Chapter 5
As I unlocked the door to the loft, nostalgia washed over me like a warm breeze. I hadn't been to this place in nearly two years, yet it only seemed like yesterday. Upon opening the door, I saw that everything was basically the same. Granted, my camera equipment and film notes weren't strewn on the floor (wow, I hard forgotten we had hardwood floors...), but other than that, it felt like home. Roger's Fender guitar sat in its corner, and even though the heat was on, our illegal wood burning stove maintained its place of honor in the center of the room.
I walked into what was once my room, finding a foreign bed waiting for me. Tomorrow I'd go get some clothes from home, but as it was almost one-thirty a.m., now all I wanted to do was sleep. I barely had time to take my glasses off before I was dead to the world, and numb to the events of the evening.
The next morning, I awoke to the phone ringing. Out of habit, I jumped out of bed, before remembering I was at the loft, so the call wasn't for me. Behind my shut door, I heard Roger's voice.
"Ok...ok, we'll be there," he said softly. My adrenaline returned, for a different reason this time, and I flung open the door.
Roger sat on the table, eating cereal. He barely looked at me.
"That was Benny," he said gruffly. "Collins...isn't looking too well right now, and he thinks we should come by as soon as possible."
I nodded. "I ought to run home first...get some stuff."
Finally Roger met my gaze. "Please tell me you're not about to document this, Mark," he said softly.
I frowned. I understood Roger's anger at the situation, but why did it have to be directed at me? "Why would I do that?" I replied, my voice rising.
"Because," Roger jumped off the table, carrying his empty cereal bowl into the kitchen. "You sold out your life to make a profit. Why not use this moment as a way to get that 'big promotion?'"
What was he talking about? "Roger—" I started, but he interrupted me, his cereal bowl crashing into the empty sink. At least he's doing the dishes, I thought.
"You think you're so high-and-mighty, the prodigal son returning home to his dying friend's bedside," Roger's eyes were cold and malicious. I had only seen him act this way towards me once before, two years ago
Yes, you live a lie! Tell you why—
on Halloween. I had lost my temper that time—we BOTH had—nothing had been resolved,
—you're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive!
but this time would be different.
"Roger, when did I ever say that?" I asked, softly but firmly. I wouldn't lose my cool, but he wasn't going to push me around either.
"Oh you don't have to. We ALL know it's the truth!" Roger stopped fiddling with the cereal bowl and stared at me. "Why else did you leave the East Village?"
"I left because I got a job!" My voice rose in defense. "SOME of us feel the need to
...devote ourselves to projects that sell!
try and make something of ourselves! I'm sorry if that wasn't in your plans."
Roger shook his head, his jaw taut and clenched. For a moment, I thought he was going to lose control, to yell and shout like always, but when he looked at me again, something had changed. He stared at me for a moment, searching my eyes—my soul—before speaking again.
"That's not why you left, Mark." Roger's voice was quiet. The anger was gone, and was replaced by...could it be?...disappointment. He sighed and began to dry the bowl. "You left because you couldn't stand around and wait for us to die."
His words hit me with full force, and I nearly stumbled backwards in surprise. "Tha—that's not true at all!" I exclaimed in defense. Why didn't he understand? I HAD to move away!
Roger glanced up. "Isn't it? Then why DID you leave?"
It was a rhetorical question, I knew, but I still found myself stumbling over consonants and conjunctions to try and explain myself. Nothing I said changed the look on Roger's solemn face or the feeling of guilt in my gut. Finally, I gave up.
"I'm going to see Collins," I said. "I have to be in at work tonight, so I'll say goodbye and go home."
I rushed into my old room to grab my coat, and headed out the door. When my hand reached the doorknob, Roger appeared in the hallway.
"It's goodbye for good this time, Mark," he said softly.
At first I thought he meant Collins, and I nodded. "I know. But my being here won't—"
Roger shook his head. "I mean from all of us. If you leave
For someone who's always been let down—
now, we're over. You can't show up for the beginning and end only,
—Who's headed out of town?
it's all or none. If you really care, you have to stick through the middle parts, too—no matter how bad they are."
Funny how much he sounded like me at one time. Talk about role-reversals. Even so, I nodded shortly, opened the door, and left. I would have said goodbye, but my vocal chords were drawn too tightly to even try.