CHAPTER III: My Confession and His Reaction

***Couple-o-things: The Jane Street Theatre is a real live theatre, where "tick, tick…BOOM!" is playing currently. Lyrics are from "The Better Days" and "Back Again" – two original Tiara Louise Rea songs. ::smile:: That means, don't steal 'em…though, for the record, why would anyone want them? Ah well…on with the story…***

CHAPTER III: The Better Days

Around 3 weeks later…

         "Hello, everyone." I wave to a crowed audience as I stand in the middle of the Jane Street Theater, speaking timidly into a microphone that blares the sound to the waiting multitudes. "I'm Mark Cohen, and –" The audience erupts into applause and cheers, and I glare at Toby, noticing he's started it: as the usual ringleader of such things, I gotta love him. "Thanks, thanks, but please – stop!" I smile, laughing softly, embarrassed. "You haven't even seen the film yet, guys, so shut up." After another moment or so of soft applauding and giggling, they hush and I continue. "As I was saying, I'm Mark Cohen, and this is my newest film, entitled Confessions. You'll see what it's about when I roll footage." I glance around the theater, searching desperately for the one person I pray will be there. C'mon, Roger, where the hell are you? "I guess I just wanted to stand up here for this one and actually start the film – more-or-less – myself, since this is the one thing I'm actually extremely proud of. So, I guess let's just get this thing started." I sigh, not seeing him anywhere. Damn it… "So, without further ado, I give you Confessions." I step aside, wheeling the microphone away with me, nearly tangling myself in the wires.

         So, what's this big film about, you ask? Well, it's a secret. In fact, I haven't told anyone anything about it. All my "fans" have been stopping me on the streets asking what the deal is with my sudden secretiveness, but I haven't budged. Maureen begged me – even offering herself as my personal sexual slave…hmm…damn, why didn't I take that offer again? – and Joanne pleaded with all her lawyer tactics, but no one's seen a mere flick of the reel. It's so secret, because I wanted this to be a surprise for…yeah, Roger. Who else?

         Let me relate a little bit of what happened the night that I last spoke with Roger…

         Toby and I – without Maureen and Joanne (when I called, I heard a hard-breathing Maureen and hung up, figuring they were "otherwise occupied") – ended up going out to dinner at a club outside the city called Scores 'N' Doors. It was actually so far out of the city that it was in New Jersey. At any rate, Toby and I sat down at a table in the very back, ordering tea and steaks. Oh, it'd been so long since either of us had tried steak that our mouths were watering before they set the plates down. I nearly inhaled the meat without even picking up a knife or fork – who needs utensils anyway? As we ate, we watched the opening band onstage, tapping our feet to the rock 'n' roll music that poured from the electric guitars.

         I remember glancing over at the poster on the wall, advertising the band that was playing. The opening group was called "Tied to the Tracks" or something equally as cheesy. I let my gaze wander up to where it displayed the centerpiece for the evening – The Forsaken II. My heart stopped for a full moment before I felt my eyes jerk frantically to study the stage, falling on the form of a lithe musician, setting up his electric guitar and nodding to his band mates as they replaced Tied to the Tracks. My hand reached out, instinctively grabbing Toby's sleeve, tugging on it and making him gawk like I was.

         "Toby…?"

         He glanced once and then continued with the remainder of his steak, nodding. "Yeah. Why else would we be eating in New Jersey?" He smiled.

         I frowned. I remember feeling betrayed for a second time that day and nearly stood to my feet, but it was at that time that Roger – standing center stage – spoke into the microphone, glancing out at the audience. "Hey everyone. Name's Roger Davis, and we're The Forsaken II." Toby pulled me down to my seat and I growled angrily, vowing to slip out somehow. I wasn't in the mood for Roger's lamenting tunes. "I guess we'll start our set tonight," he continued, oblivious to my presence, it appeared, "with a showstopper that we wrote a while back called Back Again. Enjoy it." He strummed his guitar once before nodding over to the drummer who counted off, and they began, whirling into a headstrong beat with rhythmic drive that seemed to make everyone want to throw something. I smiled just slightly. I'd never remembered him being so hardcore before.

"Every day, we try and we try again.

And, every day we go back to square one.

When every day seems to blur into darkness,

I try and see that every day's a fuckin' mess.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to that place we both ran from.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back into slumbering silent ponderings."

         A hard guitar riff followed, and I groaned, shifting in my seat with folded arms. Didn't Roger write love songs, once upon a time? Now, he was writing bullshit crap that seemed to be more intended to get people in violent moods than to reach people, as he'd once attempted to do. I stared up at him, my eyes dissecting his every nuance – he'd changed so much. That goatee with long, now unruly hair made him seem like some kind of teen idol, lost from '70's pop stardom. The way he dresses is fake, too – he wears a clingy t-shirt that just so happens to show off those muscles of his to the entire population of teenaged girls who've snuck into this club, and his pants don't leave much to be desired. Man, he's worse off than I am.

