CHAPTER II: Depression, Regression, Suppression
1 Month Later….
"Marky!" She
bounds into my bedroom, hopping on my bed alongside me, tossing her purse
swiftly. "My sweet little Marky!" She tussles my hair.
"Stop it,
Maureen," I protest, pushing her away hurriedly. "Please, just leave me alone."
She frowns
heavily. "What's the matter? Look hun, I know you were sick and all, but – to
quote a Partridge Family song – c'mon get happy! You've been sulking for the
past few weeks and –"
"One month."
She gives me a
look. "You're keeping track?"
I shoot her a
glare. "What else is there to do when you can't do anything else?"
Collins
wanders in and takes a seat on my other side, also deciding to mess my hair.
"Hey kido, how ya feeling?"
I groan,
pushing his hands away. "Fine."
"You're a
terrible liar."
"So I'm not feeling well – what's
the difference?"
"We're just
trying to help, sweets," Maureen coos, looking down at me as if I were on my
deathbed.
"Where's
Joanne?" I ask angrily. Who knows why I'm angry. Oh, probably because my
friends are treating me like a fuckin' invalid!
"She's
working, dear. Don't get so upset at us. We're only trying to help."
"Well, help
the poor – they need it."
Collins cocks
his head slightly, shaking it. "Tut tut Mark," he says calmly, shaking a finger
at me. "Play nice."
"Nice?" I roll
my eyes. "Look, I just need some time – alone – so please, leave."
He sighs.
"Fine, Mark. You're going to lose all your friends at the rate you're going."
"What the hell
is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing,"
Collins adds defensively. "Just take it easy, pal. Get some rest." He and
Maureen begin to walk out, but he stops, looking back at me. "And if you don't
eat something, I'll come back and force it down your throat."
My eyes narrow
with held anger. "I'll look forward to that."
He shakes his
head again, tossing me a roll of film for my camera, which I catch in my lap.
"Use that to get out of the house, okay? We all hate to see you cooped up here
all alone."
And with that,
he's gone. Suddenly, the feelings of remoteness and misery envelop me
unsympathetically in their tight grasp. For the past month, I've been so alone
and dejected from life that I haven't left the house once – except when I was
hospitalized for a night in some stupid free clinic because I hadn't eaten in
three days. That was pure hell and I got out of there fast, promising them I'd
eat something. After all, that's what they wanted to hear right? Actually, I'm
not trying to starve myself or anything, but lately, the feeling of hunger has
not been around me. I just haven't wanted food, I guess. But, of course, all my
"friends" think, "Oh poor Mark! He's depressed and anxious all the time, so
he's probably trying to starve himself to death!" "Poor Mark! Just look at him
and you can see that he misses Roger and Mimi and still doesn't get into life
as he should!" "Mark is vulnerable and disheartened and that's why he doesn't
care about anyone anymore. He's just depressed…" Fuck them! They just don't get
it. It all started with April. She died and my world crashed around me because
Roger couldn't handle anything, so I had to always be there for him and help
him. When Angel died, my world shook again and I felt this void beginning to
manifest itself in my heart. Roger didn't help. He ran. Then, Mimi dies and I
feel that the one person who Roger could've been happy with has left us all –
forcing Roger to run and me to be alone again. Roger runs and I get
hospitalized – doesn't seem fair, does it?
I force myself
out of the small futon that has occupied my frail body for the past couple
weeks and make my way to the table, where I know there's some food left. I pick
up a box of Doritos that Collins bought a while back, set my film down, and
take a seat on one of the folding tables, munching quietly.
Yeah, I know I
need to get out of the house. I never realized it before, but being under my
own house arrest has made me turn into Roger. I snap at everyone, get panic
attacks when I want to step outside the house, and go through my memories like
a scrapbook of horrors. Do I remember all of the good times we all had? God
help me, yes I do.
I remember
when Angel was alive and she helped us all realize how precious life was; I
remember Roger and April, then Roger and Mimi; I remember Collins when he was
young and I was naïve; I remember the schoolroom where Benny and I would sit
and work on multimedia presentations for our class; and I remember Maureen and
Joanne (sad as that may sound, it is a happy thought) fighting and making up,
all within minutes of the other. So, my memory can hold nice thoughts….
My gaze
wanders to the doorknob and I take in a breath. God, Mark, it's been far too
long since you've been outside this damned loft. Get over Roger and get out
there.
Suddenly, I
wonder why I'm not "out there". I pick up my camera and load the brand new
cartridge of film that Collins was kind enough to buy – remind me to thank him
later – and I stand, taking a few steps towards the door. Then, I just say 'to
hell with that' and stomp outside. I stumble down the stairs into the old music
publishing company that has just recently started up again after a long
downfall of a year or so of no business. Throwing open the door, I step into
the warm New York air. Shit, is it summer already? And now, for the first time
since Mimi died, I smile. I mean, I really smile. This isn't one of those fake
smirks that I put on for other people's pleasure – it's damn real!
I turn on my
camera and begin to film, wandering down Avenue B. I laugh out loud upon
spotting a group of tourists (I know they're tourists because of the backpacks,
cameras, and shirts that say "Explore America" on them) who are gawking at some
of the small Village shops that are always set up on the streets. I grin;
knowing every one of those kids will buy an authentic Indian or Arabic elephant
carving for only five bucks. Ha! America!
As I film
them, they spot me and two of them (both females, around 16 or so) rush over
frantically. "Uh oh," I say to myself quietly.
"Hey, since you
know how to work a camera, could you take a picture of all of us together?"
Their bright eyes implore me and I am helpless to resist.
