DISCLAIMER: we've been through this already. i make no money for my efforts, aight?'
Last Shot: Soaring
by kaydee falls
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As soon as he picked it up, Collins knew that no one would use this camera again. The little red light was still glowing faintly, however, and he gently switched it off. The end of the reel of film would be garbage, blank, but there was still the possibility that the rest would be viewable. But he himself knew next to nothing about video cameras and film, or how to get the movie out of the shell of the camera. Funny, he thought, I once taught Computer Age Philosophy, I can reprogram the hell out of a computer and hotwire an ATM to spew out cash, but I couldn't get a picture out of this thing if a life depended on it.
His gaze drifted to Mark's limp body being lifted on a stretcher into the ambulance. We're not so different from a camera, he mused. We're broken, shattered by an unlucky twist of fate, damaged to the core, and yet there's always the chance that the professionals can still salvage some film. Some life. Oh God, let them save Mark.
* * * * *
They were all huddled together in the loft: Roger, Mimi, Collins, Maureen, Joanne. Sitting in a small circle around the phone, waiting for word from the hospital. It had only been a few hours since the accident. A few long, tense hours in which they could do nothing but wait. No one touched the chips Maureen had absently dumped in a bowl and brought to the couch. They just sat
After Mark had been loaded into the ambulance, Collins had immediately gone to the pay phone and called Joanne at her office. Meanwhile, a dazed Roger had stumbled over to a police officer and demanded to know exactly what had happened. The policeman told him it was none of his business, and Roger replied that of course it was his damn business, he was Mark's roommate, and that someone had better tell him what the hell was going on.
The cop got interested in Roger then, and had started firing questions. His name? Roger Davis. Victim's full name and address? Mark Cohen, we live just down the street. Next of kin? His mother lives in Scarsdale, I don't have her number on me but I'll call her. Your phone number?....The list went on and on. Finally, Roger had enough.
Would you just tell me how this happened?! he screamed. He whirled to face a very nervous cabbie. Did you hit him?! Roger demanded. Did you run him over?! What the fuck were you thinking, you asshole?! The cab driver started babbling again. Roger clenched his fists and started forward, but Mimi rushed forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him away and murmuring softly into his ear. Tears were running down her face. Roger looked into her eyes and said nothing.
And now they all sat silently back in the loft. Suddenly, the phone broke the silence, jarringly. Roger dove for it. he whispered. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line, face blank and unreadable. He murmured monosyllabic responses into the phone occasionally, still expressionless. To the others, it seemed like hours before he finally said, Thank you, and hung up.
They all looked at him, questioningly, searchingly, needing to know and yet too afraid to ask anything. For another long moment, Roger was silent. Finally, he spoke.
He's gone, he mumbled, then lowered his head into his hands and began to cry.
Oh, no, Maureen whispered, shocked. He can't be. We can't....we can't have lost him. Not Mark.
Collins sighed, strangely unable to cry as the others all did. He was the one who should have lived. I always expected him to outlive us all. He is...was...always there, always there....
Roger looked up. Well, he isn't, he said harshly, jumping to his feet. What's the point of talking about it? He should've been the survivor, but he wasn't, he's dead, he left us. It's over! he shouted, pacing the room. God dammit, he's over! Tears streaming down his cheeks, Roger smashed his hand into the kitchen counter, then grabbed the broken camera sitting there and prepared to smash it into something as well.
Roger, don't! Mimi pleaded, running over to him and catching his arm. Don't do this, she whispered. For God's sake, don't destroy Mark's camera. It was his life.
And now it's broken, Roger responded bitterly. Just like Mark.
Collins walked over, and took the camera out of Roger's hand. The camera is broken, but I think the film inside is still good, he said softly. I think Mark might have found his last shot, Roger. And I think we owe it to him to see that it can be seen by all his friends. His eyes filled with tears, at last.
* * * * *
It was relatively simple to produce an image out of the camera, once they took it to a professional. What was difficult was to splice it onto the end of Mark's film, and touch it up. But Roger worked hard, and was able to complete it a few weeks after the accident. He devoted all his time to ensuring that Mark's vision was maintained, while Joanne took care of the trial surrounding the short filmmaker's death, and had the cab driver sentenced for manslaughter. Finally, Roger invited all of Mark's friends to the loft, for a showing of the film.
Once the group of people had quieted and the lights dimmed, Roger flicked the projector on.
Mark had titled the film No Day But Today. It was a spectacular montage of images and words, flashes of life. There were glimpses of friends, family members, laughter, fights, smiles, tears. Even Roger was amazed by the depth and complexity of his friend's vision. No part of their lives were left out, and yet it didn't seem rushed or flighty. It was Mark, Mark all over, even though his face never appeared.
At the end, the film showed Roger. This is where Mark's film left off, his projected image said to them. He told me that it was almost finished, that it lacked only one last shot. But on February 28th, Mark Cohen was struck by a taxicab while walking home. He died a few hours later. Film-Roger wiped his eyes, and life-Roger did the same. So did many other members of the small audience. We found his camera, broken, on the sidewalk. It was still recording. The image of Roger faded away, and was replaced by film of a small crowd of pigeons pecking at invisible crumbs on the sidewalk. The voice continued, We think Mark found his shot after all. As if on cue, all the pigeons were startled into flight, a chaotic mass of feathers and beaks. He found his release in his film, in his perfect shot, Roger's voice whispered. The focus shifted to one lone pigeon, diverging from the path of the flock. I think...I think his spirit just soared away with the birds that day. And I think he finally found...he finally found his peace. In the film, the pigeon soared higher and higher. Finally, it disappeared into the grey clouds.
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I finally finished this dratted story! Thank ye kindly for sticking with it.....
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ironically, on November 30, a day or so after I finished writing part one, a close family friend was hit by a truck and killed, in roughly the same neighborhood of NYC as the fictional Mark lived. This little series is dedicated in memory of Jerilyn Reiter, 1947 - 2000.