"When we try to mend what we have broken,

We soon find that we can't fix ourselves.

Lost in the foolish lover's tiff,

We love and we lose again.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the loneliness and grief.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to what we could never try to reach.

And, when life hands you a lemon –

Just shut up and eat the damn lemon!

Life is screwed, and so are we,

But at least we've got sense enough to be.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the heartbreaking reality.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the places we could never keep.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the harsh, heart rendering, fuckin' reality.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the loneliness, the bitterness, the hatred of life's expectancy.

Now that we're back, we're back again.

Now that we're back, we're back again.

Now that we're back, we're back again."

         I sighed, sitting up in my chair, preparing to leave. Toby tugged on my sleeve, whispering, "Just give it a chance, huh?"

         I groaned in reply, settling back in my chair – but I wasn't happy about it. I mean, how many times were the lyrics going to repeat like that? It was bordering on annoying.

         After a few more repeats of "Now that we're back, we're back again", the song ended with a bang and the tiny audience that'd been there seemed to have doubled. Was there something I was missing? As the crowd cheered and hollered, I just surveyed them – what the hell was so special about that song, anyway? I could've written better. Shit, I probably have written better – and I don't write.

         "Thanks," Roger replied after the people calmed a bit. He smiled softly and turned to glance at his band mates. "Okay, my friend don't really want me to do this, but I made them a deal backstage: either they let me do an older song of mine or I quit." The crowd laughed. I shrugged, indifferently biting into another piece of steak. "So, I'm bringin' out the old acoustic guitar for this one," the drummer booed jokingly, "And…Hey, that's not nice Jarrid." He tossed a leftover pick at the drummer, hitting him in the head. "As I was saying," he strummed the guitar, tuning it precisely, "I'm gonna play something a little older – something I wrote during 'the better days'. In fact, the title of the song is 'The Better Days'. Hope you enjoy it."

         Now, here was the Roger I remembered. He sang a song I actually remembered. The soft plugs of acoustic arpeggios filled my ears with nice, relaxing music. I glanced over at Toby who smiled and nodded at me. Damn it, why does he have to be right about the whole 'give him a chance' thing?

"Sometimes life gets in the way

of what really matters day to day.

And when life gets in my way,

I remember all the better days.

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I crawl into slumbering happiness,

I close my eyes and just remember

The better days."

         A soft tapping against the cymbals entered here with a little bass guitar lightly in the background. I was smiling. I couldn't help it. Seeing Roger as he was back when we shared the loft together – it seemed like a century ago – made me realize just how good of friends we actually were then.

"When lovers cry and babies die,

the streets are lined with tears.

But when babies grow and lovers lose,

what's left to feel but all my fears?

As I kiss your lips,

I long for times gone by.

When I kiss your cheek,

I remember why I cry.

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I see you standing by my side,

I close my eyes and imagine

The better days."

         Oh damn it, Cohen, don't do that! I felt a little droplet of water on my cheek and I struggled to stop the rest of them from following. But again, a flow of emotions was little less than close at hand. The back of my eyes burned as I tried to glance at something else – don't remember April and Mimi – don't remember Collins on the hospital bed – don't remember Maureen and I, as we used to be – don't remember Angel's funeral – don't remember the friendship with Roger that isn't there! But I did. That damn song! He'd written it shortly after April's funeral, and played it for me as I'd cried then. I cried now. It was just one of those memories I wanted to forget, but which being around Roger would always bring back…

"As I stand at the edge of eternity,

I glance towards the other side.

And when I finally take that leap,

I know I'll be all right.

Now, there's no more lovers here,

And now there's no more feelings here,

And now there's no more happiness,

And now there's only emptiness.

The pain of love, the pain of love,

the pain of everything I reap –

it's not worth the pain, it's not worth the pain –

the pain I try to hide from me.

And now that all my friends

have gone and left me high and dry,

I feel betrayed and not relief,

as I long for that other time…

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I once again can take

the time to go back to

the better days,

there'll be better days…"

         I slipped out of my seat and began to walk outside. On my way there, I bumped into numerous people, causing a bit of commotion. If it wasn't enough to see a groan man sobbing his eyes out like a little child, it was worse to see that same man lose his sense of balance as he stumbled from the restaurant like a drunkard.

         Once outside, I went to the back alley and leaned up against the wall there, sliding down it until I was sitting on the cold ground. I started to berate myself – not another relapse, Mark, not again. But by then it was too late. I just felt horrible, and the feeling had come out of nowhere. Sure, Roger and I had fought earlier that day, but we always fought, and it had been so long since he'd be home at all that I was shocked at my own feelings of remorse over this. I mean, it was just Roger.

