.-.-.
This chapter rated PG.
Where Is My Life Going? – Chapter Five
Riing. "...Hello? Umm, is Nancy there? She is? Err, all right...I can't believe I'm doing this again...Hello? Ms. Moles? Hi, it's Mark Cohen. You left a message on my machine the other day...Yes. I think I'm interested. Yes, I'm ready for the challenge. ...I don't sound enthusiastic? Oh, well...it's been a long day or two for me. Don't worry. I'm ready. (I hope) Oh, nothing, just a cough. -cough- See? No, I'm not sick. ...All right...Yes...A week from today?...All right...Fine. Thank you very much, Ms. Moles." Sigh. "It's some sort of vicious cycle, Mark. First you start repeating your mistakes. Then you start talking to yourself. Now you know you've lost it." Sigh. "Here's to a new life that isn't as shitty as this one."
.-.-.
"Are you sure this is what you want to do, Mark?" Collins is watching me loading every last possession from the cardboard boxes Roger had roughly shoved the rest of my belongings in into a big suitcase.
I nod my head. "It's pointless. I'm lost here now, Collins." I pulled out the projector from the box, setting it very delicately in the suitcase. "I don't know where my life is going anymore, but I don't think it's here. I have to fix this somehow."
Collins is sitting on the hotel bed, desperately watching me. "Are you sure...? Isn't there some way you can stay?"
I look up at him, a confused expression on my face. "Collins, I've been trying to find out for the past week. But the studio's already paid for the ticket there and everything," I say, pulling an envelope with a boarding pass to LA inside out of my pocket. "I'm going to have somebody there waiting with a sign with my name on it and a cab and everything." I shrug, forcing a smile on my face. "You didn't have to come down to see me off." Collins just looks up at me with a sort of hopeless expression on his face and I sigh. "Collins, I'm going. I can't cancel the flight; they won't get a refund this late in the game."
"Mark..."
"Collins, this is hard enough. But I can't stay. There's too much."
Suddenly, Collins says something I had never expected him to say. "Mark, why are you running away from Roger?" The second he says it, he clasps a hand over his mouth, regretting it. "I'm sorry..."
I cast my eyes down. "Don't apologize for the truth, Collins. Because that's what I'm doing. Why? Because I'm a coward who can't stand being reminded such every day anymore. They say accepting your stupid weakness is the first step to recovery, even though I think this is far past recovery."
"Mark, that's where you're wrong..."
"Collins, if you're still trying to get me to stay, just..." I looked up at him, and the sadness in his eyes equally matched that of the sadness ripping up my own insides. "...Just don't. I already said it's hard enough. Just...don't make it harder." After a long silence, Collins sighs, getting off of the bed and leaving the room. I reach into the bottom of the box, ready to pull out the last few things. I pull out a canister of film, and then another after that, placing each in my suitcase with a glance at the dates...5/19/90...4/1/90...3/17/90...and one with the date scribbled out. I stare at that particular canister for ages, until finally taking it, going over to the tiny little trash can and letting the hand holding the film hover over the can. I hesitate, suddenly pulling it back to me, unrolling it slightly. Shots of Roger staring at the camera...I immediately drop the film in the trash can, almost contemplating taking one of the free matches and lighting it on fire.
I throw the last canister with the date 1/21/90 on it roughly into my bag, finally closing my suitcase. I've already sold the moviola, which would have been the biggest thing if I'd tried to bring it. It'll be hard to find another one, but I'll hopefully find one in California.
California. I'm going to the home planet of sell outs, as Roger used to call them...SHIT, there I go, thinking about him again. I'll have to make sure I get rid of anything and everything with him so that he can stop stabbing my heart every time I see his face...
I gather up my camera bag and my suitcase, walking out of the small hotel room with my heavy load, in more than one way, weighing my down like a million tons worth of luggage.
.-.-.
"Gate 21A...Gate 21A..." I haven't used the New York City Airport for years and years. The last time I used it was when I was a little teenager and we used this airport for a family trip to London. I remember hating that trip, though I don't remember why. Being so far away from home had been almost torture. I hardly ever left New York...
And now I'm moving to the other side of the country.
I only have my camera bag now, my suitcase probably being loaded onto the plane already. I look over head at the signs marking the gates. Gate 25A...24A...
For a moment as I walk through the amazingly crowded airport, I panic. I'm leaving New York, my home for as long as I can remember. Born in Scarsdale, NY, raised in Scarsdale, and now I have lived in NYC for multiple years. I've never lived out of the East Coast. Sure, my parents loved taking us on vacations, such as to see our relatives all over the country. But I've never even been to California. Not once. I'll be walking into a city I don't know to start a completely new life.