"Sure." I turn
off my camera and take theirs, aiming it for the group and zooming in. I wait
until they are set and then snap a picture of the kids outside the Life Café
(of all places!). The two kids run up again and say their thanks. "You're
welcome…. Where are you all from?"
"New Mexico,"
one of them replies with a smile. "Santa Fe."
My smile
disappears slightly. "Really? I have…had a friend who just went there."
I could laugh at myself for asking this next question to a group of kids who
don't know anything probably, but it's a hope. "Know a Roger Davis?"
The other kid
looks at me with wide eyes. "The Roger Davis?"
I nod slowly.
What the hell…? "Yeah, I guess…. Why, you know him?"
"God! If only
we knew him!" they both cried anxiously. "He's so hot!"
I chuckle
aloud and shake my head. "Maybe we have the wrong person…. He plays guitar?"
They nod. "Blondish hair?" Another nod. I smile to myself, somewhat sadly. "How
do you know of him?"
"He plays at
this local club like a mile or from my house! We go there every Friday and
Saturday night to see him." They both are blushing now. "Are you friends with
him?"
I shrug, lowering
my gaze. "I kinda was, kid."
Suddenly,
their tour guide whistles, holding up a ridiculous painted umbrella. "Shoot, we
gotta go."
"Wait, does
Roger ever come here?" the other girl asked anxiously. "Where does he stay?
With you? Where does he eat? What kind of shops does he go to?"
I hold up my
hands, chuckling. "He used to live with me." I smiled a little more. It was
kind of fun to play the movie star's sidekick just to get some attention from
some little kids. "I doubt he's coming back, though."
They frown.
"Okay then… Well, see ya! Thanks for the picture!"
I stop them.
"Wait… If you go back to that club, could you do me a favor?"
"Yeah, sure… I
guess."
"Give a
message to Roger…?"
"If we can,
yeah!"
"Do you have
any paper?"
One of them took
out a small scrap of paper and I took out a worn-out pencil from my pocket,
scribbling the following message: Roger – I heard you were famous. Guess you
have better luck in Santa Fe than NYC, huh? Gimmie a ring when you can. The
whole gang misses you back here. –Mark. P.S. Written anything worthwhile
lately? I hand it to the kids, folding it a few times. "I don't care if you
read it, but make sure and give it to him when you get back home." I smile
genuinely. "Have fun in NY."
"Thanks! Bye!"
They run off energetically, back to their group leader who glares at me
slightly. Guess New Yorkers aren't welcomed to talk to tourists. Ah well.
Amazingly enough, I feel great now.
6 More Months Later….
"Excuse me,
are you Mark Cohen?"
I look up from
the cup of mint tea I've been studying for the past half hour and smile at a
young man (he can't be more than 17) who looks at me from behind silver
square-rimmed glasses, his eyes a bright blue, his hair blonde and scraggly. I
nod affirmatively. "Yeah, that's me."
He beams,
white teeth spreading before me happily as he motions to himself. "I'm Toby
Caplan…. I'm a big fan. Could you just sign an autograph for me? I'm
sorry if I'm being a bother. I'm not usually so forward and aggressive with
this type of thing, but you've been my idol ever since I saw your film in the
Maze Theatre on 5th Street. I just have to say that you are by far
the –"
I laugh, "Take
it easy on the compliments, kid." I gesture to the seat across from me, and he
nearly jumps into it. I take a napkin from a nearby table and scribble my
signature – something I've never truly mastered the art of – and slide it
across the table to him. "So, you liked my movie, huh? Which one?"
"Oh, all of
them!" he whispered anxiously.
I chuckled,
taking another drink. Situations like these had become unavoidable since I – as
Maureen calls it – sold out. The reason that I myself know I haven't sold out –
Benny is not proud of me. The day Benny's proud is the day I've sold my soul.
Anyway, ever since my first movie was played in a small theatre that Joanne and
Collins bought out for a birthday present – I'd almost forgotten I had a
birthday – I've become somewhat of a cult sensation. People stop me on the
streets, asking for my autograph (since I was featured in my film). This kid
seems different, somehow, though. Hm, what is it about him that reminds me of
myself? "Really? All of them?"
He blushes –
another similarity. "I've seen a few more than once…"
"Shit, kid," I
mutter with a smirk, hailing a waiter. "Want something to drink? On me?"
He brightens
more, if that's possible. "Oh, I wouldn't want to –"
"Impose? Don't
be silly." The waiter comes quickly, now that he knows I can afford to pay. I
turn to my new companion, "What'll you have, kid?"
"Tea, I guess."
I laugh. "Fill
mine up again with an extra for Toby. Thanks." The waiter walks away briskly.
"So, I have a fan then? Label me shocked."
"Well, I'm not
the only one, Mr. Cohen. I –"
"Oh geez!
Please don't call me that. My dad's Mr. Cohen. Just call me Mark… Either that
or 'your holiness, sir'."
He chuckles.
"Oh…well…Mark, I'm not the only one who's a fan of yours. Most of my friends
are. You have a huge following."
I nod, leaning
back. "I guess I can't get used to that. It just hasn't sunk in yet."
Our teas
arrive and we sit in silence for a moment before he speaks up again. "Has Roger
ever come back yet?"
I look up, my
eyes dim. My first film was about my relapse caused by Roger's absence. My
second was about my attempted suicides because of life in general due to
Roger's absence and so on, etc. So, basically whoever sees my movies knows my
emotions to their fullest. They also must know that Roger is my closest friend
and the man who is nearer than a brother to me. My gaze lowers to my tea as I
sip again. "Nope. That's why I'm here today, actually."
