HELLO CITIZENS!
We're back with a new story in our Days of Inspiration series! So read, drink tea, be merry, and leave a review as you skip off to resume your life.
Chapter One
"The World At His Feet"
Roger
Flashback
"Will you please shut the fucking window?" Mark growled, coming in from the bedroom.
Roger didn't answer at first; he was practicing a rather difficult chord shift. When he finally looked up, it was clear by his blank stare that he wasn't focused on Mark and was still thinking about the proper position of his fingers. "What? Oh. The window. Why?"
"It's too loud." The filmmaker replied and grabbed a dirty mug from the counter and shoved it under the faucet.
"It's New York. It's always loud."
"Yeah," replied Mark testily, "but my brain doesn't always feel like it's about to drip out of my ears!"
Roger chuckled. "You are such a lightweight."
"I had four beers last night."
"My point exactly." Roger resumed practicing. "Your glass is overflowing."
Mark looked down, and, indeed, he'd been holding the glass under the spigot for far too long, and the water had begun cascading over his hands. "Aw, fuck." He mumbled and dumped some of the water out into the sink as he turned off the faucet with his elbow.
Roger ducked his head in a vain hope that Mark wouldn't notice him laughing.
"Fuck you." Mark growled.
"Oh, don't be a grouch."
"FUCK YOU!" He repeated, which only made Roger laugh harder.
Mark drained the glass of water in one gulp, with far more speed and efficiency than he'd had drinking beer last night. He shuffled back toward the bedroom, swearing violently under his breath.
"Hey!"
"Not so loud!" Mark hissed.
"There's aspirin in my top drawer."
"If it didn't take more energy than I possess right now, I would kiss you." Mark smiled and headed down the hall toward Roger's bedroom.
Laughing quietly to himself, Roger resumed practicing, enjoying the sounds of New York drifting through the window he had never closed.
June
Unlike eyes, which are equipped with eyelids to shut out sight, ears have no natural mechanism to block out hearing. A symphony of sound cannot be as easily ignored as a parade of images.
Roger sat at the window with his eyes closed and his ears open, listening to New York. With his well-trained musician's ear, he could dissect the morning, each sound a different note in the most harmonious chord he had ever heard. The bass rumble of cars and the high soprano wail of sirens twisted together with the alto warble of songbirds and the tenor of the rush of the wind through the high rise apartment buildings.
The rough summer heat was yet hours away, and the smooth kiss of morning was the only thing that touched his cracked lips.
It was June in New York.
June, just like any other June he had ever known: the city full of tourists, Central Park green and lush, and the heat becoming more and more oppressive with each passing day.
But, to Roger, never before had a city so familiar seemed so foreign. In some way, he'd always lived knowing that his days were numbered, but now that they number was no longer vague, but instead a solid six months, he had begun to look at the world differently. He was conscious of his breathing, and therefore he became conscious of the taste of the air. He was conscious of the flutter of his eyelids, and therefore he became conscious of the things he saw when his eyes were open. But strangely, as he became more and more conscious of the world around him, he became more and more conscious of the sounds it made.
He had never before noticed that the world was full of music; music he was unable to block out now that he had taken notice of it.
And for the first time in months, he was unafraid to add his own music to the mix. When he woke up, there was a song in his head and he raced to the guitar to bring the silent notes to life so he wouldn't forget them. He could hardly be in the apartment without picking up his instrument to play a scrap of melody or find the perfect harmony to go with it.
The only reason Mark didn't complain was because he had been walking around him on tiptoe afraid to say anything cruel.
How strange that Mark was living his life as a series of actions that might be regrets, while Roger was finally living his without fear.
But Mark was out right now.
So, Roger picked up the guitar and began to play.
His fingers danced from note to note, not necessarily playing anything coherent, but just playing for the sake of playing.
He wanted to play again.
Really play.
He needed a gig.
The idea of playing for money had been dancing around in his mind for some time now. Not only because he missed the high of it, but also because it would be a way for him to leave Mark a little better off.
He put the guitar down, picked up the phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart.
Roger raised his arms heavenward, spinning in the sunlight like a pinwheel. Behind him, Mark shuffled along, almost embarrassed by his best friend's vibrancy. The two men made their way down the New York street, seeing the same landscape, but with very different eyes.
"Lunch?" Roger asked pausing his stroll in front of the Life Café.
The filmmaker scowled.
"What?!" Roger replied. "It's only money."
Mark didn't enjoy Roger's new lifestyle. Roger's refusal to live the last months of his life as though he was dying seemed to genuinely confuse Mark on good days, and anger him on the bad ones.
But, because Mark was unwilling to disappoint Roger, the two men took a seat inside under the wary glance of the owner.
Roger ordered for both of them, knowing that Mark would have tried to get away without actually eating.
"Mark," Roger began. "I want to ask you a question."
"If you're going to ask me to cover lunch…"
"No." The musician paused and pulled a folded blue flyer out of his pocket and handed it to Mark. "I wanted to know if you'd come hear me play."