21A. I walk through the doorway, seeing up ahead that the flight is boarding. I pull out my boarding pass, showing it to the woman at the desk. Then, by the oddest twist of fate in the world, I just happen to look over my shoulder at the crowds still walking through the bustled airport.
That face stood out like a sore thumb, the only thing just standing immobile and staring straight at me. Our eyes connected for an instant, and I am too shocked to even glare at him, even though I sorely wanted to say something to him suddenly...
"Thank you, sir. You'd better get on the flight."
I don't look away from him. Why is he here? Why is he here! It doesn't make sense, any of it. I didn't expect to ever see him again. Why did he come to the airport the day he knew I was leaving?
"...Sir?"
I look away from him, and see the young woman staring at me in a confused way, holding the ticket stub out to me. I blink, taking the stub and beginning to walk onto the extending walk that would take me onto the plane. Just before I know he'll be out of sight, I look over my shoulder.
He's gone.
.-.-.
I walk off of the plane, quite happy to be able to stand once again. I remained completely immobile the entire flight, staring at the seat in front of me the entire time. Some teenager next to me had this annoying portable tape deck with headphones that he had turned the volume up to maximum. I kept silently wishing the tape in their tape would tangle up from him listening to it the entire flight.
I am immediately confronted with a mass of signs. Mr. Robert Flagg...Ms. Terry N...Out of about ten people, I can't see any of them with the name 'Mark Cohen' scrawled on them. Finally, I spot a sign that I guess must be me: 'Mark Cowen'. Rolling my eyes, I walk up to the man, who has slicked back black hair and tanned skin. The man holding my sign raises an eyebrow at me as I stop in front of his sign. There is a long pause between us. I blink a few times, and then I point at the sign, saying, "Umm, you looking for me?"
The guy's eyebrow rises a little higher. "I'm expecting a new director for Peaks Studio. I'm looking for a Mark..."
"Mark Cohen. That's me." I think of pointing out to him that it's spelled wrong, but I get the impression that he doesn't really care.
The guy blinks a few times. "Oh. I was expecting somebody more...erm..." He doesn't seem to be able to find the words to describe what he imagined more of. "Do you have any other luggage, Mr. Cohen?" I see him looking at my camera bag oddly, and I get the impression he suddenly thinks I might not have any other luggage.
"Just a suitcase...I should go and get it..." I begin to walk towards the signs that say I would be going to the luggage carousel, realizing after a few steps that the man is following me. I pause, and he stops. I turn around, facing him, confused. "...Why are you following me?"
"To help you with your luggage." The guy says it as thought he didn't think I sounded capable lifting one suitcase.
I raise one of my eyebrows at him. "I can get a suitcase on my own, thanks. You can just...umm...wait over there...or something..." People here are so odd. In New York, strangers were easy to deal with: either they smiled and waved, or they completely ignored you. Here they are much more odd...
I wait for a few minutes, waiting for my brown suitcase to come by. When it finally comes by, I rush up to grab it, hoisting it off of the carousel (with slight difficulty, since a big crowd of people happened to want to stand right next to the carousel to wait for their bags) and taking it back to the guy, who was messing with the buttons on the cuffs of his long sleeved shirt. He looks up when I drop my bag, slightly worn out from having to carry it. "So...do you, just, take me to where I'm going next?"
The guy nods, and suddenly turns, walking away from me. Startled, I quickly hoist up my bag with a heave and jog to keep up with his quick pace. After a few more seconds of trying to keep up with him, I call up to him, "Hey, can I have a little help with my bag?"
He looks over his shoulder, still walking. "I thought you said you could get your suitcase on your own." With that, he faces the front again, and I could swear that he quickens his pace. As I mutter under my breath (Again, only thing Sunday School was ever good for), I decide that this man was the equivalent to somebody in New York who came up to you, beat you up, and took all your money and anything else valuable you had.
On the ride to whatever studio I was going to, I couldn't help but think: if first impressions are anything when considered by ways of new lives, my life here wasn't going to be the happy and exciting one I was hoping for.
.-.-.
A/N: Ended up writing a clean chapter. -laughs- Probably because Roger didn't say anything in it. XXXDDD No seriously. Every time I have f bombs, Roger's in the chapter, and if Roger isn't the one delivering the f bomb, it's Mark delivering the f bomb because of Roger. The ONLY time I've written a fic where Roger wasn't dropping the f bomb and it wasn't Mark dropping the f bomb because of Roger would be Macabre Puppet Show, because, as you know if you've read it, everybody gets pissed. XXXXDDDD