He leans
forward, somewhat hopeful it seems. "Is he coming back today?"
"So his
postcard said." Oh, I recall the exact words: Mark – Heard you were
famous. Be home by New Year's. Can't wait to see the gang again and lay in that
freezing loft of a shithole house. –Roger. P.S. Done any good films lately?
His humor was as subtle as mine in the note I wrote to him and that is the only
way I know he received that scribbled piece of paper. I never got a phone call
from him, so I could only assume from the post card that he meant to return
exactly on New Year's Day. So, I've been sitting here at the Life Café,
prolonging the agony of facing him straight on. I've changed a lot since he's
been gone, and I know he must have too. I guess I'm afraid I'll return to old
habits if I see him as he once was. Too many memories lay in that familiar
smile.
"Mark?" Toby's
voice breaks through my thoughts and I realize he's been talking for a little
while now. "You okay?"
"Huh? Sorry….
Yeah, fine, fine." I force a smile. "What were you saying?"
He continues
as if nothing had happened, trying to – it seems – not draw attention to the
fact that I'm slightly absentminded and aloof. "I was asking how you got started
in films. I've been shooting footage of my life and my friends ever since I was
really young, and I want to pursue it as a career."
I laugh
lightly. "You wanna be a filmmaker?"
"Yeah."
"Well, all I can say is…don't take after me." We both laugh.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as a man enters, brushing back his long
blonde hair and surveying the restaurant carefully. Our eyes meet and it takes
us both a moment to recognize one another, but as soon as we do, I feel my feet
lifting of their own accord and I stand, watching him stride over to my usual
corner table. Toby stands up, confused and suddenly realizes it all and smiles.
"Mark…." Roger breathes, his thin lips curving into a
welcoming smile.
"Hey stranger," I reply, mimicking him with a tight smirk,
lowering my gaze shyly. We stand opposite one another, neither one of knowing
really what to do first. It's been so long and he's changed, as I knew he
would.
"Well, can we talk later, Mark?" Toby asks quietly, as shyly
as I would.
"Uh…yeah sure." I shake his hand, signing my number on the
autograph absently. "Gimmie a call and we'll hang out sometime."
He nearly jumps out of his skin and nods quickly, checking
Roger before he eventually bounds out of the café. Roger and I are alone now and
we stand awkwardly, just feet apart, both unable to move. Finally, he makes a
move and pulls me into a hug. We embrace tightly and laugh and cry.
"Shit, Mark," he whispered through a chortle, brushing his
fingers through my tresses. "What the hell have you done to your hair?" He
refers to the fact that my hair is bright red now, longer slightly, and
streaked with blonde highlights – a new look I'm fond of that Maureen did for
free.
"I was about to ask you the same thing!" I chuckle, noting
the blondeness has doubled in his ear-length locks.
He pulls away and we're still laughing. "So, I've heard that
you're making a little name for yourself here. Was that a fan?"
"Yeah." I lower my gaze with a slight blush. "I heard you
had teenage girls running you over and screaming your name in taverns."
He grins. "I gotta admit – it's not so bad being
semi-recognized."
"Just don't join a boy-band, Roger. I'm not sure I could
handle that."
He smirks, gyrating his hips and waving his hands in the
air. "I have the body for it!"
I groan, pushing his hands down. "Stop!" I laugh through my
own words.
"Am I embarrassing you?" he asks, seemingly concerned.
"Hell yeah! Knock it off."
He starts up again, jumping on top of the table. "Mark Cohen
– you're my hero!" I pull against his jacket, shielding my eyes as the
restaurant gawks and stares.
"Stop! Roger!" I giggle still, watching him. It's as if
nothing's changed.
He hops down, hugging me again. "The only thing I really
missed about this place was the fact that I could embarrass the hell out of you
with no effort put forward."
"I don't know whether to smack you or hug you," I reply.
"Please, no more hugs…"
I smile and he smiles and we're both smiling! The cheesy
part of my brain tells me we're just bubbling with stuff to tell one another
and we should go to a Starbucks and settle into a couch there. But, the
reality-based section of my brain smacks the other half, telling it to go to
hell – Starbucks can't beat the Life Café.
Roger's voice interrupts my thoughts so softly, "How was the
funeral?"
I shrug sadly, taking a seat as he sits across from me. "It
was…. God Roger, it was a funeral."
"That's all you've got to say about it?" He leans on the
table expectantly.
I look up into those large pleading eyes of his and realize
exactly what he wants to know. "It was beautiful, Roger. Just what she would've
wanted."
He smiles with a hint of sadness and nods, lowering his
eyes. "H-how's Collins?"
I wince slightly at the question. Poor Collins…. "He's…um…"
"Don't sugarcoat it, Mark," he interjects. "I want to hear
whatever the truth is."
I nod, taking another – long – drink of my tea first. "He's
been in and out of the hospital. He's…umm…. He's not doing well, Roger."
His eyes dance and he looks away, folding his hands on the
table in front of him and twiddling his thumbs carelessly. "Oh…"
"Yeah, the infection is just snowballing out of control." I
pause, staring at him long enough until he gets the hint that I want to look at
him. As his eyes rise, I whisper, "He's dying."
Immediately, he turns his head away again, but I caught a
look of fear in those eyes of his before he did so. He makes no comment; he
only whimpers as if in pain, his whole appearance changing before me. What I
see is not the Roger I once knew. He's different now – sad and depressed.
Christ, have we traded places? I'm completely at ease – before he left, I
would've lost it at our hellos – and he's tense and dejected. The time away in
Santa Fe must have not done as much good as harm.
