can... first of all, Dad, you and I have got to work on your definition of good news. And second, Mom and Dad, you believe in rebellion, freedom and love, right?" "Yes, absolutely." His mother answered quickly.

"Rebellion, freedom, love..." His father nodded.

Roger swallowed and stood up tall. "One: you two are divorced. So love failed. Two: Dad, you're a slick, corporate, preppy-ass lawyer. I don't really have to say anything else about you do I, Dad? Three: You move from New York City, the Mecca and hub of the cultural world to Scarsdale! Nowhere! To change nothing! More to perpetuate this cycle of greed, fascism and triviality. Look, I have my own agenda. University of Sell Out and Become a Dried Out Washed Up Lawyer Like Daddy, out. University of MoFucking Rock n' Roll, in. I'm gonna get a 4.0 in damage. I love you, guys! Don't get me wrong… but for the first time in my life, I'm 18 and I can say 'FUUUUUCK YOU!'"

And I bet you know that Roger did drugs. No, not just heroin. Collins got him into weed too. But I do remember when he first started doing drugs. I was studying Chemistry at NYU. Roger came to visit me. He blatantly told me about the drugs.

I pretended not to care. But after a little thought, I boiled over and blew up on him.

"You know that shit you guys do? You're fucking yourself up, man. Fucking drugs. Drugs; they never leave your body. They're in your fucking spinal cord forever. Let me tell you something about the nature of chemicals, man: You know that dude Napoleon? Yeah. Uh, he was banished to an island when the French got sick of him. That's right. He supposedly died of stomach problems, right? wrong! He was actually poisoned over a long period of time. Murdered by arsenic; a preservative. And you know how?"

"No idea." Roger said, barely affected by my rant.

"His hair."

"His hair?"

"His fucking hair! It was arsenic. You could tell how long he was being poisoned by following the traces of poison up his hair. It's practically the same thing with you, Roger. Dude, if you do enough hits of it, you're dead!"

"It really makes you think, doesn't it, Mark?" Roger said softly.

"Think? Think what?" I was confused.

"That chemistry's the wrong fucking major for a guy like you. It's the wrong major, Mark!"

I sighed loudly. "Well, you should lay off the drugs anyways man."

He was right about chemistry being the wrong major though. Before I dropped out, I did study a little film, of course.

Roger's mother never knew about the drugs, but I think his dad did. Roger made sure of it.

His dad wasn't all bad. He just, you know, had no clue. Roger liked to frustrate him.

What pissed Roger off about him, though, was, his dad was right about one thing. Why did Roger do so well in school? He didn't want to. I mean, he tried not to give a shit. He always got awesome grades in English, sublevel grades in most of his other classes, and then there was the infamous D+ in History. But somehow he studied, and somehow he got the grades... and then, somehow, he was accepted to a fucking Ivy League school. Just like his dad.

Last place on the planet for a guy like Roger.

Think about it. Just for a second.

I mean, he wouldn't go there unless it was to set it on fire.

He actually thought about that option for awhile, but in the end, I convinced him to either go to college or don't go.

He chose the latter, of course.

He liked New York though. I went for college, he went to party. It was at one of the first parties in New York that Roger would meet April. He dragged me along of course, as much as I hated it.

I'm gonna say it right here, people... April was the woman Roger was gonna marry. She was. He would have, probably. Sure, Mimi was fate, Mimi was destiny… he might've married Mimi in a different time and place. But April was the girl Roger was going to marry.

He didn't know it then.

He didn't even know what she was like.

He'd just seen her face in the crowd before.

Truth is, Roger didn't know a goddamn thing before that night. Before he met April, really.

Later, after April was gone, during the months of withdrawal, he would tell me, "If I knew what was ahead of me, I may have stayed in bed... or I may have felt better about that night."

And I would ask, "What do you mean?"

He would shake his head as if trying to figure out how to explain it. " Life is like that, Mark. We change, that's all. You see, the guy I am now is not the guy I was then. The guy I was before her, I mean. If the guy I was then met the guy I am now... he'd beat the shit out of me. Those are the facts."

And I would nod dumbly, and breathe, "I still don't understand."

