Chapter 2

Mark

"The Witness"

Mark had slept wonderfully that night.

It was surprising, actually, considering everything on his mind. He descended to the kitchen in the morning determined to clear his thoughts, to free himself from horrible choices and fragments of memories. A familiar blank slate filled him. For a moment, he was content—until he realized there was nothing for breakfast.

Subconsciously, Mark reached for his camera. It had accompanied him down the stairs; it always did, even in the morning. The weight around his neck seemed natural. Smiling, he switched it on to record. His emotions filtered through the lens so that he was left with only the feel of the camera in his hands.

"December 7th, 8:42 A.M. A snapshot of the coveted Bohemian lifestyle. First, we close in on the barren wasteland of the refrigerator; now we zoom in on the lonely shelves of the pantry. And yet, what is this?" He focused on the pile of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink and spilled over the rim, extending onto the countertop. "A full sink. We've reached a new level of pathetic."

Hearing a yawn and a set of lazy footsteps coming down the steps, Mark whirled around, still recording. "Speaking of pathetic! A rare appearance by the all-time king!" He obnoxiously strode over and dogged Roger's steps, keeping the camera a few inches away from the songwriter's face.

This resulted in an exaggerated groan and a close-up of Roger's hand. "Dammit, Mark, first thing in the morning? Turn it off, I look like shit."

Mark laughed and shut the camera off. "Oh, I forgot. I'm only allowed to photograph you when you look like a Vogue model."

Roger grunted. He started towards the kitchen, but gave up halfway and fell onto the couch instead. "We don't have anything to eat, do we?"

"Human flesh."

"Where? There's none on your scrawny excuse for a body."

Mark chose to ignore the comment and flopped unceremoniously on the couch beside Roger. For a few moments, they lay there uselessly. Each had his own thoughts to be lost in. The smile drifted from Mark's face as reality set in again.

"You look awful," he said to Roger. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yeah."

"How did dinner go with Mimi?"

"Great, really great."

Ok. Roger wasn't in a mood to talk. It didn't surprise Mark—they didn't talk as much as they used to. The silence that fell now was more awkward than comfortable.

Mark was aware of the side-glances Roger was giving him; something was obviously troubling Roger just below the surface. Mark waited for his friend to articulate the problem. It wouldn't take long—Roger couldn't keep things bottled up for more than a few minutes, not when he had Mark to talk to.

When the issue came up, it wasn't what Mark expected.

"What was bothering you so much last night?"

Mark froze for a moment. He wasn't ready to mention this yet…he didn't know how to say it so that Roger would understand. And yet, he knew he couldn't keep quiet. He also couldn't meet Roger's eyes.

"Nothing really…I was just really tired; you got in kind of late and I'd been drifting off. I don't even remember our conversation."

Roger laughed acridly. "It wasn't a conversation."

"See? Maybe that's why I don't remember it."

"It was you avoiding a conversation."

Roger was standing now, towering over Mark with a torn expression of hurt and disgust. Mark stood to match his stare. They were standing close with a gulf of distrust between them.

"It was me trying to hold onto enough consciousness to have a conversation." Mark said. So drop it, Roger. It's none of your business—not yet.

For several seconds, they said nothing. They didn't break eye contact. Then, Roger was the first to turn away with a disinterested shrug.

"Whatever you say, Mark."

Sighing, Mark checked the time—just after nine. He had to leave around 9:30.

"I've got to go get ready," he murmured awkwardly, making his way around the labyrinth of trash, empty cans, and crumpled sheet music full of musical etchings.

"Where are you going?" Roger asked.

Mark didn't bother to turn around as he started going back up the steps. "You're not the only one with dates. I've got an interview."

"How is that a date?"

Mark stopped walking. He couldn't help smiling; some of the tension had eased. Pivoting slightly, he looked back down at Roger, who offered a small, apologetic grin.

"It's me and my camera—how is that not a date?"

For some reason, Roger turned away. He didn't seem to find Mark's answer very funny.


He couldn't continue living vicariously through people who were dying.