"You okay, Roge?" I ask quietly, leaning forward and trying
to catch a glimpse of his hidden façade.
"Yeah….No…." He pauses, placing his head in his hands.
"Shit…"
"Wanna go back to the loft?" I ask, absentmindedly slipping into
old habits. 'Go back', I'd said. Stupid question, Mark – he hasn't been 'back'
to the loft since fuckin' seven months ago!
"No," he replies, choked for words. After a moment or so, he
composes himself and looks up. "How's everyone else? Maureen and Joanne well?"
I smirk softly, lopsidedly. "They're fighting."
He laughs, sniffing and wiping his eyes. There are no tears,
but it seems as though it was a close call. "Same old lesbians, huh?"
I nod. "How's your band?"
He shrugs indifferently, leaning his elbows onto the table.
"Boring as hell."
"But, aren't you guys getting famous over there on the other
side of the country?"
"Yeah…"
"So?"
His eyes narrow. "So, what?"
I roll my eyes, leaning back. "Never mind. When are you
leaving to go back?"
"I dunno. Soon, probably. I mean, our band's on tour right
now in a little town outside of here."
"That's why you came home?" I asked, more hurt than I
thought I'd be by this statement that I'd assumed since I got his letter.
"Well…yeah."
"Oh."
"What, oh?"
"Nothing. Where else is on the tour?"
"New Jersey, Wisconsin, Missouri and California."
"Sounds like quite a mix," I reply with an uninterested air.
I'm bored out of my mind. It strikes me as odd now, how we can't find a single
thing to talk about after all this time. Didn't conversations used to slide off
our tongues? I take another sip of my tea, trying to forget. Just enjoy your
time with him, Mark. Who knows when he'll leave you again.
"Yeah, it is. It's fun. I guess."
"You guess?"
"Well…." He sighs, leaning back and sitting sloppily,
folding a napkin in various designs as a distraction. "Yeah, it is fun."
He's lying. I can tell. "Don't you miss home?" I ask softly,
hopeful.
His whole body tenses for a moment before he sort of settles
into a more comfortable leg-up-on-the-table position as he tossed the napkin
back on the table, folding his hands on his lap. "I guess."
"You guess?"
He looks up, slightly annoyed. "Yeah – I guess."
I groan, shaking my head. "Do you plan to tell me the truth
at all today, or were you going to lie your way through your stay?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks angrily.
"If you only came here 'cause your band's on tour, I must be
the biggest fool of the year."
"If the shoe fits…" he mumbled incoherently.
"Yeah, that's right Roger – slip back into old habits and
denounce Mark Cohen for being a fraud. Trust me – he already knows, okay?"
Roger remained silent. "Fine, you're not gonna even talk to me now? God Roger,
you haven't changed, have you? You're still so damn insecure about everything,
but you're still struggling to make it seem like you don't need anyone, when
all you really need is someone to help you. I know, you cringe at the word help,
because you think it makes you weak and vulnerable to get help from someone. I
got news for ya, pal – the whole fuckin' race of people in this shitty world
are vulnerable and weak! What gives you the right to try and be different, when
all you're doing is being another one of society's pretty boy front men who
waste their opportunities to be different?" By this point, I was standing up
and the restaurant must've been staring, but I didn't realize it. I had kept my
rage so bottled up and hidden from everyone that I hadn't realized I'd been
trembling with anticipation for the one moment when I could release it to the
one person who'd fucked up my life since he left. And I'm not even finished
yet! "And why the hell can't you just admit that you've missed me? Why can't
you just say that you've been homesick?"
"Maybe 'cause I haven't been!" he retorted, pulling me down,
but I persisted and remained standing. "Sit down, Mark! Why are you getting so
pissed?"
My eyes blaze and my voice rises in anger. "Have you even seen
any of my films, Roger?"
"No," he whispers after a short pause.
"Well, when you do, then you can talk to me. Maybe then
you'll understand." With that said, I dropped a few crisp bills and change on
the table and walked casually out of the Life Café. Oh God, what a day
4 Months Later….
Well, that day
was the last I saw of Roger. Damn him, damn him, and did I mention 'damn him'?
I made a mental note to myself not to have anything more to do with him. After
all, he was getting me more depressed than I'd ever been. It's not like I need
him, anyway. I mean, I was doing just fine on my own before he came back to NYC
with his shitty little band. But, of course, thoughts of how close of friends
we used to be swirl through my mind like a spiral of memories. I'm always
thinking! Damn it, stop thinking, Mark!
"Do you really
think you can fool yourself, Mark?" my voice narrates to a camera on a tripod.
The red light blinks dimly – it's again low on batteries. Let's see just how
much film I have left. "Do you really think that Roger didn't miss you and that
he was just as happy to be on tour with his band than to be in the loft with
you? Do you really think you don't still miss him and that every film you ever
make won't continue to reflect how close you two are? Do you really think the
whole word – everyone who sees your films – do you think they can't tell that
you're depressed and that you've tried to commit suicide? Do you really think
you're happy 'selling out' to producers and directors with these pitiful little
reels that you create because you have nothing better to do? Do you really
think you have friends? Do you really think Collins is getting better and
Roger's coming back? What do you think, Mark?
"A better
question: do you think at all?
"Want a quick
answer to that? No. I've once again returned to the root of my problems." I
resituate myself on the table, crossing my legs Indian style and brushing a
hand through my even longer red hair, which I haven't combed yet – I never do.