And there would be a sigh before he continued. "But still, I lied awake. I lied awake in my bed the night before that party, knowing I would meet her, Mark. Was I afraid? Was I angry? Or was it just the end? Hmm? Was it just the end and I knew it?"

It couldn't be denied that Roger loved April. That was truth. And yes, Roger loved Mimi as well. But the two loves were different. Not in intensity but in composition, I suppose. Roger was meant to love them both. And never stop loving either one.

"Roger, this is April." Roger's bandmate, Liam... he already knew April from God-knows-where. And just like that, he left Roger with her at that party.

"Come on in, you guys. Drinks in the back."

It was one of the hardest punches he ever took.

Knocked the wind right out of him.

He was hers. That was it. One smile.

They got acquainted as the party raged around them. I must have been wandering off somewhere... lost, as usual. But Roger would surely not spare me the details later.

"I have to ask you something." April stated boldly.

"Yeah, go ahead. Ask me."

"Well, why do you go out of your way to look like a bum?" Funny that this was the first question she asked him.

"I look like a bum?"

"Not in a bad way." She told him quickly.

"I look like a bum in a good way." Was Roger's dubious reply.

"Aren't you, like, rebelling against general society?" She asked him. "Isn't that like... your style?"

"Put that simply, kinda, yeah." Roger answered, confused. "But... look at you. You're not exactly much different."

"I am. I don't try to rebel against society with what I wear. I wear it because I'm comfortable in it... not because I'm trying to take down the system. I used to think that way before I realized that this..." And she gestured down at her ripped dress and black and silver chains. "Is who I am." She told him smoothly. "I know you're not an anarchist. But Liam tells me you could have gone to Harvard. Been a successful businessman. A lawyer, even... yet here you are in Alphabet Shitty... so I can only think there's a hint of rebellion in you."

"What are you getting at?"

"Wouldn't it be more of an act of rebellion..." April began, twirling one finger over the rim of her glass, "... if you didn't spend so much time buying hair bleach and gel... and going out to get punky clothes? According to what you seem to stand for, it seems so petty." She paused, eyeing him. "Stop me if I'm being offensive."

"Oh, no, go right ahead. It's... no, it's fine." Roger replied, unfazed by her words.

"You wanna be an individual, right? You look like you're wearing a uniform. You look like a punk. That's not rebellion. That's fashion."

"Then what's rebellion?" Roger asked her, amused.

"Rebellion happens in the mind. You can't create it. You just are that way." April said, with a slight nod of her head.

"Right." Roger agreed, watching her for a moment. "How old are you, April?"

"I'm..." She began, and then stopped, biting her lip. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. I was just...I was just wondering." Roger told her, and then he waited a moment before saying, "What you're basically saying... is that you wouldn't like a guy like me because I have bleached hair... and I dress like a punk, right?

"No, not at all." April smiled. "I like you, actually. I mean, we just met.

This is a big ass party, and I'm hanging out with you all night. Wear what you want. I don't care about things like that. I was just posing a theory... and trying to understand. We happen to have a lot in common."

"So..." Roger said slowly. "...then you do like me."

"Mildly." She shot back, laughing.

What was Roger doing? What was he, an asshole? Perhaps. Oh yes, it's quite possible.

Either way, he was in love, and he just met this person.

He hated her ideas because they were critical of him... but he loved her anyway.

It was a curse, he would tell me, and then change his mind. No, it was a punishment.

But he went with it. They talked all night.

And that was Roger's experience with April. His first time of really loving a woman. Later, he would meet Mimi, and the rest of that story is history. That's the extent of Roger's romantic life. At least, true romance.

It was always clear to me that Roger really liked women. Never in a macho, jerky way. Mimi told me once that he was a true romantic. I laughed.

I remember one night, sitting beside him as he shivered through withdrawal. "I wanna marry Maureen." I told him suddenly. And he had laughed, a dry rasp in his throat. Almost a foreign sound.

"I'm serious." I told him.

And I remember, clear as day, that all he did was snort. "Yeah, all right, Mark." "Come on, Roger..." I whined. "I mean it."

He laughed again then. "Jesus Christ, Mark. Sometimes, I swear, you remind me of a high school girl."

