I Hated New York
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks…
Roger pushed past the sea of shoulders and elbows as he fought his way back to the loft after Angel's funeral. Desperately, he fought the emotions battling for dominance within him.
Cold bitterness. They couldn't lose Angel, they couldn't. But they had. Angel was superglue, with her gone, their makeshift family crumbled. The strong are often the first to go. Why? They needed her. Shouldn't the wretched disease taken someone like him? He, who deserved it more than the others? But if he had learnt anything in his lifetime, it was that the world is cruel. New York in particular. The cut throat atmosphere left no one safe. New York was like an exotic animal. It drew crowds in from suburbia, alluring in its mystery and adventure. Then, when its too late to get out, it reveals it's deadly fangs, snapping mercilessly. Oh sure, you can follow your dreams here. Go ahead, join that band. Whoops, that's gonna cost you your best friend. You like that girl? Ask her out! Oh, now you get a free ticket to the land of druggies and AZT. Everything has a price in New York.
Hot anger. How could Mimi do this? Seek shelter in Benny? The yuppie scum who couldn't care less about any of them? Why did he ever let himself get involved with Mimi? She was a junkie and he knew better than anyone she'd only quit for herself. How could he have been so blinded? Stupid moon, it really was just some neon sign…
Numb exhaustion. He couldn't take this. It was too much. He felt ready to explode, or to tear at himself in hopes of extricating this overwhelming pain. Again, he was suffocating. No. None of this was happening. It couldn't be. Just make it stop.
Now entering the filthy Alphabet City. The familiar sounds and smells greeted Roger's senses. Grunts issuing from some poor bloke being mugged. The salty tang from the cold sweat of the junkies yearning for another hit, but too poor to afford one. Various shouts and curses. Rotting garbage. Roger picked up his pace until he was jogging up the stairs to the loft.
What do you take when you want to leave everything behind? A ratty rucksack filled with clothes and a few toiletries. All his savings wadded up in his pocket. No photos.
The heavy door slid open. Mark. He looked so awkward standing there. He remained near the door as if to barricade it from Roger, but at the same time he seemingly shrunk in size, looking confused and hurt.
"I hear there are great restaurants out West…"
Damn it Mark, don't act like everything's okay. You always do this; hide from reality. IT'S NOT OKAY! Roger wanted to storm at Mark. He wanted to shatter that timid and even apologetic face.
"Some of the best."
He had to make Mark understand. He couldn't leave him hurting like this. Mark would understand. But no. Mark was ignorant. It was odd how much he and April had in common. Both viewing the world through rose colored lenses, April by the point of a needle and Mark through the lens of a camera.
Why was this turning into a confrontation? Mark couldn't understand. He didn't know, he didn't see. None of this should be happening. It wasn't happening. Mark didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Escaping pain? Life is pain; the only way out of it left a stain in the bathtub.
"Who are you to tell me what I know?"
Mark didn't get it. He may film life, but he sure as hell didn't live it. How many more muggings would he have to record before he saw them as victims and not thematic subjects? How many more reels would he edit before realizing his own obscurity? Mark hadn't lived since Roger started using. He hadn't made any films since then either. He was failing. Failing both a work and life. Was it fear? Fear of feeling? Because Roger sure was sick of feeling.
"You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive."
Mark didn't cry at Angel's funeral. He hadn't cried when they found April either. Roger had sobbed so hard, he felt his vocal cords would surely tear apart, but Mark hadn't shed a tear. It didn't seem possible Mark could express emotion through cold film reels when he couldn't feel or show it himself.
"Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive."
There it was. A few short years of overwhelming emotion versus a lifetime of living in a void. What a pair. Too much and not enough. This is it, he was through. No more. Not yet at least.
It was not the fall he hated, it was all of New York. This suffocating hell-hole of a city. Roger needed to breathe. Free, open air, lacking of oppression. Santa Fe.
Glory.
