Pan left. A craphouse of a loft, too cold in winter and sweltering in summer. Sparse furniture, and no decoration save a few lonely paper posters and some dirty clothes strewn on the floor, waiting for me to actually go to the Laundromat.
The pan stops. Zoom in.
Roger.
Somehow the centre of everything always ends up being Roger. He's sitting at the window, staring out into the gloom of a November night in New York. He has a candle sitting beside him, and when he isn't staring off into the distance he's staring into the flame.
I suddenly tear myself away from the eyepiece, clumsily fumbling as I try to turn off the camera with my gloves on.
"You wanna start a fire?"
He turns his head so slowly towards me, I wonder if my voice has even reached him. He looks at me, our eyes meet, and for a second I feel like there's a connection there again, that it's him – but then he turns his face back to the window.
"No," he says after a moment. "There's nothing left to burn."
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It's been a year since Mimi died – two years since we lost Angel. Sometimes I'm sure I see one or the other of them in the loft – a flash of light and colour that's gone before I can whirl and lock my eyes on it.
I rummage around the kitchen, looking for any kind of food. Even as I search, I'm convinced that there's nothing there to find, so it's a pleasant surprise to find a package of dry noodles. They're old and they'll taste like boiled cardboard, I know, but at least they're food.
"Hey, Roger," I yell, now in hot pursuit of a clean pot, "We're gonna eat like kings tonight!"
I see him shuffle by out of the corner of my eye. His voice is stale, almost gone.
"I'm not hungry."
"Roger – "
"I'm going for a walk," he interrupts, anger sparking through his voice. The message is loud and clear. Shut the hell up, Mark, and leave me the fuck alone. Fine.
I put the water on to boil as I hear the door slide closed behind him, and fight against a shiver. Just as I have the brilliant idea to warm my hands over the burner as it heats, I realize that Roger isn't exactly the spontaneous "Let's go for a nighttime walk," kind of guy. I throw on my jacket and speed out of the apartment, hoping I can catch up.
The atmosphere is thick like cream with an icy fog that engulfs everything and makes every light muted and blurred. I hurry past parked cars and people walking with their heads down and hands in their pockets. My eyes scan the streets but I can't see any sign of him.
Then I pass an alley and I just know it's him, standing beside some stranger who's slipping something into his hand, a streetlight above illuminating everything with a kind of ethereal glow.
I'm on him in a minute; and I make sure it counts, barrelling my full body into his and knocking him onto the ground.
"What the hell, Mark?" he yells after a moment, outraged and breathless.
"Fuck you!" I say, then turn to the dealer. "And you, get the fuck out of here or I'm calling the cops."
"Cops can't do dick-all," he sneers at me, but already turning away. I turn my back on him and turn back to Roger.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I scream, as furious as I've ever been. I can see him struggling to get back up and I lean over and shove him back down, my body heaving.
"Where'd you even get the money, huh?" I shove him again, pushing him down into the pavement, slick with icy dampness. "Where? Where?"
To my horror, his strong face crumples. "It's for an emergency. Just an emergency," he manages to say before completely breaking down. I haven't seen him cry since Mimi. This isn't something I can handle. I reach down and pluck the packet from his hand and throw it into the darkness of the alley behind him. His eyes don't follow it.
"Come on," I say, my voice softer and reaching out a hand to help him up. He takes it, and the coldness of it surprises me. I wish he were warmer.
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That night I sit cross-legged in my bed, blankets pooled around my feet and an all-too-familiar clenching in my gut. I've seen Roger through it all – but that doesn't mean I want to do it again. I remember after April, after Mimi, and when he was in withdrawal. That was the only time he let me hold him. With Mimi and April he was still enough himself to hold back, to keep me away. But then, when he was sick and shivering and throwing up for days, then he let me wrap my arms around his shivering body and tell him he was going to be okay.
Without even realizing it I've wrapped my arms tightly around my stomach, staring blankly into the utter darkness of my room and trying to swallow down my fear. There are so many things I'm terrified of, and no one to share them with.
I want to sleep. It's not like I'm an insomniac now or something – I just need to stay awake to make sure he doesn't leave. I need to look for light under the crack of my door and listen for creaks on the floorboards.
Earlier I led him up here and when we came in, he shrank back against the door to the loft as if he was frightened to be in here with me. I had to take his hand and literally lead him to his bedroom, feeling like I was leading a child scared of the monsters in their closet.
After a moment of hesitation, he went and lay down in his bed, face to the ceiling and eyes closed tight. I just stood there, watching him, my breath and heartbeat still slightly frenetic.
Eyes still closed, he turned his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Mark."
I went and kneeled by his bed. "Please just promise me you won't do it again."
The skin around his eyes squeezed. "I don't know if I can."
"Roger."
"I don't know, Mark! You don't know what it's like. To know what's coming. To watch the person you love … just being destroyed."
He turned, putting his back to me, shutting me out. He might as well have hit me. I slowly stood up and silently went to my room.
