A/N: Everyone, please repeat after me…

A/N: Everyone, please repeat after me…. Thank You Norton Disk Doctor… Thank You Norton Disk Doctor… we had a scare there folks. I thought I lost it all. I lost a paragraph, not so bad. So here it is, the long awaited trip home. Please continue with the reviews, they truly make me happy.

Oh yeah, Erica, no matter how two dimensional she is, belongs to me. Everyone else, Jonathan Larson.

I decide to use my newfound wealth and grab a cab to Port Authority. The ride there is short and fast. I hold the camera out the window and begin narrating.

"New York City flashes by, just like the past few years of my life. Was Roger right? Is this the end? Or is this the beginning? The beginning of what exactly?"

"Excuse me, you say something?" The driver interrupts me.

"Oh no, sorry." I put the camera down, a little embarrassed.

Roger… what on earth was going on there? Why can't I forget what happened last night? And from what he said, he can't forget it, either. But what does this mean for us? There are so many things wrong with what I am thinking, and only one right. I lean my head against the window, thinking of why this is wrong. The first one of course, neither of us is gay or bisexual. At least, I know I am not; maybe Roger is and never told me. Maybe I am, and have never let myself consider it? I couldn't be, that would just prove to my father that he was right… My father… I hit my head against the glass, why the hell was I going back there? Why did I feel this sudden urge to face him? Was it to prove to myself something? I vowed never to go back there until I made it, but in whose eyes? Roger thinks I am successful… Roger… why am I thinking about him again? Mimi… she is another reason why this is wrong. They are love with each other. They are perfect for each other, she found Roger when no one else could. She brought Roger back to life. I love her for that. I don't want to hurt her.

Shit, Mark, what are you talking about? You can't hurt Mimi. Roger would never leave Mimi for you. You don't even want him to. You love Roger as a friend, a friend like no other, someone to trust and put your faith in completely, but that is it. If you attempt to change anything… he would never allow it.

That's it. I don't want to be with Roger, I just want to be with him. I just don't want anything to change. Neither does he. Those kisses, those feelings, they were a connection between two people. It didn't matter that the two were males, what mattered was they loved each other, and they needed each other. They were both were afraid of what was around the corner. They were afraid that their innocence, long lost, would be gone forever. That they would never share any more in-jokes, or late night card games, or conversations that morphed from movies to music to their failed relationships without even missing a beat. They were afraid of losing each other.

That is all it was. A last ditch effort to savor the pass. Then why the butterflies? Just forget about the butterflies, just figure out a way that things won't have to change. I just need to go home, deal with my demons there, and then come back and continue my life in New York, with my friends. It is that simple.

Before I can realize it, the taxi has dropped me off and I am boarding a bus to Scarsdale. The bus ride itself isn't that long. I always try to forget how close Scarsdale actually is to the city. The two have always been two completely different worlds. Two distinct Mark Cohen's existed in each.

In the city, I was relaxed, busy, outgoing, and integral member of a family. A family that was full of creative people who understand each other. I will always appreciate Roger's love for songwriting and his guitar, I will always recognize the look that Maureen gets after a performance and they are empathize to my self-installed perfectionism. Though they tease me that I never let them see any of my work but a finished product, they understand. And even though none of us have "made it" yet, it is only financially speaking. We all have produced work that we are proud of, and we are all proud of each other.

It was different in Scarsdale. The Mark Cohen that existed in Scarsdale was shy and quiet. He still hid behind his camera. "Just a phase," they said. No Cohen had ever left home to be an "artist". Cohen's view success by how much your paycheck is, and how much money is in your 401K. I barely know what a 401K is. They don't understand how I could give up a life of country clubs and big houses, to live in a dirty loft with, as my mother says, "God knows how many people".

The bus driver announces Scarsdale as our next stop, and I begin to gather my things. I peer out the window, shocked and amused by how things have changed, but yet they stay the same. That restaurant on the corner, that has changed names and ethnicity about ten times, is now a Thai restaurant. The small video store I worked at in high school is now a Blockbuster. The bus drives past my elementary school, where kids are outside playing and I laugh at how small it all seems.