But his eyes were twinkling, and I could tell he was only poking fun at me, as he always used to. And because I was so happy to realize this, to see some of that Roger I remembered shining through, I couldn't muster another reply except, "Goodnight, asshole."

And I threw a blanket at him and went to my room.

Roger refused to let me take him to a hospital. It was "those fucking doctors", he told me. And when it came to the point that he and I both knew he had little time left... he still didn't want to go.

He kept on telling me that he'd rather die in the gutter than in a hospital bed. And because I was his friend, I listened. Until one day, I came in from filming and found him collapsed limply on the floor.

He woke up at Mercy, first shooting me a glare, then sighing in acceptance. Soon, he didn't care anymore. Either he was too sick to care or even remember where he was, or he had finally given in... I still don't know to this day.

I remember the day he died so vividly that I could tell you every detail about the day: it was raining outside. Roger probably would have hated that... thought it too cliché. I didn't have much of a chance to try to let him go... because long before I wanted it to... the heart monitor flat-lined.

I remember staring numbly for a moment before whispering, "Roger..." And I snapped. "No, Roger... don't do this... wake up. Please, wake up, I'll do anything... I'll get you out of here. Just like you wanted... oh fuck. God, you fucking idiot! You can't do this to me! Now what I am going to do for a friend?" I screamed at him. "You're my best friend! Roger... PLEASE wake up!"

I remember then that I was shoved from the room, and unable to do much else, I sat outside in a stiff-backed chair for what seemed like hours.

My face was wet and red and snot was probably pouring out of my nose before long. But I simply sat, whispering brokenly, "Please... fuck, I'm sorry I called you an idiot! I love you, man!"

And my breath failed me. "... oh fuck."

I wasn't ready for it. I just wasn't ready. We put him in the ground, next to Mimi, one row over from April. Two plots away from Angel.

And that was it.

He left... and I went on. What else was I going to do?

Roger got me into this life, into New York in the first place.

It hit me after the funeral.

It was always Roger.

It started way back when we were kids, maybe.

God, we were such losers back then. Those guys that sat alone in the cafeteria... usually getting shit from the jocks and the more popular crowd... wishing to God they could be cool for just, like, one minute.

Then one day, Roger had had enough.

I remember, one day, after school in my attic. We must have been almost done with sophomore year back then. We had never once discussed how out lives would be after high school, until now.

And he told me, "There's a whole world out there. People are having fun. We should be going to parties... even getting drunk, getting laid... being wild."

And I was skeptical, of course. "The last time we went to a party, we got our asses kicked."

"Maybe we should have our own parties." He told me radically.

I reached toward the power button on his old ass stereo. "How about we turn this off..." I started; a little unnerved.

"Don't touch the stereo, Mark." He snapped, and I stared at him, perplexed. "Give me a chance." He said. "Mark... I know this guy in New York City..."

"You know a guy in New York City?"

"Shh! Now tell me if this doesn't rock... my friend, he lives in a loft, like, an old industrial flat. He's an anarachist. The name's Collins. And guess what? He teaches at MIT, that fucking trendy-ass college you want to go to."

"No, I want to go to NYU." I corrected, trying to hide how much the idea was starting to excite me.

"Well, whatever. Still, Mark. Think about it." So there I was.

I was going to New York. It was obvious.

I was going to be a slacker, living in conditions my mother would cringe at, with people that my mother warned me about.

And I loved it.

And Roger was doing just what he had wanted to, not being his father.

He knew. And the idea fascinated him.

So what else could I do? I mean, there's no future in Scarsdale.

All those years of living there and I had never really thought of my future.

So fuck it. We were going to live on cereal and Stoli in a broken down building without heat, and eventually, we were going to piss the shit out of Benny.

I mean, that was me...a troublemaker, deeply contrasting with the me that resided in Scarsdale.

One of those guys my parents so arrogantly saved the world for... so we could fuck it up.

And we had thought at first that we'd never fit in out there in the outside world, but hey... if we stood out in New York, in Scarsdale, Roger told me, we were "fucking aliens".

So, yes, I sure was Roger Davis' best friend. And because you weren't... you fucking missed out.

Sorry if that sucked. For some reason, I have this weird feeling that it did.

Please review.

Unless you think it sucked too.

Because I don't need to hear flame-esque words, thanks.

:)