Author's Note and Disclaimer: Just a kind of short, cutesy story about Roger and a new friend. Constructive criticism and reviews encouraged! =D Of course, Roger and all things RENT belong to Jonathan Larson. May his memory live on and be celebrated!
Been Cared For
Normally, I hate zoos. I hate pet stores. I hate pounds and kennels. I hate the look of domesticated animals with their sexual organs disabled staring back at me through bars with eyes that shriek, "You kind of people do this to me." I guess it reminds me of how I feel sometimes. Well, maybe not the disabled sex organs part.
Trapped, I mean. You can just imagine some dog's existence in a pet store: watching from a cramped, metal cube as people walk in and out of your life. They might pause a second and look at you, but they always quickly move onto peering into the next cage. It's a lot like that with AIDS. It was a lot like that with Benny and Angel. April, too. Even Mimi, you could say.
I suppose that's why I keep trying to justify walking into that pet store. An orchestra of chirping, barking, mewing, and squeaking, it would normally drive me nuts. A guy and a chick in their early twenties were occupying the register, all decked out in green aprons and white polo shirts. I darted into one of the towering aisles before they could offer assistance.
The only excuse I can possibly offer is that I was sick of being taken care of. Think about it: you spend all of your life being taken care of. Your parents care of you until you're 18, or you split (in my case). You move away from your hometown and set up residence with an acquaintance or little known relative. They take care of you. You finally get enough money to rent your own apartment and you board up with a roommate. Mark, in my case. Mark's been a pseudo-mother ever since I took up shop in the loft. "Take your AZT," he'd plead. "Call Mimi back," he'd instruct. "Why don't you pick up your guitar? It's been a month," he'd persuade.
Yeah, I guess I was sick of being taken care of. I wanted to give it a try, taking care of someone. Even with Mimi, I never really took care of anyone. It was her beeper that went off (when we were away from Mark) to remind us to take our meds. It was her job as a dancer that supported our relationship most of the time. She was more self-sufficient than I'd ever been, even if she did rely on Benny or Mark occasionally. She was still better off than me.
I walked quickly past the dogs and cats purposely, so as not to raise any hopes. Besides, large animals like that require too much effort. I glanced at the parakeets perched on wheels inside a large glass box, too put off by their noise to consider one. I had pretty much narrowed it down, by this point, to fish.
Fish weren't so bad. Okay, so they couldn't snuggle your neck or wag their tail eagerly when you came home; but I wasn't looking for that kind of desperate affection. Tanks and bowls of various sizes hummed in a dim corner of the pet store. I perused the tanks, looking for the right fishy companion. The fish mostly traveled in large schools and groups, and I was reminded too much of high school.
My future fish friend was huddled under a slab of florescent plastic that posed as a piece of coral. A pale blue color with a maroon stripe dividing his fishy body into two halves, the fish winced and recoiled every time a peer swam by. I stooped and peered into the tank, coming eye to eye with him. He glanced at me suspiciously, but didn't flinch.
I glanced over my shoulder to the two kids at the counter. "Yo," I called, snapping my fingers. "Can I get a fish out from this tank?"
The young, blonde employee responded to my beckon with the kind of reaction reminiscent of a puppy. "Yes, sir?" she inquired. "Which one?"
"The little runt of a one with the stripe," I described affectionately. "The antisocial one under the rock."
She nodded and pulled out a tiny green net, scooping it into the tank. The school of fish swam to it, and I figured it represented a kind of beacon of hope for mealtime. My fish stayed glued to the bottom of the tank among the pink pebbles. She scraped the net along the bottom and caught my little fish. Pulling him out of the tank, she deposited him into a little plastic bag filled with water. "Here you go," she said warmly. "Come up front, and I'll ring you up."
Practically stepping on her heels, I joined her at the register. "That'll be eight dollars, please," she requested.
"Eight bucks," I repeated, digging into my wallet but keeping my vision on my little fish in his bag in her hand. I pulled out a crinkled five and three equally wrinkled ones. Slapping them into her palm, she handed me my squirt of a fish.
She grinned as she slipped the money into the register. "What're you gonna call him?" she asked, curiously.
"Mark."