Title: Metronome (Chapter 8/?)
Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)
Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.
Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.
APRIL 30TH, 1996, 1:19 PM, EST. April MacArthur.
It isn't exactly like telling himself to breathe. He'd written it that way in scripts, having recognized the phrase in novels and poetry and—though he wants desperately to ignore the very notion—in Roger's songs, but in truth, it doesn't feel like that. It's more of a reflex, a sudden realization that his chest is expanding as he inhales more deeply. In the end, he thinks, the body will save us more than the mind. Or, he amends, thinking of last week's trip to the clinic, the amber vial of AZT, maybe just his body.
He yawns. Then again, maybe not, he thinks; he has not slept very well in a long time. He wipes the counter with what vaguely resembles a sponge, moving the stack of Freud and Plato to the accumulation of boxes. Collins had pulled him aside just yesterday: "Look, Mark, I can still pull out of this. Or...I can tell them that I need extra time before I come up. I just don't want this to be too much. For any of you." Mark heard him as if through a fog, almost quirking his eyebrows as if to say how can this not be too much? But he had heard himself speaking, reassuring Collins in a voice that only wavered a little bit, explaining that they'd find a way, assuring his friend that Massachusetts wasn't too far, if they ever really needed him, reminding him that they were happy for him. Truth be told, he is scared shitless. No, correction, he thinks, acknowledging this to himself: he wishes he could be scared shitless. All he can feel right now is the subtle throbbing of an impending migraine.
He wishes he could avoid the bathroom, but industrial lofts are not built with the spatial needs of future inhabitants in mind. Besides, he needs Advil, especially if Maureen chooses tonight for their next spectacular fight. And there it is, right there in the medical cabinet, right where the razors used to be, before Roger threw them at the walls and Mark threw them all out. On the other side of the condom box, which Mark replaced last week. He knows he and Maureen hadn't used them all, knows Collins has been too busy planning the move, knows Roger hasn't done anything...since. He wishes he could feel anger, betrayal, daytime-soap-like dramatics, wishes he could floor Maureen with his own righteous fury. Instead, all he can feel is a twist in his gut, that flash of cold fear when he found the almost-empty box: what if, in her desire not to get caught, she went without, what if she fucks someone without protection, what if she gets sick...He looks down at the toilet, wonders if he'll throw up at the thought.
And, of course, he still loves her. He knows his own conduct recently has not been ideal. But, if anything remains from that impossible night that doesn't make him dizzy, that doesn't make him notice his own chest expanding, it is this: after coming home early from filming for a reason he simply can't remember, after wondering what that coppery smell in the loft was, after the discovery, after pulling Roger (high as a fucking kite, he can't help remembering) off of the bloody tile, after holding him onto the couch for hours while Collins called the hospital and attempted to clean the bathroom, after Roger, coming down from what had turned into a nightmare trip, punched him in the chest and tried to attack the man who came for...who came from EMS, after wrestling Roger out of his stained clothes and into bed, hearing Collins explain everything to the just-returned Maureen, after looking up and writing down the number of every clinic in the five boroughs, he remembers sitting on the couch. He remembers pushing his head into his hands, pushing up his glasses, rubbing his eyes. And he remembers Maureen's soft touch, her hand cool on his neck. Her face streaked with tears, her eyes focused on his face. "Mark," she had quavered, her voice going up, like a question, "it's okay." She swallowed, forced her panic down long enough to pull him closer. "Shh...honey, shh...it's okay." And as he clung to her, gasping, trying not to shake with sobs, he felt her shuddering too, felt them crying together, arms around each other, letting loose in a way he didn't know how to do with anyone else. It hadn't been redemptive, it hadn't made anything a damn bit better—but it was a moment of release, and even now, a full twenty-eight days later, he savors it.
Because he knows he is tottering on the edge now. If the first day was bad, then the second day, wherein, he can't help narrating to himself, the filmmaker schlepped all over, trying to find someone who could tell him about cheap rehabs, was pretty shitty too. Apparently, the waiting lists are pretty long. Sure, thanks, he'd love to put his name on a list, no, he didn't really think it could wait three months, no, he didn't have insurance, no, the patient in question didn't either, yes, he'd be sure to have a nice day. This while Collins spent the day on the phone, arranging an AIDS test for Roger, who slept, while Maureen cleaned everything sharp out of his room. A real team effort.
Days have turned into battles, and nights are more of the same. Until now, he has been able to trade shifts with Collins, shifts spent watching Roger punch the wall in the throes of withdrawal agonies, blocking Roger from buying a fix, attempting to get Roger to eat something, forcing Roger, sometimes physically, to take his AZT, and generally trying to prevent Roger from hurting himself or others. But Collins' life is in boxes around them, ready to be driven to MIT on the ninth. There is unspoken agreement against leaving Maureen alone in the loft with withdrawal-mode-Roger, for several reasons, and recently she has been more than happy to make her assistance equivalent to her absence. Mark, in what he now regards as one of the lower moments of the past month, even called Benny, leaving a bumbling explanation of the situation on the only corporate answering machine he could reach. Benny, for his part, had sent flowers. So out of fucking touch it hurt. But then again, he thinks grimly, they can't all have the distinction of being the one to catch Roger using heroin, of finally seeing the two of them sharing needles, of now spending hours at a time watching Roger shiver and gnash his teeth, pulling on rubber gloves before cleaning up the vomit laced through with blood.
Life is about pushing limits, Maureen has told him time and again. This is what drives her art—the need to push further, to test, to see how much can be taken and then transcend it. But he cannot help feel that maybe he is slowly reaching his limit, or—far, far worse—that he has no limit, that the numbness he feels has knows no bounds and can continue to grow exponentially until he is gone. He is so tired of feeling impotent, of feeling that he can't control a single factor in the entire universe. He is tired of knowing that all his girlfriend wants is attention he cannot give her, tired of yelling and whining and huffing out of the kitchen, tired of apologizing and not apologizing and waiting until she's asleep to cover her hairline in kisses. He is tired of suddenly remembering, at random moments of the day, that death has occurred in the place he lives. He's tired of being angry about that too, tired of not knowing whether it's appropriate to be devastated or pissed the fuck off. He's tired of Collins' fatigue, tired of watching the poor man struggle with the notion that his own personal tragedy has expanded, tired of not having anything with which to comfort Collins. And he is damn tired of Roger. He is tired of the drugs that have made Roger sick but made him feel good, and he is tired of the drugs that make Roger sick and make him feel like shit. He is tired of the restless noises at all hours of the night, he is tired of the daytime lethargy, and he is damn tired of being told to fuck off. He is tired of feeling guilty that it took a tragedy to get him to take drastic action. Most of all, though, he is tired of missing Roger. His Roger, the Roger who threw hot dog buns at Maureen when they went shopping and dragged Mark to jazz clubs on his birthday and rolled Collins joints with smiley-face papers. The Roger who had cared, who had not shuffled through life in a narcotic dream. That Roger had been pretty damn important to Mark, and he was tired of feeling achy inside from his loss.
He is tired of being tired. He hears scraping noises from the bedroom, and stands up, wearily, to go investigate. It is easier to be numb, he thinks. Probably a better way to save energy. He does wish, a little wistfully, that he could sleep.