The bus stops and I get off and for the first time realize that I never called anyone to let them know I was coming. Therefore, there is no one waiting for me here. I go over to a payphone, set my bags down, keeping a grip around the handles, and then remembering where I am, and let go. I dig through my pockets for a quarter and I'm about to plop it into the phone when I notice a cab sitting there.

I quickly debate, should I call or just show up? The look on my mom's face would be too priceless to pass up, so I grab my bags and get in the cab, perhaps the only one in town.

"32 Cedar St, please." Even the address sounds pretentious.

"That's in Pine Grove?"

"Yeah." He nods and actually opens the door for me. Much different than the city cab drivers I am used to. He also drives extremely slow, letting the meter run up. I have to tell him to hurry up, but he says something about the speed limit. Amazing, 35 miles from the city, and it feels like a different country.

We pull into Pine Grove Estates. It is one of those planned communities they built where all the houses look exactly the same. He winds the car around the roads and I tell him which house is mine. I get out, pay him quickly and take a deep breath and go to the door.

Do I knock or just walk in? This is after all the house I grew up in. Yet, I in no way live here anymore, I don't even really belong here anymore. I decide to knock. No one answers. I try the door, and it is locked. It didn't occur to me that she wouldn't be home. I pick up the doormat, where there was always a key left, but it is gone. I walk over to the garage and peek in, and sure enough it is empty. I walk around the back. The pool is still covered from the winter, dead leaves floating on the top. I try the back door and it is locked. I go back to the front of the house and sit on the steps and wait. I waste some time filming my old neighborhood. The names on the mailboxes of my neighbors are different. I briefly wonder what happened to the Murphy's and the Fox's. They were on each side of me, and they had boys who were my age, Jimmy and Nicky. They were best friends, and only invited me along to torture me. I remember sitting in my room, watching them cut back and forth across our lawn going to each other's houses. I was so jealous of their friendship. I wanted a best friend like that.

It has started getting dark, and no sign of my mother. Of course, now, I'm stuck here. There aren't many payphones in Pine Grove. A car drives by slowly, and then pulls in to the house next door. A young blonde woman gets out, and I unconsciously film her walking to the backseat and pulling out a young toddler. The child gets out of the car and runs to the edge of their driveway. "Mama, who's that?" I realize he is pointing at me and I put the camera down and wave. Great, she is probably going to think I'm some pervert about to steal her child or something.

The woman goes toward the boy and picks him up and keeps looking at me. "Mark? Mark Cohen?"

Do I know her? No, this is a very different family Jimmy Murphy. How does she know who I am? "Yeah…" I say wearingly, I can only assume my mother has filled the new neighbors in on her 'hippie son who makes movies in New York.'

"Hey… how are you?" The woman steps over the small bushes that separate the yards and walks towards me.

"Okay…" I smile at the boy in her arms. I really like kids; they allow me to act like one myself.

"You don't know who I am, do you?"
"Uh…" I rub the back of neck and look down, "Of course I do."

She hits me playfully, "No you don't, that's ok though. Erica Chapman… but now it is Williams."

Erica Chapman… Erica Chapman… "Oh shit, we went to high school together!" She looks so much older, her haircut short and stylish, a little too much makeup. She looks like a mother, like my mother.

"Hey… watch the language…" She puts her son down, and he starts running around the yard.

"Sorry, I'm not used to being around kids… He's cute though."

"Thanks, his name is Mathew…" She looks at me, "So how have you been? Your mother has filled me in on a lot."

"Yeah, I bet…" Erica Chapman… I had a crush on her. "Wow, I had such a crush on you…" Did I say that out loud?

She laughs, "Yeah, I know. You asked me out a few times."

"Yeah, well I was pretty geeky then."
She reaches out to my black horn rim glasses, "Still are from what I see."

"Gee thanks." Mathew screams as he starts running. "Wow a kid… a husband and a house… good for you." It occurs to me, that she is the same age as me. Is this where I am supposed to be? Am I supposed to have a wife, kid and mortgage too? Or is she the one that is wrong? Did she rush into a grown up life, or am I just hiding from it?

"Well, the kid and the house anyway, the husband and I are getting divorced."

Well that answers that question. "Oh, I'm sorry."

She shrugs and mumbles something about the guy sleeping with the vice-president, but she is getting the house and the lawyers say she can get him for alimony. When she is talking to me, it seems so adult and grown up. Is this what normal people talk about? Do I know how to be a normal person? I nod and agree with her and pretend to understand the legal jargon she is tossing out. Then she says, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Anyone special in your life?"