         I couldn't stop the tears, as I began to think of everything bad in my life thus far – my past relationships that had flickered briefly with a tiny spark until they were extinguished by my own faults; my unfinished films – the ones I hadn't sold to anyone, the ones that still lay entirely on the cutting room floor; the people I'd lost along the years – April, Angel, Mimi, soon to be Collins; the things I'd always wanted to do but never did; and selling out for money. What a pathetic sham of a man I'd turned out to be. What a stupid loser. What a moron.

         "You okay, Mark?"

         I heard the voice, but I didn't look up, shaking my head defiantly. "No." I was about to glance up when fear seized me. It'd been my natural reaction to say 'no' and avert my gaze, but that voice…that voice was one I knew. "Roger?"

         "Yeah, it's me." He knelt down in front of me and handed me a box of tissues.

         I laughed, somewhat bitterly. "Thanks," I whispered, blowing my nose quietly. He stood up and moved away a little. I knew he was trying to figure out what to say. So was I though, so we were getting nowhere. "You taking an intermission?" I asked, glancing up feebly.

         "Sort of… I got booed off the stage." He shrugged at my wide-eyed shock. "It seems they don't like the softer side of The Forsaken II."

         "How could they not like it? They must be out of their minds."

         He smiled, lowering his gaze. "Thanks."

         I lowered mine, too. "Sure." As I stood to my feet, another moment of silence followed. All I wanted to do was ask him to come home, but how many times had I done that already? And how many times had he said no? "Hey, Roger?"

         "Huh?"

         "What made you play that song?"

         "Uhh…I don't really know. I guess today's been one of those days where I don't feel attached to anything." He paused and then turned to face me again, his gaze serious. "You know I came back to apologize, right?"

         I nodded. "Yeah."

         "So…?"

         "So what, Roger?" I asked, somewhat angrily wiping away the remainder of my tears.

         "Forget it." He began to walk away but stopped short, turning back swiftly. "What the hell happened to us?"

         It was such a simple question, and yet one that didn't have much of any kind of answer. "Life," I replied quietly, tossing the used Kleenex into a trashcan. He sighed, dropping his gaze. "Y'know," I continued, "you haven't said it yet."

         "Said what?" He looked up, startled.

         "Those two little words that make up an apology. Don't tell me you've forgotten how that goes."

         He shook his head. "I haven't forgotten, and I am."

         "You are what?" He looked away. "Damn it, Roger, why can't you just admit you're sorry? Can't you give me that?"

         "I-I am…"

         "Then say it," I demanded.

         He looked up, anger in his dark eyes as he brushed back that long hair. "Fine. I'm sorry! There, does that solve all your fuckin' problems, Mark? Are you better now? 'Cause if you are, I guess that means the rest of us can be happy, too."

         "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, wounded by his tone of voice.

         "What do you think it means Mark? Don't you see how you are? You're so wrapped up in being something for everybody else that you're forgetting what really matters. You sell all your little films, make a big chunk of money, and then go about with your daily life, hoping and praying something bad happens to you so that you'll have something to document. Don't you think I can see right through you?" He took a step towards me, and I flinched, trembling. "I watched your films, Mark – I saw everything! The tears, the drama, the so-called 'confessions', the anxiety, the depression – but that's not you, Mark. Why don't you ever film the good times? Or film a confession that fuckin' means something!"

         "This coming from a man who ran away for a year because his girlfriend died? I don't think I'll buy into any of that, Roger," I retorted coldly, turning away from him.

         "You're such a sham!" he continued angrily, pushing my back.

         I spun around, huffing in rage. "Look in the mirror, Roger! Look at what's become of you! Maybe then you can tell me who I've become, but until you actually figure yourself out, leave me the fuck alone." I pushed him, my arms strong enough to send him spiraling into a pile of garbage. He looked up at me, shaking his head to clear it, and it was then that I felt remorse. I missed Roger terribly. I missed having him around to tell me not to film. I missed telling him to take his AZT. I missed listening to his ramblings on the guitar. I missed going out to dinner and skipping out on the check, because we were too poor to afford a decent meal. I missed telling him about my horny dreams of Maureen and I. I missed teasing him about the good 'ole days. I missed him. "I-I'm sorry, Roger," I whispered, holding out my hand towards him.

         He narrowed his eyes at me and stood by himself, ignoring the outstretched hand. "I'm not."

         I felt my lips quiver. Why the hell did he like to torment me? Why couldn't he just admit he was so scared of life? I became enraged then, and I felt blood surging through my veins. "Fine! I'm not sorry either. Y'know why? Because I meant to say every damn word you got to say first. You're a sham, I'm a sham – everyone in the world's a sham, Roger! The only thing worse than being a sham is being someone who's afraid to admit it."

         He growled, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but it was hard to tell with the way his eyes were narrowed. "I'm not a sham."

