Chapter 4

Mark

"No Absolutes"

"Welcome to the team, Mr. Cohen. We look forward to working with you."

Tina Connell, the company's representative, smiled in the amiable way that had put Mark at ease through all of their interviews. She filed away the contract. He shook her hand, trying his hardest to smile back sincerely.

It was official now. Mark felt only numbness; he drifted in the gray area between accomplishment and guilt. Part of him kept saying that he could back out at any time, that the decision wasn't official until he flew to D.C. without enough money to fly back. Another part, however, said that there wasn't anything wrong with his decision—it was his decision to make, even though taking care of his friends was a big factor. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Are you all right, Mr. Cohen?"

The silence had become awkward—Tina had expected Mark to leave after signing, but instead he was sitting there, lost in thought. He shook himself out of the daze and stood hurriedly.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Connell", he said. "I just spaced out for a second. I'll see you in a few weeks."

"You should get the plane ticket in the mail by Friday."

"Thank you."

She walked him to the door of the Hyatt conference room. When the door was open, he emerged into the carpeted luxury of the entrance hall, lined quaintly with paintings and lit warmly. The lobby was decorated for the holidays. Maybe it was his lack of five-star-hotel experience, but everything seemed bathed in gold; everything emitted a welcoming, elegant glow, from the chandeliers to the Christmas wreaths.

Mark lingered. Before he knew it, his world had filtered into the round frame of the camera lens, and he was recording.

"December 7th, 11:02 A.M. Is this the world I'm going to be a part of? Is this the world I want to be a part of? "

For once, he couldn't think of anything else to say; he couldn't find a point of focus to close in on. He was at once enticed by the luxury and artistically constrained by it.

The camera passed by the unhappy gaze of a large security guard. Biting his lip, Mark lowered it and gave the officer an awkward wave. Then, he walked quickly out of the hotel. Lavishness and warmth gave way to cold, crowded streets.

As usual, everything surrounding Mark was full to capacity, with car horns and voices rising in a maddening tumult beneath the familiar shadows of skyscrapers. He wondered if he would miss the crowd—D.C. was a big city, but the type of crowding was different. Everything would be different. There was no place in the world quite like New York City.


Mark barely remembered to buy something to eat before going home. The winter cold remained on his cheeks and ears as he closed the door to the apartment behind him; his camera was freezing to touch. Only the pizza box in his hands provided any heat.

"Roger?"

His voice was greeted by silence. Mark sighed; Roger had probably stormed out or something, reacting to his best friend's upcoming departure by going to rant to his girlfriend. Mark figured it was better that way. He wasn't sure what he would say to Roger, and at least it was a reassurance of the fact that Roger wouldn't be alone once Mark left. Mimi would be there; if not, someone else would. Nothing really depended on Mark's presence at all.

He took a slice of pizza out of the box and stuck the rest on an empty refrigerator shelf. He had almost reached the couch and television remote when he heard the crash of glass from up in the bedroom, followed by heavy, inconsistent footsteps.

Mark paused, confused by the fact that he wasn't alone, that Roger was shuffling around in the bedroom. He dropped the remainder of his pizza on the coffee table. "Roger?" he called, walking slowly up the stairs.

There was no answer—just more stumbling, and this time the distinctive creak of Mark's mattress against the bedsprings.

When he opened the door, Mark found only ruination.

Roger sat on the edge of the bed, his head down. Shards of glass lay scattered at the songwriter's feet—the broken notes of a life. The acrid smell of vodka was stale and dormant in the air. A small, liquid stain was splattered on the wall where the obviously near-empty bottle had made contact and shattered.

Holy shit, thought Mark. He's drunk off his ass. He downed the whole bottle.

He would have to be careful. When drunk, Roger could be one of two things: hilariously disoriented or instable and dangerous. From the darkness that shadowed Roger's eyes, Mark could only guess that today, it would be the latter of the two. He considered yelling as anger mounted within him, but instead opted for the persuasive approach. Maybe he could bring Roger back to some semblance of reality.

Mark tried to be calm and casual, slowly taking his camera from his neck and laying it on the table by the door. He started walking forward.

"Roger," he softly.

"Couldn't wait til I was dead, could you?"

The words were slurred, spoken down at the floor. Mark barely caught what Roger had said. When the words did register, however, they made Mark go cold and halted his calculated footsteps. "What?"

Roger laughed. The sound was harsh and unwelcome. "Gotta move on with your life, leave your shit behind, leave your friends to die alone…"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Mark. He didn't care if Roger was drunk—those words pierced him. "I don't think you should be lecturing me on valuing life when you could've just drunk yourself to death!"

He couldn't stop the anger now. It was coloring his vision, a blood-tinted plane of rage. At that moment, Mark hated Roger—hated all of Roger's stupid mistakes, hated the disease that was taking Roger away, hated the drunkenness that was making Roger's words hurt so much. Mark took a few quick strides to the bed and closed the gap between them. Roger raised bloodshot eyes, swaying a little where he sat.

"Why do you think I don't talk to you?" asked Mark, his voice rising. "Why are you always trying to get me to open up when you react like this, you irresponsible asshole?! I tell you something for the first time and you—"

"Shut up."

"—go and get so fucking drunk that—"

"Shut up."