Yeah, there area a lot of special people in my life, "Not at the moment, I've just been concentrating on work."

"Still filming, huh?" She nods towards the camera. "I remember in high school, you always had that thing in your hands, no one was safe."

I nod and remember. It was just one more thing to alienate me from the others. No one, except for people like Maureen, likes to have a camera stuck in their face all the time. I hadn't acquired the knack of disappearing against a wall, or being almost invisible to those around me. I was just an obnoxious kid, blatantly filming everything thing I saw. "Yeah, I make documentaries. At least that is what I call them, mostly I just film my friends and our lives." Why am I belittling myself to her? Why don't I tell her that my films are more than just my friends and me? That they are about survival, and disease and love and friendship… that they are my way of freezing time, so that when I am the lone survivor, I can go back and remember them as they were?

"Oh, your mom said something about you working for Buzzline. How is that going?"

"I quit there a long time ago."

"Oh? How come? A better offer?"

"No, I just wasn't happy." I sound like such a failure, but I don't feel the need to explain to her about selling out, and about how I needed to finish my film, and Angel's funeral, and Roger taking off. It is too much, she wouldn't understand. Then it strikes me. All of those things are very grown up as well. They are different kinds of problems, more gritty, more hard. It wasn't that I am hiding from an adult world, in fact, my world is very grown-up. It is just completely a different set of problems and lifestyle than the one I left behind when I was eighteen.

Suddenly, she hits my arm again. "Did your mom ever tell you about Jimmy and Nicky?"

Did she? Was I even listening if she did? I shake my head, "No, what about them?"

"Well, they graduated then went to school together in Montana."
"Yeah, I remember, on football scholarships."

"Well, after a year, they both dropped out and bought a farm and raise guinea pigs. Turns out they had been together all through high school."

I raise my eyebrows, "Are you kidding me?"

"No! They had the nerve to show up to the five year reunion, can you believe that?"

I ignore the last comment, and laugh. I remember how envious I was of their friendship. How I wanted so badly wanted a best friend to hang out with, and always have around. I realize, that I found that in Roger. "Well, good for them." I smile at her.

"Ugh, I mean come on, they were sleeping together in high school!"

"So?" From what I remember, she was sleeping with a few different guys in high school.

"So… come on Mark… oh wait… are you gay too?"

Somehow, 'I don't know, never considered it until last night,' doesn't seem like the right response. "No, but some of my closest friends are." I start wishing that she would just go away. I try to remember what I actually ever saw in her.

"Oh, well… sorry." She turns to her son, "Come on Mathew, time for your bath." He comes running over, a little to eager for bath time if you ask me. "Well, Mark, it was great seeing you, are you going to be around for long?"

"I don't know, probably not."

"Well, maybe if I can get a babysitter, we can go on that date."

"Yeah, maybe." I smile and try not to gag in her face. She walks away, and suddenly the garage door behind me begins to open. Sure enough, a Volvo Station Wagon turns the corner and down the driveway.

I just stand there, with a grin on my face, imagining my mother's reaction to seeing me. The garage door begins to close and I hear a door slam. Christ, the woman is so oblivious; she doesn't even notice her only son standing in the doorway. I go back to the front door and knock. She doesn't answer. I knock again. I hear her approach, and then stop. I knock a third time, and this time she opens the door.

"Hi mom." I fan a wave and a big grin.

"MARK!?!" She runs out of the door. She is wearing a business suit similar to Joanne's. It is strange for me to see my mother like this. She never worked when we were kids, not even after my father left. I start to vaguely recall her telling me something about getting her real estate license. She hugs me tight and then pulls back, "What are you doing here… you are too skinny… what does your shirt say… when was the last time you got a haircut…" She fires out all of the questions and statements, and I don't even have a chance to answer them. Before I know it, I'm sitting on a new leather couch, and she is still shooting questions at me.

I have to laugh at my mother. I know she loves me, and I know she has all the best intentions, but I can't help but laugh at her. She is so typical. She is a living stereotype. She is everything a Jewish Mother is supposed to be. From the bleached hair, teased out in all directions, to the long painted fingernails, and of course the New York accent. Before I can object she is pulling some leftovers from the freezer and heating up some dinner for the two of us. She doesn't let me say a word, until there is a dinner plate in front of me. She is having some yogurt and granola. "Ok, tell me everything."