         "You're not?" I motioned to his goatee, his clothes, his everything. "Then what's all this? You didn't always look like a washed out version of a '70's teen idol, Roger! I didn't use to confuse you with the sell-outs who work at Starbucks."

         "Don't talk to me about selling out, Mark, because you've done that well enough for us both."

         I pushed forward, tackling him with all my might, and we landed on that same pile of garbage bags and trash. As we wrestled, we continued to fight verbally. "I only sold out because Collins needs help! What's your excuse?"

         He tore at my hair and punched me once, really hard, on my right cheek. "Shut up!"

         I somehow managed to hold his arms down for a split second before giving him a good right hook to his jaw. "You don't have a fuckin' reason, do you?"

         "Shut up!"

         "Just admit that you sold out for the money, Roger. Admit that you've become everything we always worked against! You're the mainstream now, aren't you?"

         "Mark, I'm warning you –"

         "You're one of them now, huh? You couldn't take the not-being-popular in Santa Fe, so you sold out to the first record label producer who offered to pay for your meal one night, right?"

         He picked me up off the ground by my collar and threw me down. I hit the concrete hard with a thud. "Fuck you, Mark!" he began, completely winded. Through this next monologue of his, I simply sat up and tried to collect myself, breathing heavily. "You don't know anything about it…. When I got to Santa Fe, I had to live on the streets for a fuckin' month before I even had what you wouldn't even call a decent meal. I started playing in bars to make money so I could survive, damn it! The whole thing snowballed on me and I ended up giving into a record deal and a tour and whatever else that asshole of a manager did to me! He put me with druggie band members who can't stand me, because I keep clean, and he ruined my life!"

         I faltered in speech for a moment. "You didn't have to sell out, did you?"

         He glared. "You don't know what it's like, Mark, to have no control over your life, never know what's going to happen next. You haven't even been out of the state for Christ's sake!" He turned from me, brushing back his hair, which had been strewn over his face.

         I stood up slowly, feeling my cheek throb in pain along with the rest of my body. Standing there, I saw him at his most vulnerable. I stepped up closer and was about to say something, when the drummer I'd seen earlier came rushing out into the alley. I recoiled.

         "Hey Rog, the crowd wants you back out there, man," he said, giving a glance or two to me.

         Roger looked over to him and then shook his head. "I don't feel like it."

         "That's tough, pretty-boy," he continued, taking Roger's arm, "because we've got a show to –"

         "Fuck it, Jarrid, I said I don't feel like it." The way he glared down at the drummer made me recoil more.

         "Fine. You're fired then."

         "I was about to quit, anyway," Roger retorted, pushing Jarrid away. "I'm glad to be rid of all you." He glanced at me and then huffed off, out of the alley. I jumped, running after him.

         "Hey, where the hell are you going?"

         "I don't know, Mark. Get away from me."

         "Why? So you can go live on the street again? Damn it, Roger, just stop a minute and listen to me!" I tugged on his arm and he finally stopped, spinning and cornering me against the wall of a restaurant. I began to shrink away from him.

         "What, Mark? I've stopped and I'm listening, so what the hell do you have left to say?"

         "I –"

         "Wanna remind me how much I've sold out? Wanna remind me how Collins is dying over there in that damned hospital and there's nothing I can do?"

         I shook my head, frantically trying to weasel out of his demented arms that surrounded me like bars on a cage. "Roger, I –"

         He pushed against my chest roughly with one hand, steadying me with the pressure of it until it pained me. "Wanna remind me how much of a sham I've become or how I just quit the only paying job I've had in fuckin' years or how I'm so miserable and depressed that I can't even understand what I'm worth anymore? Or how about how I haven't even sent a letter or postcard home since I left NYC? Or how I hate myself more than you ever could?"

         "Roger, I don't –"

         Again, I was silenced as he pushed forward, arms to either side of my shoulders, keeping me trapped. "You don't what? Don't hate me?" He laughed bitterly, backing up a little. "Yeah, you fuckin' tackled me because you don't hate me, Mark. Right."

         "I don't, damn it!" I cried, rubbing my chest gingerly to try and smooth out the soreness. I just stood there for a minute, studying his form as he studied mine. At that moment, we both fell into the past and it took me a while to realize I was crying. I just fell down to my knees and sobbed like a child, bowing my head into the dingy palms of my hands, my shoulders twitching violently with each spasm of sniffles and gasps. Then, I felt a pair of arms surround me, covering my chilled form like a blanket, and I fell against him – my best friend in the world; the one man whom I could turn to for anything and everything; the man who'd taken me to that strip club; the man who'd taken me out of school that day to live a little; the man who'd shared an apartment with me for God-knows-how-long; the man who used to cling to me for all the support he needed in life; the man who used to be like a brother to me: Roger Davis. "God, Roger, I didn't want to…."