"I've been sitting here, locked up in my house for weeks now…since the last time
I delivered a film to some little shack on 4th Street. Before I
started delivering films to theaters and getting them played, I was just like
this. Everyone recalls my first film about my life as a freak of society. I'm
reliving those days when I went into a Roger-like relapse. I haven't eaten in a
few days – I'm just not hungry – and I haven't really moved in weeks. I went to
visit Collins before I became this way, which probably got me to where I am
now…. Oh shit," I catch my mistake and shake my head frantically. "Edit that
line." That's a private note to myself to cut the sentence about Collins making
me this way out. If he ever saw it and knew...oh God. "Anyway, I was visiting
Collins in the hospital a few weeks ago and I was extremely terrified for him.
The poor guy! He was once so strong and so alive; now he lays, pale and
scrawny, with IV's sticking in every part of him. It's so disturbing… I
couldn't imagine him ever wanting to be like that. I remember the days when he
was still running around telling me what to do, promising to check up on me and
–" Interrupting me is a series of rings on the phone. I jump to my feet,
putting myself behind the camera and turning it towards the phone. "The phone
rings," I mutter, adjusting the lens. "Zoom in on the answering machine…." A
beep sounds. My voice speaks, "I'm probably here – nowhere – but not answering.
Change my mind." The new message sounds just as cheap as the old one and I
frown upon hearing it, making a mental note to change it again.
"Mark, it's Medusa
herself – your mother. Hope you're not eating any hametz." I groan. Is it Passover already? "We're all impressed that
each film of yours brings in quite a sum. Even your father's gotten into the
spirit. I'm sending you a Seder plate and hiding the Afikomen for you." Another groan. Does she think I'm
still five years old and waiting for that damned prize? Cindy and I used to
tear the Afikomen in half so that we'd both get a prize. I wonder if Cindy's
there still…. "Your father says hi, Mark," she whispers. I know she's covering
the phone so that he won't hear her lie that way. He never did take kindly to
that shit. "Anyway, we're all eating Haroseth and thinking of you. Love, mom!"
I stumble back into view, holding the camera steady on the
tripod, settling it to film me. I shake my head, not saying a word about my
mother's call (since I know she'll eventually see the film) and backing up
until I sit once again on the table, crossing my legs again like a little
child. "My mother, folks. How Jewish is she?" I smirk, pushing up my glasses.
"Now, where was I…? Oh yeah – about Collins' condition. As I was saying,
Collins used to run around like a chicken with his head cut off, tossing money
to homeless people like there was no tomorrow, buying me dinner – and, come to
think of it, breakfast and lunch, too – sending money to AIDS charities, etc.
He's become a regular Superman since Angel's death. After Mimi was taken, his
cause was magnified. He's worked himself ragged, and now he's paying for it,
unfortunately." I sigh softly, lowering my eyes. "I feel so alone – so helpless
– so useless – so…so…" I shake my head, searching for the right words, but it
slips my mind. "…so…" Imperfect? Stupid? Worthless? Which is it, Cohen?
Fortunately, the phone rings again and this opportunity to pause in my
reflections heightens my sense of awareness as I slip back behind the camera.
"The phone rings – again. Looks like," another ring, "Mark Cohen is popular
today. Zoom in on the answering machine." A beep sounds and my voice repeats
the message, "I'm probably here – nowhere – but not answering. Change my mind."
Another beep.
"Mark Cohen – Alexi Darling from Buzzline!" Ugh, not again!
I just got through with her, I thought. "You're films of your life – triple A!
Feature-filmlines-networks—deal-time. I'm sending you another contract – I know
you're interested." What the hell does she know? "Give ya over $30,000 a film."
My eyes widen. Ho-oly crap… "Marky, give us a call: 970-4301, or at home try
863-6754, or my cellphone, at 919-763-0090, or you can e-mail me at Darling
Alexi Newscom dot net, or visit my website at WWW dot Buzzline dot Alexi dot
com, or try the faxline at –" The final beep.
I stare, open-mouthed at the phone for a full minute before
I realize I'm still rolling. "Shit," I say as I stand before the viewfinder.
"I'm amazed and, as much as I don't want to admit it, interested." I run my
hands through my long tresses, rolling my head back slightly. "Shit -- $30,000
a film! That's like five times what I get selling them to the other stupid
little companies… When did Buzzline turn into Goodwill? I mean, they used to
take freaks and sell-outs and now all of a sudden they're looking into
independent filmmakers? Something doesn't sound right… But, geez, do I have to
dissect every little thing about this deal? I mean, shit – that's a lot of
money! I could help Collins out with treatments with all this…. But, I'm
selling out, aren't I? Fuck." I pause, pushing my glasses up my nose. "I can't
decide right now. I'll have to sleep on it, I guess and –" I hear the locks on
my door wiggling and I turn in time to see Toby entering. He wears a Yankees
t-shirt and a pair of too-baggy jeans with a flattened bucket-cap. God, he
reminds me of myself at his age.
"Oh shoot… You're filming," he whispers, dodging the
camera's view with a few sidesteps. "Sorry," he mouths from behind the camera.
"No problem," I say, waving him to talk and settling the
camera. I smirk. "Since your voice is already on the film, anyway." Toby and I
have become close friends since our first meeting. He's gotten over the
idealism of me as his model filmmaker and learned to think for himself and do
his own thing.
He laughs, blushing and comes out from behind the scenes
into center stage, beside me. The lens catches sight of his own mini-cam.
"Act natural and whatever you do don't look into the lens. I
can't stand that." I tell him this because he's never been on camera with me
before, and I'm afraid he might ruin the shot. Reality is what I film – nothing
less.
"Sure," he replies, more at ease. "So, what're you up to?"