What was he going to do? Continue to be a witness until the lives he leeched off of were gone? They were all living for each day, enjoying the life they had. But Roger couldn't keep surviving off of bits and pieces. Mark could see that soon, the day would come when Roger wouldn't be able to pay for his AZT; he would suddenly be one step closer to the end. The day might come when he'd be out on the street—when they all would. The new landlord expected them to pay rent. If Mark and Roger were evicted, they could only stay with Mimi, or Maureen and Joanne, or Collins for so long. They were all barely getting by. Only Collins had found a steady job, but he wouldn't be able to support all of them if they fell.

The papers in Mark's hands were the answer.

He had thought about it for countless nights. Now, the time had come to decide, and Mark felt that he had made the best choice. It had been hard to keep the secret from Roger. It had involved filing away the contracts, the information pamphlets, the job descriptions, resumes, and videotapes. For better or for worse, it had worked.


And now Mark had his last interview before accepting the job.

No day but today. With any luck, Mark would be able to help his friends hold to that for a few more years.

He looked himself over in the mirror a few more times, making sure he looked professional before going back downstairs. Familiar strummed guitar notes drifted up to greet him.

He found Roger sitting by the window, looking out at the austere morning cloaked by civilization.

"It's snowing again," Roger mused.

Mark went to stand beside his friend, sharing the view of the dreary cityscape. "Yeah." Subconsciously, he wrapped a scarf around his neck. "I've got a few dollars, I can bring back something to eat. The interview shouldn't take long."

Roger looked up suspiciously. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You never told me about an interview."

"I've had several over the past week, Rog. This is just the first time you've been here to see me leave."

Mark saw momentary pain flash in Roger's eyes. The filmmaker looked away, confused; that comment wasn't meant to be hurtful. It was just the truth.

He checked the time again—9:32. Good. He wasn't going to be late.

"I've gotta head out," Mark said, checking over his camera bag to make sure he had everything he needed. "Don't starve while I'm gone."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Thanks. I get lost sometimes."

Roger laughed halfheartedly. They walked in silence to the door. By the time they reached it, Mark was glad to be leaving; Roger's heavy voice and shuffling footsteps disheartened him. This wasn't going to be easy.

"See ya."

As Mark entered the light snowfall, he left Roger's body in the doorframe. Roger hadn't returned the goodbye. However, the songwriter's voice soon emerged through the thickness of the air.

"You know, just because it's been different lately doesn't mean we should be any different with each other."

Mark turned back and met Roger's eyes. The cold was starting to penetrate him; his face flushed and his breath was visible in rhythmic white puffs. "I know, Rog," he said, shivering.

The icy bitterness didn't seem to affect Roger, who leaned casually in the doorway. "Yeah, so…you can always tell me what's bothering you or whatever. I know you don't really like to talk about your problems, but I'm gonna find out anyway."

Mark sighed. This isn't a good time, Rog. Then again…it's never going to be a good time.

He walked back towards the door, stopping a few feet away. "So…it's not really a problem, I guess. It's just a big decision."

"About what?"

"Well…"

Just spit it out.

"Ok. So I've been doing all these interviews for the past week. It wasn't really a sure thing; I just wanted to see if I had a shot. And, um…it's for this independent film company that just formed, a coalition between other independent companies that had been sort of successful. So they had a pretty big initial budget since all of the studios came together and they wanted to hire a director to shoot some pilot films, documentaries and stuff. They want the films to be creative—it's not like they give you something you have to film, no matter how lame it is."

Roger nodded, looking more than a little confused. "So, you tried for this, and…that's a bad thing?"

"No! I mean, not really. It's just that all of a sudden it seems like a big possibility. They saw some of last year's footage and basically said that I'm the guy they're looking for. They'd pay a good amount and I'd get to do exactly what I've always wanted to do. It's my big chance, you know? Things like this don't really come up a lot for a filmmaker, especially one who's never gotten his feet off the ground."

"But Mark…I mean, that's awesome, man! I'd give anything for a chance like that with music! Why would that bother you? Man, Mark, that's…that's incredible. Someone's finally realized how ridiculously good you are!"

Suddenly, Mark didn't really feel the cold—only the weight of the moment. This was the hard part.

"Yeah, but…there's a catch."

Roger sighed. "Look, if you're worried about the fact that you'll have to throw yourself into your work again or whatever, it's cool. You'll actually like it this time. There's nothing to worry about."

"They're based in D.C., Roger. I'll have to leave New York."

Mark couldn't face his best friend anymore. He walked away without a look back and left Roger gaping at the cold city visage, blurred as the snow continued to fall.