Disclaimer: I don't own it. I'm just playing G-d for a little while...
Collins hefted the package in his hand. As if the return address and padded envelope had not betrayed enough the contents, its weight verified his suspicions. Feeling a tinge of pride that Mark had completed a film, and blushing that Mark had thought of him, Collins slit open the envelope and shook the video tape into his hand. A note fell out with it, scribbled on notebook paper. Setting down the video, Collins unfolded the note and read:
For whatever good it's done... I wonder if there should be a comma in that sentence. Keep this safe, Collins. I know you will. How are you? How's MIT? We're holding up all right; better since Roger knocked me unconscious. Yes, he did. He still won't go out, but he's taking his pills. See you at Christmas. Mark. P.S. Keep watching.
Curious, Collins slid the tape into a player and pressed play.
The film opened with a shot of Roger, sitting on the windowsill with his legs folded, hugging himself, his typical cup of coffee close at hand. Collins started. Mark's previous attempts to film Roger had resulted in various creative, painful threats. Why had Roger suddenly changed? Collins' stomach flopped. He missed Alphabet City, for all its violence and danger. After all, it was home.
From behind the camera, a far distant sound, came Mark's voice, drawing Collins' attention to the grainy image of Roger sitting on the windowsill, his daydreaming-nostalgic pose so common it struck a nerve in Collins' homesickness. "Say your name," Mark instructed.
Roger said, "You already know my name."
"Roger Davis," Mark prompted, enunciating each word.
Roger repeated, "Roger Davis."
"Hi, Roger."
Roger laughed. "Hi, Oprah," he said.
"You want to tell us about rehab?"
"No," Roger said, then proceeded to do so. "Well, uh... they had these potato things at breakfast. Yeah. I miss those. Delicious."
Mark laughed. "Okay, well, that's good, that they fed you." Roger smiled briefly and raised his eyebrows, a compromise between maintaining a smile and giving none at all, then rubbed his stomach. He laughed at himself.
"Rehab is a bunch of junkies hanging around. You never slept because inevitably, somewhere, someone was screaming. They had therapy. That… I didn't like that. Occupation? Junkie. Occupation? I used to be a singer in a band. For the first week I had privileges revoked, until these teenage volunteers came in and actually told them that I had been a rock star—their words, not mine. There were sports, too; it was like junior high. Everyone has to do sports. Except, you know, no uncomfortable, vaguely homoerotic locker rooms." Roger pulled a face, aptly describing exactly his feelings with regards to junior high.
Collins laughed, imagining Roger doing any sport, and those poor people who had to convince him to. Mark asked, "What happened to you? What was withdrawal like?"
Roger's face darkened. He turned away, staring absently out the window. "I fell asleep at noon woke up sweating and trembling at midnight. My arms and legs hurt, like… it was like the bones were twisting. I was so cold, I wanted to curl up, but I couldn't. Eventually I fell off the bed. I was lying on the floor, screaming, uh, for--at April, God. For you. I was freezing and convulsing... I threw up. And I had this thing called, uh, priapism--you know what that is?"
The shot trembled. From the distance came Mark's voice: "No."
Roger barely spoke in his reply; never one to project speech, he barely muttered now. "It means my... it means Marky," he amended feebly, trying to laugh at himself, "wouldn't go down. Constant, painful... I was ready to cut the thing off."
"But you didn't?"
Roger scoffed. He picked up his coffee mug with his fingers around the rim and took a long swallow, then set the cup down again. "Don't get your hopes up," he said. Mark laughed at the pathetic joke; Roger covered his face with his hand, shaking his head at his own laughter. "Stupid double-entendre."
Mark asked, "Why don't you go out?"
Suddenly serious, Roger shook his head. "I don't wanna talk about it," he muttered.
"Okay, um… then, would you sing?"
Collins sucked in air with his teeth on his lip, whistling. Roger's head snapped up. "What?" he asked.
"Sing," Mark repeated. "Anything. Come on, Roger, you promised."
For a moment Roger simply scowled at Mark. Miles and borders distant, Collins felt himself responding to Roger's scowls in the usual manner: trying not to laugh. Then Roger grinned and broke out with, "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen…" The boys laughed; from Massachusetts, Collins joined them.
"My roommate, the famous carol singer," Mark said.
"The Christmas caroler and the Jew. We're a situation comedy in the making," Roger replied.
"In the flesh." Playing along, Mark said, "I'll just go make matzo ball soup."
"Do you eat any other part of the matzo?" Roger asked.
Mark groaned. "Don't cut yourself on that wit," he warned.
Roger shrugged. "Why bother with wit when I've got broken needles?" he replied flippantly, and tried to laugh. Collins hissed. He, too, had seen the scars. After a moment's uncomfortable silence, his expression softened. "Mark… Mark, you know I wasn't serious. It was a joke. I'm sorry. Mark?"
"It's just… I can't believe I'm doing this… you're a real bastard sometimes, Roger, but you've been a good friend." Roger and Collins recoiled, shocked. "You don't have any needles," Mark said. "I got rid of them when you went into rehab. Excuse me." The image on the screen shifted as Mark set his camera down; footsteps indicated his departure. Roger left the windowsill; Collins watched the apartment, unable to see either of his ex-roommates. Keep watching, Mark had asked.
The telephone rang once, then again. "Roger, answer the phone!" Mark shouted. The telephone rang again. "Roger!" Mark called. At the corner of the screen, Collins saw Roger walk over to the telephone. He stood over it, his hand poised as though to lift the receiver, shivering. One more ring, then Roger drew back as the answering machine took the call.
"Hey, it's me." Collins was surprised to hear his own voice. "Anyone there? Okay, well, I'm sure you're having a much better time than I am… even the low-carb pasta at Life Café beats our cafeteria here. I thought I'd call and make sure of that, though—sure you were doing all right. You'd better be taking your AZT, Roger, or I'll kick your ass at Christmas."
A moment after Collins hung up, Mark's footsteps could be heard. "Who was it?" he asked.
"Collins."
"So why didn't you answer?" he asked, curious.
"I dunno," Roger said. "I—"
The film ended. Collins sat still, staring at the screen. There it was: the life he was missing. Roger had stopped answering the telephone. How terrified could a man become? What was he terrified of? Poor Mark; poor, reliable Mark bore the burden of maturity. Collins wished he could help Mark, whose needs seemed so overlooked, or Roger, who was half a heartbeat from becoming a sniveling trainwreck.
A knocking at the door drew his attention. Collins glanced over his shoulder, sighed and turned off the television monitor. As he went to answer the door, he crossed off another day on his calendar. One more month to home.
THE END!
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