"—you don't even know what the hell you're doing, you don't even know—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Roger tried to stand. His legs gave way the moment he got up, and he had to grope at the bed clumsily as he fought to find some strength. Mark knew the feeling. The world was spinning, no straight lines existed, and your limbs didn't obey function or obey. Everything flew into detachment that could be both exhilarating and horrifying. Mark knew—but he made no move to help. He fought down the subconscious urge to reach out and steady his best friend.

"How could you be so selfish?" asked Roger, falling into a few side steps until he was leaning against the wall. "So selfish, like you don't give a damn…no one gives a damn..." His words trailed off as he slumped to the ground, unable to support himself any longer. "I smell pizza…" he mumbled.

Mark shook his head in disgust. "You think I'm selfish? Who's the one whose drug addiction nearly cost him his friends, his life, his future? Who's the one who had to go and have sex with a girlfriend who was a whore and a junkie, something that did cost him his life?!?"

A dangerous pause followed.

"You take all that back," said Roger in a low, muffled voice. His wild eyes were murderous.

"Why should I? It's not like you can."

"Take it back or I'll beat the shit out of you…"

"Oh, now I'm scared. I'm going to get beaten by a drunk who can't even walk two feet."

Roger tried to stand again, this time bracing his weight against the wall. "I mean it…I'm gonna park you, Munk…"

Mark paused, stupefied. Insults and retorts dangled on the tip of his tongue. "Wait…what?"

"Gonna punch you, Mark."

"Oh." Regaining his anger, Mark purposely took a few steps towards his indisposed friend. "Go ahead. I want to see you try. Give it your best shot, hit me until I can't see your goddamn drunken face or—"

The fist came out of nowhere, all of Roger's force behind it.

Mark distantly felt it connect with the side of his face. He tasted the blood as it filled his mouth and spilled onto his chin; he saw the floor rising up to the right as his hands flew instinctively to his face.

For a moment, nothing happened. They were suspended in silence, in a void where everything reeked of alcohol and blood and where the only sound was Roger's panting breath. Mark pushed himself to his knees. He could practically feel the bruise forming on the side of his face; it had caught the outer corner of his eye and covered the upper half of his cheek. The initial shock was ebbing away as the pain settled in.

Mark knelt there for a moment, wondering why it hurt so much this time. He had been mugged aggressively, even brutally, and been bullied sometimes as a kid. Roger had even hit him before while going through withdrawal.

Somehow, it was different this time.

As Mark turned to glance at Roger, their eyes locked. There were apologies in both sets of stares, but stores of indignation, hurt, and fury marred them. Roger was leaning with his back against the wall, looking drunk and pathetic; looking like someone lost in the midst of decay.

There was nothing left here. Mark stood slowly, pain throbbing in the left side of his face, and crossed over to the doorway. Roger's labored breaths remained the only audible break in the stillness.

Mark picked up his camera on the way out. Normally, he would have filmed something as he left, even if it was just the sunlight peering in through the window or Roger sleeping in a morning tangle of bed sheets and dirty clothes. This time, however, the camera stayed off. This incident was one Mark preferred to bury in memory.

Merry Christmas, Roger. Thanks for giving me another damn scar I didn't need.

He turned and started down the stairs.

"Mark…"

Don't look back.

"Mark, wait, come back…I'm sorry, man…Mark! Please! Please come back!"

Not this time.

He was halfway down the stairs, walking briskly. Maybe it wasn't smart to go out like this; the bruise might as well have been a flashing signal, labeling him as an easy target. But at the moment, Mark didn't care. He just didn't want to be here. He wanted to be as far away from home as possible. It was a familiar feeling…he just never thought he'd feel that way about this home, about this family. He hadn't needed to run away from Roger before.

"Mark! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"

Go to hell.

"Shit…Mark, come back…"

He was near the door. It was going to be viciously cold outside, so Mark wrapped the scarf tighter around his neck, burying his face down in the fabric to keep the bruise somewhat hidden. He opened the door and was welcomed into the world by a blast of freezing air, accompanied by swiftly falling snowflakes.

"Mark! MARK!"

Mark closed the door on the hoarse, drunken yells. His face began to sting, enflamed by the touch of the bitter air.

As he began to walk down the sidewalk, he was barely aware of the footsteps approaching behind him.

"Hey! What's the deal, man? You're leaving just as I get here!"

Shit.

Collins was coming over today. Actually, Collins came over most days around mid-afternoon, since he mainly worked mornings. He had been the one to keep Mark company during Roger's frequent absences.

Mark paused. He didn't turn around; maybe, with any luck, Collins would back off and he wouldn't have to. "Hey, Collins."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

That did it. Mark couldn't keep a slight tremor from leaking into his voice.

Collins let a daunting silence fall. Slowly, he walked over to Mark's back and put a gentle hand onto the filmmaker's shoulder. Mark didn't resist as Collins turned him. He had become numb to everything. It was almost surprising to see love and concern in the compassionate darkness of Collins's eyes; Roger's eyes had been just the opposite, and they were burned into Mark's memory.

The color drained from Collins's face. "Holy shit, Mark…"

Mark put a hand on Collins's shoulder, offering a small smile. "Make sure he doesn't hurt himself, ok?"

He shifted away from Collins's hand and walked off into the haze of snow.