         "I know," he said, cutting me off quietly as we hugged, sitting in the middle of some deserted New Jersey street, where people mulled by, oblivious to us it seemed. "I'm sorry too, Mark…. Jesus, I'm sorry…."

         "Come home, huh?" I begged.

         He tensed and pulled away, jumping to his feet. "I-I can't, Mark."

         "Why the hell not?" I inquired angrily, slowly fumbling to stand up. "I don't fuckin' understand you, Roger…." I tore at the tears in my eyes, removing my glasses to do so. "I don't fuckin' get it…"

         He sighed, almost helplessly, brushing his hair back. "I just can't." He looked at me a moment more as I replaced the glasses and then turned abruptly away. "You wouldn't understand."

         "Try me!" I cried, grabbing hold of his arm. We both paused for a moment before I broke the tense silence. "You know what, Roger? I am a fraud – a sham – a hypocrite – a fake – an imposter: whatever you wanna call me, but you know what; at least I don't run away from my feelings. At least I don't hide who I am. At least I'm real in one aspect of life, which is more than I can ever say about you."

         "Fuck you, Mark," he breathed in fury through clenched teeth as he shrugged his arm away from me. "Just fuck you."

         "Fine."

         "Fine."

         He stalked off and I stalked off.

         Entering the bar again, I hastily grabbed my coat from the chair and remembered Toby, who sat staring me with a wide smile. "How'd it go?"

         "Don't you ever call him again," I growled, throwing the coat over my shoulders and setting my jaw. I'd never been this upset before. "I don't want to ever fuckin' lay eyes on Roger again."

         He shrank, shivering and slipped gingerly out of his seat, standing like an abused puppy. "I-I'm sorry, Mark, I –"

         I raised a hand to silence him. "Y'know what, Toby? Just don't. I'm not in the mood." Glancing up onstage, I noticed his guitar – idle, sitting in the far corner, where it would remain for the rest of the night. In all his haste, Roger had forgotten it. That was a first. I turned to Toby, almost glaring. "Let's get out of here."

         So, that's how it went – the whole frenzied scenario. And now, I'm standing in the wings of a theatre, waiting for my movie to play, fumbling for some kind of excuse to stop them from showing it until Roger comes. I only made this film because of what he said. The only thing that caught my strict attention from our last conversation was when he screamed, "Film a confession that fuckin' means something!" It cut straight to my heart then, because that's what I thought I had been doing. It cuts straight to my heart now, because I know I never did accomplish anything worthwhile in my entire life – everything's been like an opus of shame to me, or a song that never gets radio play. It cuts straight to my heart now, because I know now that what I've filmed is a meaningful admission – one that, if he sees, can make or break what thin strand of friendship is holding us together.

         I peer out of the wing and sigh – he's not there. Waving my hand in frustration, I cue the movie projector and I see the white lines appear onscreen. Putting all my attention beside myself, I slink into the darkened audience and take a seat besides Toby in the front row, glancing over to him.

         "He's not here," I half moan to him.

         He nods and silences me with a "shh" or two. God, he's a nerd. The left corner of my mouth lifts slightly – just slightly – to reveal a kind of happy grin at this thought: he is a nerd – just like I was at that age, I remind myself. But, where, I wonder now, is his Roger Davis – where is his solace and best friend who'll steal him out of somewhere he's supposed to be for a little lesson in life? Where is the person he can always turn to for trials, tribulations, lustful quandaries, ponderings on life, and everything in between? Hell… I just now realize that's me.

         My smile widens.

         I lean back in the comfy chair and squeeze the plush armrests with all my might to make sure I'm real – that this is real, and hell it is! What a feeling…. If only I could share it with someone. But, alas, when I turn my head to tell Toby, I find him enthralled in my film – the one downside of having him as my best friend is that he's too into my work. He holds me up on some high platform of Godness; not that I really mind that, though. I rather enjoy it, but not when I'd like to share this with him. I grumble, turning my attention – albeit bitterly – towards my own film, knowing I'll hate it – I always hate to watch my stuff, 'cause I dissect it, like everything else until I begin to loathe myself for doing it. Somehow, I feel myself pulled into this one, though, and I actually – dare I say it? – enjoy my work.

         It goes as follows:

MARK: (Sitting in the loft, alone, on a single folding chair with legs crossed, staring into the camera. Tight shot of just his chest on upwards now.) "Hello. I'm Mark. I'm sure whoever sees the final cut of this video knows who I am, but that's just to clarify – I'm always clarifying everything. I'm in my early 20's – the prime of life – and I haven't done a damn thing that's worth documenting; or so a friend has recently told me. This same friend told me, 'Film a confession that fuckin' means something!' So, here I go.

