A/N: They still belong to Jonathan. Still no end it site. I told you all this would be long. Keep reviewing though!

"Where do you want this?" I shift the weight of the box I am barely holding on to.

"Over here, by the couch. That way we can go through it." She points to a space between the couch and the coffee table, to small for the box. I just drop it where I am.
"We can look through it from here." I swear my mother had a list of odd jobs that she has been saving for me. So far today, I have helped her rearrange the furniture, uncover the pool, hang up pictures and now she is having me move boxes to and from the attic. The current box was one of the four that had been packed and stacked in my old closet, filled with my old possessions. She packed them up for me when she turned it into an exercise room. Six years, these boxes were stacked in my former room, and she has been waiting for me to come home and go through them, so that I can take what I want.

I collapse on the carpet near the box, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I open the box and find the contents of what used to be in my life. Like old friends I pull the items out one by one and get reacquainted. Various Star Wars action figures; a now broken, once collector edition, model of the Millennium Falcon, a framed picture of Indiana Jones, signed by Steven Spielberg and Harrison Ford, and at the bottom, my first script. I laugh as I pull it out of the box, the pages stained by time, and open it to the middle. I read the terrible science-fiction farce that I attempted, I remember the hours spent creating miniature spaceships and then even more hours trying to make imitate the first shot of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I actually put that in the pile to keep, and put the rest of the contents back in the box. My mother carries out the rest of the boxes, two of them are full of clothing I haven't worn since I was eighteen. I briefly dig through it and push it aside. I may not be a fashion guru, but I know that these clothes weren't even in style then. "Good will, mom." I push the box towards her and then start through the last one.

This is the one I was wondering about. It holds my high school yearbooks and photo albums from my childhood. Before I got into film, I had a 35mm camera that I utilized every chance I had. I sit and look through each picture, looking for some sort of clue. A clue to what, I am not sure, but I search for something.

Because I was the photographer for most of the pictures, I rarely appear. There are a lot of my sister, her cat Queen Victoria, and a few of my parents. My parents stayed together for much longer than they should have. Just scanning through the photos, there are hardly any of them together, and if they are, they are on separate sides of the frame. My mother is always smiling though.

Even then, I knew they weren't in love. I didn't find out until I was fifteen about all the women my father had been with. My mother knew, but she stayed with him, too afraid of the stigma of being a divorcee. Our house was silenced by their secrets and their unhappiness. My mother, always concerned about what the neighbors thought, kept up appearances. She showered us with love and affection, though I always felt it was an act. On the other hand, my dad was miserable in this house, and he wanted to make everyone else miserable with him. He was impossible to live with. I learned quickly to just keep my mouth shut, so that I wouldn't say something to piss him off, or give him fuel to ride me on.

"Mark, shouldn't you get ready to meet your father?" I look down at my faded t-shirt and jeans, and nod. "When I was folding your laundry, I picked out what I thought was your nicest shirt and pants."

"Mom, why were you doing my laundry?"

"Because, you have nothing to wear. I wish I had something here for you to borrow, you don't have tie do you?" I laugh and shake my head. "Tomorrow, you and I will go to the mall, I'll buy you some decent clothes."

"No, Ma, I'm fine. My clothes are fine."

"When was the last time you bought something new? Everything is faded or has holes in it. Come on, the slob look is over."

"I'm a filmmaker, I don't need to dress up."

"I'll wake you up at nine tomorrow, ok?"

I raise my hands, "Whatever."

I go into the guestroom and sure enough she has laid out my one shirt that has a collar and no stains. I quickly change, glance at my reflection and leave the house. My mom let me borrow her car and it takes me a little bit to get used to driving again. I absently wonder if my license is even valid, knowing I have never renewed it.

The drive to the country club is quick. The longest part of it is the long driveway that takes you around the perimeter of the golf course and tennis courts. I park the car next to a Mercedes and as I'm walking by I notice the license plate Cohen1. Great.

I walk in and look around for my father. It has been six years since I've seen him, and the last time was a disaster. I have talked to him exactly three times since then, including last night. The last time I saw him was when I went home for what was supposed to be the summer between my sophomore and junior year at Brown. He had gotten me a job working at his bank; everything was all set up for me. But I had different plans.