"Nothing, really. Just musing."
"As usual."
I nod with a smile. "Shut up. What brings you here?"
"I
gotta ask you a favor," he whispers softly, almost apologetically. I want to bring
him out of his shell still – like Roger did for me – but as much as I've tried,
I can't.
"Hm…You don't sound too sure you want to ask," I reply,
taking a seat on the table again. "But, what is it?"
"Uhh…I'm moving out of my house…and I…uhh..need a place to
stay…"
I fight back a grin. "Oh?" I ask, unsympathetically,
pretending to fiddle with some papers that are strewn over the tabletop.
"Yeah…"
I look up, disinterested. "So you want me to help you find a
place?" I pretend to ponder the thought. "There's a great, cheap motel over on
Avenue C and 10th. It's roach-infested, but it's probably the best
you could –"
"Oh…" he whispers, down heartened.
I laugh, reaching out and smacking him in the chest. He eyes
me oddly, almost hurt. "Toby?"
"Huh?"
"Did you want to stay here?" I smirk again. Sometimes it's
too easy to joke with him, but he's so vulnerable that I need to be careful.
He smiles gently. "Sometimes I hate you."
"I know. I'm downright evil, hm?" I grin. "Pack your bags
and be moved in by tomorrow."
"But, Mark, I –"
"Doesn't matter," I interrupt, holding up a palm to silence
him. "Either move in tomorrow or not at all." I chortle. "You need to be
spontaneous around me, because I'm all too reserved for us both." I glance over
at my camera and the red light that's dying down. I stumble towards it. "Shit,
batteries are dead." I turn back, looking over my shoulder at Toby, who fiddles
with his small, handheld camera. Geez, a new roommate – what will become of
this?
"How's my favorite little Gaylord?" I ask, entering the
dingy, free clinic where Collins is staying for a while. Lately, I've given him
the nickname Gaylord, if, for no other reason, that to piss him off.
He coughs a reply, closing his eyes – each breath is a
massive task through the breathing machines he's hooked up to. "Good." He
attempts to smile, which takes most of his energy. God, he's getting so bad…
"Wh-what's up?"
I force a big Mark-is-happy-and-everything's-fine smile.
"Not too much. My new film's coming out tonight."
He winces painfully. "And I can't…even see it." His laugh is
another dry cough, and at that, I take a seat on the edge of hid bed, taking
his hand.
"If you're good and you behave, I just might bring it over
tomorrow morning." I smile, although I feel more like sobbing my eyes out. When
the hell did Collins get this bad? Last month? Seven months ago? A year ago?
I've lost track of the days, weeks, months, years… Dates mean little to me now
that I have nothing to really live for. "Also, it'll be on Buzzline in two
days, at 5:00PM EST."
His eyes open in shock. "Buzzline? You…sold out?" Even
through all this, he manages to berate me. How like Collins! "Mark, you…you
shouldn't."
"What? Sell out? Don't worry, it's for a good cause." I pat
his hand gently. "For AIDS relief agencies and moving you to a better
hospital." I silence his protest swiftly. "Uh uh now. You took care of me when
Roger left, so I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't do this for you. Never mind
that it's Buzzline. The show's got a new look, new production staff – new
everything. It's just like –"
"No matter how much you…coat a shoe with sugar, it's still…a
shoe."
I quirk a brow, shaking my head. "Your metaphors are weak
today, my friend." I smirk, all in jest. "Besides, I'm doing this whether you
like it or not."
He smiles, squeezing my hand timidly. "Thanks, Mark. I mean
it – thank you." He takes a huge breath, swallowing a lot of air in his
thinning lungs. "So…where's your sidekick?"
"Toby?"
I laugh. "He's filming – as usual."
"What today?"
"Who knows? Maybe he's doing a piece on me – Hell if I know!
I can never manage to keep tabs on that kid. He's got more energy than a
Mexican jumping bean."
"Your…personifications are weak today…my friend," he offers
feebly with a grin.
I laugh aloud, patting his chest lightly. "Still got a great
sense of humor, Gaylord."
"Stop calling me that…. Or I'll call you…Marcello."
I groan, pretending to gag myself. "I'm not a character in
La Boheme, my dear Colline," I reply, calling him by another Puccini
character's name. "Besides, I don't paint."
He looks slightly surprised. "Since when…did you become a
professor on…Puccini? And…you've never seen La Boheme."
I grin. "Actually, I saw it a few weeks ago. Remember? I've
got money now." I pat him again, just as tenderly as before. "I knew you liked
it and so I've started to do some of the more 'cultural' things."
He brightens slightly, his eyes sparkling. "How'd you
enjoy…the Metropolitan Opera House?"
I laugh. "Not as grand as the loft, but I admit, it was
okay."
He laughs loudly, ushering a series of coughing fits to
follow. I help him to steady himself and he grabs my shirt tightly, wringing it
in his trembling hands that weakly attempt to control themselves. "I knew
you'd…find something wrong with it…." He's smiling, faintly.
I hold him close, gently rubbing his back. "Calm down, pal…
Just relax. I can't have you getting worse because of my demented sense of
humor, now can I?" I felt my eyes moisten with held tears. Collins was slowly
withering away into nothing. He was like a rosebud destined to die, shedding
its dazzling and dramatic decorated petals for thorns, making plant food for a
forsaken weed-ling, which would vegetate out of his magnificence. God, I can be
so pathetically poetic sometimes that sometimes I think I just might be a
Puccini character – and then it makes me vomit.