         "Confession: I'm a man with no talent whatsoever, but I continue to write these dribbles of film that seem to gain notoriety from the masses of those who enjoy it.

         "Confession: I'm a sham and a hypocrite, and I seem to be blinded by the lights of yesterday, dwelling on everything but those things that truly matter.

         "Confession:" (Each word is drawn out and emphasized) "I-don't-know-how-to-live! I never knew how to live. But I thought I was living." (Softly)  "I have never lived.

         "Confession: I'm a fraud, too. Every word in your thesaurus that matches 'fraud' will work for me, because I am everything that those words define.

         "This, now, is my greatest confession…. I'm afraid of life." (He pauses.) "Life is that big scary light at the end of the tunnel. Life is that monster underneath your bed. Life is when you get in line for a movie with your best friends so that you can talk in the back of the theatre. Life is holding a loved one's hand, while you feel your heart beating gently in time with theirs. Life is paying taxes and running naked in the wintertime through Central Park. Life is a summer cruise on the Pacific or a poem that touches your heart. Life is the clouds, sky, earth, the people, the faces, the animals, the lights, the nights, the days, the coffees, the drinks late at night, the deaths of close friends, the…" (He stutters.) "…The wheels of a car – Mount Rushmore at dusk, the flying fish in the ocean, the kisses from your grandparents on holidays, the meaningless ramblings of television personalities, the movies that sell ideals… Life is being yourself and not being afraid to admit that you're only what you're made of. Life is a complicated piece of shit, and I'm afraid to admit that I'm still afraid of it. But, I did, and I am.

         "A long time ago, I wasn't afraid –" (He pauses) "– when I was five. That's when all our ideals aren't set out for anyone else but ourselves. We know what we want. We want to be astronauts or ballerinas or cooks or artists or rock stars – it doesn't matter. What matters is that we want to be who we want to be – not what society wants us to be. Somewhere in the life cycle, we grow up. Santa Claus is no longer a realistic image – he's just a drunkard who works at the YMCA every other month but December. The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy disappear with Tinkerbell, Peter Pan, and Neverland, and we all become lost boys. Suddenly, the Wizard of Oz is not there to help us, but he's a terrifying portrait of society when we lose our way. All of a sudden, there are men behind the curtain, waiting to get us; ruby slippers glistening just out of our stretched fingertip's reach; houses falling out of the sky and smashing what hopes we once had of how to behave; and there are Kansas families who cry because the Wicked Witch kidnapped their children and fed them to the flying monkeys. Now it seems our dreams are that much farther away – just far enough that they've become intangible. Money becomes important and thinking less so. We figure out that the fastest way to get between two points is a straight line. We don't remember how much we used to love the curved paths that took us on all kinds of wonderful journeys into the unknown.

         "Then, we screw up. We sell out and we're no longer who we thought we were. We're business executives, trying to make a quick buck or two at someone else's expense, when all we wanted to do was produce songs. We're exotic dancers just trying to make a living, when all we ever wanted was to be that ballerina with nimble legs. We're lawyers when we wanted to be hairdressers. We're performance artists who wanted to be actors on a musical stage. We're teachers when we wanted to be philosophers. We're…touring with gigs when we wanted to be songwriters. We're filmmakers who feel like we should give it up for something grander." (He shakes his head with a sigh.) "We're people, damn it! We're all the same. Who's not afraid of that big bad wolf of a thing called life? Tell me! Who?"

         I look around now and notice that the audience is just as into it as Toby. They're listening. I smile again. I watch my confessions continue….

MARK: "Confession: I miss my best friend. Roger Davis and I have been like brothers since we first met, and now that he's gone away – no thanks to me – I feel incomplete and lonely. Even with new friends who come, they can never match him. He's Polaris – the North Star that never moves and is always visible. He's that dream that's always stuck in the back of your head that you can't shake or budge. He's…. Well, damn it, if I get any more sentimental, you'd think I was in love with the guy." (He smiles softly.) "I do love him – he's my dearest friend in the world, no matter how mad he makes me. I said a while back, to another friend, that I never wanted to see him again. Jesus, how wrong I was. I want to see him – right now. I want to step out from in front of this camera and just run over to him and apologize for him, because he can't seem to do it on his own." (Another gentle smile.) "He's stubborn and inconsiderate most of the time. He's just as hypocritical as I am – maybe more so at times, although he won't admit it – and he's mean and hurtful. But, despite the downsides that every friend must have, he's that missing puzzle piece that I so desperately need to keep going – to keep living.

         "I've never told this next confession to anyone. I could barely admit it to myself, but in order to come out with every confession inside, I cannot skip this one…."

         I bite my lip and turn around, glancing frantically until my eyes rest on his face – he's here…. Oh sweet Jesus, he's here! I feel my heart begin to pick up it's pace and I sweat – profusely. I place my hand over my diaphragm, easing the pain slightly with a soothing touch. I turn back and watch as my confession continues still. I explain, onscreen, about the day April died. I force myself to give a fleeting look back to Roger, noting the unhappy expression and my heart sinks. This is just making it all worse.