Benny, who I had become pretty good friends with that year, was moving to New York with some friends for the summer. He spent the time between Spring Break and finals convincing me to go with him. "The rent will practically nothing with all of us there, just think of what you could film, just think of who you could meet…" I really didn't need a lot of convincing.

There were five days between the time they kicked me out of the dorm, to the time we could move into the loft. Five days to deal with the family, and then freedom. I decided not to tell my parents about my plan until I was home. I told my mom first, and though she cried, she understood why I wanted to go. "You'll be back to do you laundry, and dinner once a week, right?" I falsely promised her I would.

I went to my dad's on the third night. I was supposed to start the job on June 2nd, June 1st I was planning on moving. He didn't take the news well. He called me lazy, a slacker, a hippie, a faggot, and immature. He told me if I embarrassed him by not showing for work on Monday, then I could forget about going back to Brown. He flatly refused to pay my tuition, and threatened to make sure my mother wouldn't be able to either.

He had been drinking. Nothing unusual. Brandy was his favorite. I tried it once when I was fourteen; it tasted like mouthwash that had gone bad.

In the twenty years up to that point, my father had called me every name there ever was, criticized every decision I ever made, found fault with everything I ever accomplished, but he never hit me. Not until that night.

I wasn't saying anything. I told him my decision. My voice was confident and steady; I knew if I showed him weakness, I would be staying in Scarsdale. But this was something I wanted, something I needed to do. So I told him and he began to rant. He threw his glass at me, missing me by about five inches. It shattered when it hit the wall. This pissed him off. He came after me, and shoved me against the wall. He dared me to talk back, but I remained silent. He finally stepped away, and looked at me with his bloodshot eyes. I'll never forget what he said to me, and I'll never forget my response.

"You are setting yourself up for a paltry, pathetic life. You are never going to make something of yourself. You are a failure, you have never succeeded in anything."

"Like father, like son, Dad."

That was when his fist hit my jaw.

I walked out of his apartment, went to the house and packed up everything that I could carry. My mother, probably having taken some sort of sleeping pill, was passed out on the couch. I scribbled a note to her and caught the next bus to New York. I never went back.

Until now.

I spot my father at the bar, where else? It surprises me that he in now gray; though it would make sense. I quickly calculate in my head, my father is has turned sixty. The thought seems strange. My father is an old man.

His back is turned towards me as I approach; he is having a very animated discussion with the man sitting next to him. I notice the familiar glass of golden liquid placed in front of him. I absently comb my hair with my fingers and tap him on the shoulder.

"Hey Dad." I give him a wave, and then drop my hand, feeling stupid.

"Mark! Christ, look at you!" I nod. "Shit, you grew up."

And you grew old, "Yeah, that happens I guess."

He turns away from me and finishes his conversation with the other man, downs the rest of his drink and slams his glass on the bar. "Well, shall we?"

I nod and follow him. The waitress knows him by name and we are seated immediately. I peruse the menu, deciding on what I want, he doesn't even look at it. We still haven't said a word.

The waitress comes over and he orders another brandy, and asks me what I want. I order a tea and ignore my father's scoffing. "So, what brings you to Scarsdale?"

I shrug, "I don't know, needed to get out of the city, see Mom…" The waitress brings me my tea and I begin to stir it absently.

"Oh isn't that sweet?" I look up at him, "So, get anymore job offers that you could turn down lately?"

"Nope."

"I still can't believe that Buzzline thing, seriously, I saw your stuff on the news… I was impressed, but of course you had to go fuck it up."

"Of course I did, I wouldn't be your kid if I didn't."
He slams his hand on his table and leans over, pointing his finger in my face; "You best not cause a scene here, ok? Let's just leave well enough alone."

"Fine, Father, whatever. Wouldn't want to upset you club friends." I roll my eyes and sit back in my chair.

"Ok, well," he takes a big sip of his drink, "if you aren't working, there must be a girl. Who is she?"

"There's no one."