His arms wrap gently around me, holding me as tightly as he
can – which is weak because of his frailty – and he lays his head on my
shoulder. "Thanks, Mark… Thanks…"
I feel my throat tighten with restricted emotions. Damn it
Mark; don't lose it now. "No problem, Gaylord," I reply, rubbing his bald head
gently.
"Visiting hours are over, Mark," I hear the nurse whisper,
patting my shoulder gently. She turned to Collins, pulling us away gently.
"Come on, Tom, you need to rest a little. You exert too much energy sometimes."
He sighs gently, trembling as we release hands. "T-tomorrow,
Mark?"
"If you want, buddy."
"Yes – please…."
"Okay. Tomorrow then."
"Bring your film – please…."
I smile, hugging him once more. "You couldn't pay me money
not to, if you want it. See ya then." I retreat from the room quickly, wrapping
my black-and-white scarf around my neck loosely and pulling my mismatched coat
around my shoulders, sliding my arms through it. This is the one day I didn't
bring my camera to film Collins. Lately, I've been filming everything with a
constant drive to complete more and more movies, make more and more money, and
give it all away to charities. In fact, I only have about thirty dollars to my
name at the moment (Toby has some money too, in case we're in a jam). I took
the $35,770 that Alexi Darling and crew paid me for a film I did for them, sent
half of that sum to Friends in Deed to give away as they desired (I have great
faith in the director there who's a good friend of Collins'), put the other
half towards a better hospital for Collins along with treatment specialties for
him to get better, and kept the remaining $30 for myself to spend on food, etc,
for the week. I know, I know – I'm a sell out for giving Alexi Darling just
what she wanted. But, if I hadn't, how could I live with myself? Collins is
dying and there's nothing else I can do for him but this.
As I exit the building, I run smack into a man who's headed
towards the hospital, knocking me down on my rear end with a thud. I shake my
head, settling my glasses back on the bridge of my nose and look up in time to
see a lithe hand offered to me. Suddenly, the stranger's eyes meet with mine
and I freeze, nearly jumping out of my skin – Roger!
Good God, I almost don't recognize him! The only way I'd
truly know it's him is by that funky smile and authentic leather jacket of his.
Otherwise, everything's changed. He's wearing some kind of weird contacts that
make his eyes look a dark hazel color; his hair hangs down below his ears and
is darker brown with a thin highlight of blonde running through it; and he has
a goatee now, which is blonde and thin. He reminds me of someone from earlier
in the '90's and strikes me as having sold out as much as I have. From the look
in his eyes as he helps me stand, much has happened since the last time we saw
each other.
"R-Roger?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. "What
the…hell are you doing here?"
His eyes narrow slightly and he folds his arms, shrugging
indifferently. "I got a call…"
"From who? And how? Who has your number?"
"Some kid…. Tony or something…"
"Toby?"
"Yeah, whatever."
I nod, making a mental note to kill him when I get the chance.
Also, I should ask him where the hell he got Roger's number! I don't even have
it.
"Anyway, I saw some of your films…." He choked on the words,
lowering his gaze and letting his arms drop, defeated. "How's…Collins?"
I sense the worry in his awkward stance and I gesture him
towards the clinic. "He's in shithole—I mean room #12A." Honest mistake with
the way the "hospital's" set up. "He'll be moved to St. Vincent's tomorrow
morning."
"Shit…. How can he afford to pay for that?"
I narrowed my eyes angrily. "As if you care… But I'm
paying." I stuffed my hands in my pockets, attempting to find an excuse to
leave. I had no desire to talk to him again – not after how long he's been away
without as much as a phone call or postcard or letter or anything.
He looked up, surprised. "…How…?"
"I sold out, okay?" I snap, turning to walk away. "Do us all
a favor and get out of town soon, so we don't go getting our hopes up again." I
spy Toby standing to the side, filming. I push his camera away hastily,
growling, "You know when I don't want film…"
He looked startled and immediately shut off the camera,
stuttering a reply. "S-sorry…"
"Hey!" Roger yelled, moving a few steps towards me until I
spun around to face him.
"What?"
"What
the hell's the matter with you? You go into a fuckin' relapse because I'm gone;
you try to commit suicide with Advil because you think your life's not worth a
damn, but you're making more money than my entire band would in a year
combined; and you walk away when I've come back home to apologize and ask you
to forgive me! Is that how you pictured my return, or is it not good enough for
your final draft? Why not just throw it on the cutting room floor with every
other piece of garbage you film…" He glared at Toby. "Or maybe have your little
lackey get it all on tape and maybe he can make a buck or two besides it always
being just you who gets the credit."
I glared back, my eyes red with anger as I stammered for a
reply, "So you've finally seem all my movies, huh? What made you decide to see
them after nearing a fuckin' year of being away from 'home'? Was it the fact
that you missed me? Or are you still trying to hide behind your defenses?" I
sigh, trying to contain my anger. "Either shut the hell up and apologize or get
the fuck out of NYC forever. I don't know why you keep coming back like this –
you just make it worse by doing that. Every time this happens, I go into
another relapse."
"And sell another film, huh?" he barks angrily.
I feel my lips tremble. "Fuck you, Roger. Go to hell."
"Ditto, pal." He walks off, shrugging his jacket securely. I
walk off, wrapping my coat around myself. Toby stands for a minute, but then I
feel him join me by my side.
"What was that all about? Why'd he come back?"
"Who the fuck cares?" I ask, nearly yelling at him. "You're
the one who asked him to come!" I pause, realizing my mistake, and turn to him
and pat his back. "Let's go out tonight. I can't allow myself to fall prey to
the Roger-relapse-syndrome. It sucks."