And now I'm just sitting in the dark while, hopefully, he sleeps. I think back to the days when Maureen would have been here with me – when I would come back to the room, sick of Roger's shit or completely destroyed by whatever he was going through, and she would pull me down to the bed and curl her body around me, just holding me and letting me forget. My heart still aches a little, when I think of it. I had never felt like Maureen was the one, but I had loved her. It's still hard sometimes to see her with Joanne.
I exhale sharply and glance up at the ceiling, unseeing but needing something to break me out of my thoughts. I wrap my arms around myself a little tighter and settle in for the long night.
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When I wake up, I can't even remember falling asleep. I'm still dressed, and my back and neck are sore from whatever position I was in when I finally gave in. I get up and stretch painfully, then walk out into the loft. He's there, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.
Silent, I go into the bathroom and then walk back out, pounding a bottle onto the table in front of him.
"Take your goddamn AZT, Roger."
He looks up at me, surprised. I'm always telling him to take his AZT, but never in a tone that indicates I actually care. My voice is always measured and I never press it. But I haven't seen him take it in months and after last night I am sick of his bullshit.
"I'll take it later." He looks away, dismissing me.
"Now," I say.
He still doesn't look at me. "I don't need it until later."
I want to punch him. I want to knock his teeth out just to see him fucking react. "When's the last time you took it, Roger? Do you even wear your beeper anymore?"
He gets up. "None of your goddamn business."
"Oh, fuck you," I say disgusted. "I'm trying to fucking help you, in case you hadn't noticed."
His eyes widen, then narrow again. "I don't need anyone's help. I'm fine."
"What bullshit. You're so full of it, Roger. You think you're the only person in the world to feel pain."
"Maybe I am," he flashes at me. I can feel my eyes burning. It's a minute before I can speak – before I can safely say anything without the wrong thing spilling out.
"You're an idiot," I say, and my voice is hoarser than I meant it to be. He looks at me for a second, and as I turn away I tell him again to take his fucking pills. But I don't know if he will.
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That night I fall into bed and almost immediately into a dreamless sleep. When I wake up, Roger's face is peering at me through the darkness. I start, jarring my already sore neck.
"Jesus, Roger, what the hell are you doing?"
He's kneeling beside my bed, leaning his upper body on it, close to me. I catch my breath.
"I only take my AZT once a week." He says, not meeting my eyes.
"Huh? How come?" I asked, still stupid with sleep and his nearness.
"I need to stretch it out," he says quietly. "I can't afford any more."
"Oh, Christ," I say, turning over and rubbing my eyes. "I can't deal with this."
"Then don't," he says sharply, jumping up. "You don't need to worry anyway – I'm getting a job."
I get up, and stand by him, placing a restraining hand on the door. "You can't do that," I tell him softly. He needs to write. And stay well. I don't want him stressing out doing something he hates.
"I have to." His voice is tired, beaten. I know how he feels, I do, even if he doesn't believe it. I hesitantly step a little closer, and put a hand on his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and I wait, seeing if he'll let me get closer. There's no warning in his eyes, and I step closer to him again, and wrap my arms around him.
I'm surprised when he throws himself at me, enveloping me and clinging to my back.
"Rog?" I ask softly. "What can I do?"
I feel him shake his head against my shoulder, and feel words coming to me. For once I decide to say them instead of being cautious and editing every thought.
"I want you to sing again," I say quietly. Roger's arms tighten around me.
"It's been so long," I say, feeling him stiffen. "You can form another band. You can start again, Rog. It's not over for you."
He starts to pull away, but I won't let him. I feel like I can't.
"Roger, no," I plead. "Stay."
He struggles against me. "Let me go, Mark." I can hear the warning in his tone, but I hold fast to him, and bury my face in his shoulder and neck.
After a minute Roger lets his hands fall to his sides and he just stands there, unmoving. Finally I take a deep breath, through my mouth, not letting myself inhale what he would smell like, how it could feel. I pull back and turn away, feeling my face burn. I'm an idiot.
"Mark, wait," Roger says, his voice soft, all the anger gone. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, panic rising in my throat like bile and pulling away from his outstretched hand. I go and sit on my bed, turned away from him, but I can sense him standing there in my doorway.
"I promise, Mark," he says quietly. "I won't do it. Ever again."
Then he leaves me to the blackness of my room.
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The next morning it's like nothing happened. Except Roger isn't just staring out into nothingness as he sits at the window. He's playing his guitar. And when I walk in, he smiles at me.
I smile back, keeping my grin mostly to myself as I grab my coat and camera.
"Where you going?" Roger asks as he plucks at the strings.
"Filming," I tell him, heaving open the door. "I've done shit the past few weeks. I wanna go out and blow out the cobwebs, you know? And maybe inspiration will hit."
"Good luck," he says, and turns back to the window, hugging the guitar to his body. I keep the image with me when I venture out into the biting wind.
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