He gets a little smirk on his face, "I knew it. You're a faggot, aren't you?"
"Dad, would you shut up?"

"Fuck, you are. Great, there is something to put in the Holiday Cards this year. No wonder you like living where you do, your kind is all over the place."

I stand up, "Well this was great fun, remind me six years from now, not to bother…"
"Mark, sit your ass down. I'm only joking with you."

I stand there for a moment, debating on what to do. I sit down. I know I shouldn't but something forces me too. Somehow, if I can make it through this dinner, I think I may figure something out. Though I am not exactly sure what.

"Listen, Mark, I don't care who you fuck, as long as your getting some." He laughs into his drink, and I smile and nod.

"Well I'm not, so you don't have to worry."

"What? You're not gay or you're not getting any?"

"Neither… I mean… either… forget it." The waitress comes back and we order, after she leaves I try and turn the tables. "What about you dad? Seeing anyone?"

"Oh you know, son, here and there. Some more special than others." He grins at me.

"Yeah, I bet." We sit in silence until the food comes. I swirl the spoon around my tea; my father lights up a cigar. Amazing, father and son, and we have nothing to say.

The waitress brings us our food and my father tries again. "So your sister told me your roommate has AIDS. That must be pretty tough." I look up at him, is my father showing an ounce of compassion? "I mean, it must real hard to stay away from him, right?"

Of course he isn't. Why the hell should I think he would? Somehow, bringing Roger into the conversation sets me off. He has no idea about my friends, my life or me. And I don't know anything about his, and I don't want to.

I take a deep breath and words that I have been holding in my entire life begin to escape. "Dad, I don't feel I need to explain my life to you. You didn't care about me when I was growing up," are these words coming from my mouth? "And you don't care about me now." Keep going, don't stop now, "Thing is, it took me 26 years to figure it out, I don't care about you either." My voice is calm, steady, low; "I stopped trying to please you a long time ago. When I did, that was when my real life began. You know nothing about my real life, and you never will." I stand up, dig through my pockets and throw the rest of the money Roger gave me on the table, "I don't want anything from you, I don't owe you anything."

"Mark, you walk away from me…" His voice is louder, fiercer than mine is.

"No, wait, I do owe you something. YOU gave me the skills to be a great filmmaker. You taught me how to shut up and disappear. You taught me how to hide me feelings, to bottle them up, to not share. You taught me how to view the world through a 1 inch lens."

"You fucking pathetic, whiny brat. I gave you a good home, I sacrificed my life to raise you and this is the thanks I get?"

"Yep, this is the thanks you get."

I walk out of the club and go to my mother's car. I pass by the Mercedes with the Cohen1 license plate. I'm tempted to key it, or kick it or something. But I don't. Every ounce of courage I ever had was left back in that restaurant.

Somehow, I am able to drive. Somehow, I make it back to the house. I get out of the car and walk into the living room. My mother is watching TV. I sit down with her; she asks me how it went. I tell her fine. She says I am home early, I say the service was quick.

I excuse myself and go into the guestroom. I fall on the bed, and stare at the ceiling, something inside of me feels different. Something is dying or being reborn, I'm not sure which. But as I lie here, I can literally feel the blood in my veins flow more freely, the strain on my shoulders which has been there as long as I can remember, has faded away. My body tingles and feels light. I never want this feeling to end.

The phone rings. I look over at the clock; the red digital numbers read 9:34. "MARK!" I sit up. It must be my father.

I walk out into the hallway; "I don't want to talk to him."

"Roger?" She looks at me confused.

"That's Roger on the phone?" She nods and hands me the cordless. I take the phone and go back into the guestroom and close the door.

"Roger?"

"Hey, Mark, how's it going there?"
"Great, well, not completely…"
"Yeah… uh… Mimi and I broke up today."

"What? Why?"

"Long story, I'll fill you in later."

"Ok… where are you?"

"Uh… I'm in Scarsdale."

"What?"

"I took a bus here. I didn't know where else to go. Will you come get me?"

I take a deep breath, Roger in Scarsdale… this isn't going to be pretty.

"Yeah, of course, I'll be right there."