He nods, apparently understanding. If there's one thing I
really like about Toby, it's the fact that he never argues with me. He's like a
little puppy – following me around on an invisible leash and listening to me
whine and bitch constantly. Of course, he has his moments where he'll get snappy
and depressed and whathaveyou, but he's never been as abusive as Roger used to
be. Hm, maybe I've found a new best friend. Maybe that's a good thing,
considering my old one was a fuckin' asshole.
We walk towards the loft in silence now, as I catch Toby
filming the streets out of the corner of my eye. I smile lopsidedly – just
slightly – because I see so much of myself in him….
My thoughts drift to my new film that's going to be showed
tomorrow night. It's the same one that I made for Buzzline. Ugh, that thought
makes me queasy whenever I think about it. First off, the film's not one of my
best – it spun out of my mind accidentally, within ten or fifteen minutes. It's
about me, of course, and one of my better days where I went over to Maureen's
and filmed a day in the life of a performance artist type shit. It's pathetic,
and I doubt anyone will enjoy it – except Maureen, that is. She'll eat it up
like it's fettuccini alfredo. But, to me, it's a waste of time. That's why I'm
working on my next film already; I'm trying to make up for what this new one
will lack – love. I filmed the new one like a robot, knowing I'd get paid in
full as soon as it was done, and the sooner the better, right? I mean, Collins
isn't getting any better, AIDS charity donations are at an all-time low, and
I'm more depressed than I've ever been; so anything to get my mind off my
problems and get me out of the house is good, right? Don't answer that…
We reach the loft and I enter, letting Toby go in first. I
look around and notice how things've changed since he moved in with me. The old
folding table and chairs are still there – I couldn't bare to give them away;
where my small little futon used to sit, now sits a mattress propped up on
wood; there's another "bed" in the other corner, which is blocked off by some
cheap curtains, which are greenish-checkered or something – that belongs to
Toby, since he likes privacy more than I do; we now have a small refrigerator
that I picked up on the street one afternoon – it holds a few slivers of meet
(in case we ever decided to cook rather than go out – that'll be the day), some
bagels and cream cheese (mmm…), bread, a few cans of soda, tea, and other
various food-related products which we rarely touch, but which add a sense of
aliveness to this place; and then there's the main change – the picture walls.
What are the picture walls? Oh, I don't even know how (or
why) Toby ever convinced me to start this, but I must admit, it was a good idea
and I really enjoy adding to the décor every once in a while – when I've got
time. The picture walls are the walls (and ceiling) of the loft, which are now
(thanks to Toby's wonderful idea, which, at the time, I'd thought mad) covered
with still shots of all our friends – pictures taken either by myself or by
Toby, who's really quite good at handling a still camera (don't tell him, but
better at that then with a moving video camera). There are pictures of every
moment of our lives – separate only to us, since he has a few friends I don't
know (I'll know them soon, since he knows all mine). I have old pictures of
Maureen and I, April, Angel, and Mimi, and then newer ones of the whole gang
together, ones of Roger and I – hugging, Maureen and Joanne – kissing (among
other things), Collins and Angel, Collins and me and Roger, Benny and all of us
(wow, imagine that!), and even a few of Toby and I. I have to admit, I have
more pics of Roger and I than of anyone else – save Collins, who owns a corner
of the wall for himself and Angel. Not that I miss Roger, though…. Hell no….
"Mark?" I hear Toby's voice, knocking me out of my memories.
"Huh?" I close the door, moving to sit on the table.
"Should I call Maureen and Joanne up and invite them out
tonight as well? Joanne's off work today, remember?"
I nod, somewhat absently. "Sure, why not? I could use some
lesbian company about now."
He smirks, laughing. "I'm not sure I'll ever get used to
that…"
I make a face. "What? Toby, you live in New York – how the
hell can you not be used to that by now?"
He
chuckles, blushing, brushing back his hair. "I dunno… It's just kind of
awkward."
I smile, nudging him. "Yeah, tell me about it. I used to
date Maureen, remember?"
He nods. "I'm gonna go take a walk around town for a little
while – gotta buy a present for –"
"Miss Jacqueline?" I interrupt, pursing my lips at him. His
girlfriend's name is Jackie West, but I've given her the pet name of Miss
Jacqueline.
His face is beet red now. "Shut up, Mark."
I chuckle, slapping his back and pushing him towards the
door. "Get outta here and get shopping."
"Wanna come?" he asks, pausing at the threshold.
"Naw, I'd be poor company with the mood that's taken hold of
me."
He takes a step back towards me, unsurely. "You gonna be
okay, Mark?"
"Who me?" I force a smile, trying to remain happy. Think
happy thoughts, Cohen. Happy thoughts… "Yeah, sure."
He nods, somewhat reluctantly. "Meet you at the Life Café at
eight then?"
I check my watch. It's 6:50PM now. I grimace slightly.
"Let's eat somewhere else tonight, okay? Too many memories at the Life Café…
How about The Blue Rose Bar on 7th and C?"
"Okay. At eight then?"
"Yeah."
He heads out the door, then sticks his head back in
momentarily. "Call Maureen and Joanne before you leave." I wave him off and he
leaves, but once again sticks his head in the frame. "I called him for your own
good, Mark – I was worried."
"Go, go, go," I reply, still waving him away. "Remind me to
thank you later…much later."
He rolls his eyes, shutting the door softly. I hear his
footsteps retreating down the stairs and the door opening below and closing
just as quickly. He's gone. I'm alone.
I glance over at my camera, which sits idly on top of the
fridge. I haven't picked it up all day, and now something tugs inside of me to
do just that. There's something I need to film….