         Talk to him, I tell myself. Just go back there and take him outside, apologize and go home! Screw the movie and get the hell out of here before matters become ever more complicated!

         But, I remain, instead. I don't know why, but I feel like if he doesn't see this movie, he doesn't know me at all and we can never go back to the way things were. These confessions were years in the making, building up until I felt them explode from inside my head, out my mouth.

         I take in a long breath as I get to the part about Collins….

MARK: "Confession: the man who kept me sane through everything – Tom Collins – is dying." (He pauses, trying to compose himself, but he's near tears.) "I've done everything humanly possible to try and detain this death, but I feel now that perhaps I'm just prolonging the inevitable…. This man doesn't deserve to die. He's the one person who's never done anything wrong in his entire life, and everywhere he goes, he gets punished. His lover, Angel – one of the best people to ever live – died a few years ago…. Collins watched as our close-knit family disintegrated. Roger left, Benny moved out with Allison, Mimi passed away, and I remained – however so dejected from life I was – and he saw it all. Then, the sickness took hold of him…" (He clenches his jaw.) "God damn it! Why does everyone I know have problems? Why do I have to fuckin' go through this hell in order to just survive? And what's the big deal with surviving, anyway? Why do people want to live in this hell? I mean, the real Hell must be a close-call to Earth, because to me they're already one and the same." (He shifts uncomfortably.) "Why do I continue to write these films, when I know they mean nothing to me? Every film I've ever made has been just another mask – well, add it to the list: that damnably long list that I keep adding to. There's my mask of indifference – the one I put on to tell people I'm okay when I'm farthest from it. There's my mask of happiness – the one I put on when everyone just wants to have a good time, and, even though I'm depressed beyond belief, I wear it with whatever's left of my dignity. Speaking of which, there's my mask of dignity – the one I wear to keep myself from being vulnerable – the one I wore when I told Roger to fuck off – the one I wore when I told Collins that everything would be all right – the one I wore when I told Alexi Darling I'd sign her contract, and when I did finally sign it, too – and the one I wear now: the one that protects me, shelters me, cares for me when no one else will." (He laughs bitterly as he wipes angrily at a falling tear.) "Goddamn it, I hate life! I hate Alexi Darling, I hate AIDS and all diseases that kill those who've never done anything to deserve it; I hate passion and love and lust and sex and greed and money and power; I hate the people who sell out because their dreams seem suddenly too fuckin' far from reality – well, y'know what, guys? Reality is Hell. Hell is Love. Love is Diseases. Diseases are Death. And, Death is Life!"

         I feel the slight pressure of a hand on my shoulder and I turn abruptly, startled by the softness of the touch, and find myself staring into Roger's eyes – those eyes that had scolded me a hundred times – those eyes that had hurt and been blinded and teased and taunted and flaunted and loved and cared and wounded and upset berated and chided and laughed and cried and danced and glowed and sparkled and-and…. God, Mark, just stop thinking.

         I slip out of the theatre with him as quietly as possibly, although I note Toby's eyes watching us with a tender smile on his lips as he returns to the movie. Once we're outside, Roger pulls me into a hug – he pulls me!

         "You came…" I manage to choke out.

         "Wild horses," he replies with a laugh. "God, Mark…. I hate you and love you at the same time," he whispers.

         I laugh, biting my lip to restrain myself from crying – not this time, Cohen. "Well, which is the dominant emotion?"

         He smirks, punching me gently in my shoulder as he pulls away. "Devotion."

         I rub my shoulder jokingly where he hit me and bow my head with a slight blush. Geez, it's back to the old Cohen charm I guess. "So, do I get to hear an –"

         He shakes his head, interrupting swiftly, "I'm sorry…"

         I look up and nod. "Me too." I pause, ready to touch on the subject that I really wanted to for months upon months. "Come home." It's a plea – a restless plea for him to come back and be my brother again. It's an imploration for him to wound his pride for once in his life and just return, pretending that things are as they used to be, when we both know that's farthest from what the situation has become. "Please…?"

         He bows his head with a deep sigh, and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say next. I want to tell him to stop – don't say anything. But, my voice catches in my throat along with the anxious lump that's been building there for days now – maybe months, years: who knows? All I know is that I don't want him to speak. Please God, don't let him say he can't come home.

         "Mark, I can't." I feel my bottom lip tremble, but I hold everything back – returning to the 'good little soldier' routine. "Oh God, Mark, don't do that."

         "Do what?" I ask, trying to seem apathetic, but I think it comes off as forged calm.

         "Don't put on that mask of indifference. I hate you when you're like that, and I don't want to hate you."