"Well…" I tell my mom that I just felt like coming for a visit. I spout out something about being blocked in my work and thought some time away would be a good idea. I mentioned that I didn't live at the loft anymore, and that I was looking for a new place, so the time seemed right.

"I'm glad you don't live in that hell hole anymore. I worry about you! What if there was a fire? That place would burn down in seconds, you would never get out. Plus that neighborhood, all those homeless hanging around outside, how did you ever feel safe?"

"Well, we had locks on the doors, besides the homeless were shuffled away a few years ago." I remember the one and only time my mother came to see me in the city. She and some woman from the temple were going to see a Broadway show, Phantom, I think. She convinced them to go downtown to meet her son. Well, they were appalled to find me living in basically squalor. Things were pretty rough at that point, Roger was using, Benny, Collins and Maureen were still living there, so there were mattresses strewn all over the floor. There was a garbage strike going on in the city, so our trash was piled by the door and a distinct smell permeated throughout the loft. My poor mother, I think she had convinced herself that I was working for Woody Allen or something. She was so embarrassed. Needless to say, she never made a return visit.

"Well, I just worry." She finishes her yogurt and gets up and starts rifling through the cabinets.

"Mom, why don't you just have some of what you heated for me."
"Oh, I'm find, don't worry about me." She comes back with a box of crackers and some cheese. I shake my head at her, and continue eating. "So how is everyone? How's Roger?"

My mom knew a little bit about Roger. She knew he was HIV+ because I had used that as an excuse not to come home a few times. "He's doing well. He is feeling good." I put the fork down, my plate now empty. "So is his girlfriend."

"Marie?"

"Mimi, mom."

"Right. What about Maureen? Is she still a lesbian?"

I laugh, "Yeah, she is. I don't think there is much turning back on that one."

"Why, she thought she was straight for a while, I thought maybe she changed her mind."

"Nope."

She leans over and rumples my hair, "That's to bad, honey. I know you liked her a lot."

I shrug. "Yeah, we're just friends now."

"That's great." She stands and takes my plate.

"Mom, I'll get that."

"Don't be ridiculous, you are a guest. Do you want me to call Cindy and tell her you are here?"

I shrug again, "Sure, why not."

"Wait until you see the baby! He is so adorable. Wait, you haven't even seen Victoria yet have you?" I shake my head. I have always felt a little guilty for not being a part of my nieces and nephews' lives. "Well, she looks just like Cindy, it is remarkable. And Joe Junior looks just like you."

"Me? Poor kid."

"Oh, he is adorable." She picks up the phone and hits one number, speed dial I presume. I absently wonder if my number is on the speed dial and where it is. "Cindy? Hey sweetie, guess who's here…Oh sure… well, I just wanted to let you know Mark is here… ok… yeah… call back…" She hangs up the phone. "She's on the other line with your father."

"Oh."

"She's calling right back, don't worry."

I smile and nod, great, now my dad will know I'm in town. There is no escape. The phone rings almost immediately. Hello Cindy? Oh, Charles, yeah, he's here, hold on…" She reaches the phone out to me, "It's him." I shake my head, but she steps closer to me. I take the cordless.

"Hello?"

"Well, well, look who showed up."

"Hey Dad. How are you?"

"What, did you run out of money?"

"Yeah," I laugh nervously, "a long time ago."

"I still can't believe you fucked up that Buzzline job. That was your chance."

"Dad… don't start, I just got here ok?" I fall back on the leather couch and close my eyes. Why did I come back here again?

"Oh sure, no problem." He laughs over the phone, that hard, bitter laugh I grew up with. "So, can I buy you dinner tomorrow?"

"Well, I think I may…"

"Bullshit. You can change whatever plans you have to have dinner with your old man."

"Great."

"Ok, meet me at the club at 6:00, ok?"

"Yeah, sure." Christ, the country club. Summers of childhoods past come flooding. Failed tennis lessons, sunburns, being forced to wear a suit on hot, humid nights for dinners that I didn't even like. I hang up the phone and lay down on the couch, wishing I were anywhere but here.