         I clench my jaw, taking in a profound breath. "Well, then, don't hate me…." I stutter a few times, trying to say what I want to, but nothing comes out right. "Look, I gotta get back in there to –"

         "Mark, I'm sorry…I just can't. I didn't mean for it to –"

         "Y'know what, Roger? I don't care. Do what you want." Anger. Pain. Rage. Suffering… "Don't come home. Come home. Whatever. I gotta go."

         "C'mon, Mark, talk to me… I came back – again – to see you."

         Frustration. Bitterness. Irritation. Animosity… "To do what? To apologize and then leave again? Remind me to thank you when I can fuckin' understand your shit, okay?" Sadness. Regret. Dejection. Destruction… I begin to walk away.

         "Mark!" he calls out and grabs my shoulder. "Please, just…don't do this, okay? I don't want to go through anymore of these stupid-ass fights of ours that never seem to end. Ever since I left, we've become mortal enemies, and I don't want that – not at all." Sympathy. Empathy. Tenderness. Self-loathing… "I can't come back because of how I've changed… I'm not the same anymore. I went to Santa Fe to escape, and I became someone else there –" Anguish. Failure... "—Someone who I don't like at all, who I can never like, and who you'd never like. You're different, too, Mark. I saw it in your film today, and I see it now. You're not so weak anymore…" God, is he…crying? I see some tears glistening in his eyes, but I can't seem to believe they're real. He can't be upset, I tell myself. He can't be… "You've got new friends – a new life – a new career for Christ's sake! You've got everything you've ever wanted."

         "No, damn it, that's not true, and you know it." Frustration again. I can't admit he's right. I can't…. And he's not crying…

         "What else could you possibly want?" I am silent. He shrugs, smiling sadly with a heartbreaking but gentle half-laugh. "Mark, you've got fans! I mean, geez, you've got them lining the walls in there – it's a miracle I got a seat." Pain… "You've got friends and you've got new things in the apartment, so I hear… You've got it all. What more could you possibly want?"

         I'm still silent. Damn it, Cohen, answer him! "I-I don't want any of this…." It's coming out all wrong, but I can't stop it. "God, Roger, do you think I wouldn't trade all this in if we could just go back in time to the old days where we were scrounging for a dollar to buy a candy bar? Do you think I'm so happy this way? You say you saw my film, but were you watching or just looking?"

         "We can't go back," he replies. "There's no magical time machine to take us back to that Christmas night..."

         "I-I know…"

         "Then why fight it? Just live your life and I'll live mine." He pauses. I pause. The silence is thick in the air, besides the rush of passing cars on the West-side Highway. A few lights flicker in this darkness. "I'm going back to Santa Fe…"

         "Moving there?" I ask, knowing the answer already, before I see him nod. I shake my head, putting on a smile for him. "Great."

         "No, it's not great. But I have nothing else to do."

         "You can come back to the loft. Your room's still available, y'know." I attempt to smirk.

         "You mean, Tony –"

         "Toby."

         "—Hasn't moved in there?"

         I smile a bit – a real smile. "He's with me in my room."

         "Separate beds, I hope." He smiles.

         "No. We have hot homosexual sex every night of the week, Roger – of course separate beds." I laugh, despite myself. "I told him your room was off limits…. Unless, his girlfriend comes over. Then, they go and have hot heterosexual sex in your room, which I can, so very unfortunately for me, hear through the thin walls."

         He laughs, messing my hair. "Bet you heard April and me, too, when we…." Suddenly, he stops and trails off mid-sentence, and of course, I know why. April. He knows everything now. What a relief, and what a horror.

         "About April, Roger…" I swallow. "Look, I'm sorry I never –"

         "No, I know," he pushes it away, shrugging as his gaze settles on the ground. "Don't worry about it, okay? Times have passed…"

         "So, you're not upset?"

         "I was." He shrugs again, brushing back his hair. I know that gesture. That means, he doesn't want to talk about it. "But…"

         "I'm still sorry."

         He clenches his jaw and shakes his head frantically. "Look, I gotta get going."

         I smile, sadly. "That was supposed to be my exit cue."

         He looks up and we're both silent for a minute. "I'm gonna miss you."

         "You'll call, right?"

         He gives one swift nod of the head. "Right."

         "I guess…I'll see you around then…?"

         "Yeah…"

         We're both hesitant to leave, but we both turn and go our separate ways. After only a few steps, however, I turn back and run over to him. "Roger?"

         "Huh?"

         I turn him and embrace him with all my might. "Take care of yourself, huh?"

         I feel a few wet droplets on my shoulder as he pats my back heartily. Jesus, he is crying… "You, too."

         Then, after pulling away hesitantly, I make my way back into the theatre to watch the end of my film, feeling that perhaps I have changed. Damn him for being right.