Two days later, he was there. I was kind of jumbled inside.

I half-expected to see him there and I half expected to never see him again. I wanted to go out and approach him angrily, and accuse him of at least some kind of interest in the place. I mean- he did come back here.

Instead, I decided to try humor. Or, a lame attempt at it.

I dashed out the back door and down the alley, flailing my arms and screaming, "No! Don't do it! You have so much to live for!"

He forced a nasally laugh. "Ha. Ha….Did you come out here looking for me?"

I wouldn't allow him to play that card.

"Were you out here waiting for me?"

I expected him to mock me or hit me or something, but instead, he apologized.

"Yes, actually. I wanted to say sorry for ruining your documentary."

Was he serious?

"Ruining it?"

"Well, yeah. I gave you the bird."

"Oh. Oh, well, I can edit that out…"

"Oh…okay. Okay, good. So…how's the movie coming along?"

"Okay, WHY are you being so nice to me all of the sudden?"

"It's not all of the sudden. I had a week to think about it. Besides, I can't apologize? I really was being an asshole."

"Um…oookay…"

"You don't believe me."

"There is no second first impression."

"Yeah- if you're closed minded."

I blinked.

"Look. Maybe I had a reason to be shitty. Ever think of that?"

"My question still stands."

"Question?"

"Yes- Why were you sitting in this alley- alone- at night, pondering life- or in your case- death? I'm not nosey. I just want to know. For the film's sake."

He fell silent.

I sat down next to him. I had the feeling he wasn't going to answer. Instead he asked, "Pottery class?"

"Not tonight. Tango lessons. Pottery is Mondays."

"Hm."

We were both quiet for a while after that. I didn't know what would be appropriate for conversation.

"…So…where do you go to school?"

"Scarsdale High School. When I go to school."

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"West."

"Prep?"

"Yeah."

"Ouch."

"Why don't you go to school?"

"Would you stop with the personal questions? Here- I've got a better one. Why do you go to school?"

"To get an education."

"Really. And what does that mean? And don't give me some cookie-cutter West Prep answer. Seriously. Why, do you, Mark, go to school?"

My brain froze up. How come I'd never thought of this before? Why didn't I know why I went to school? It seemed so simple! So I could get into college of course! And then, from there, acquire the skills to work a steady job, eight hours a day, seven days a week, retire, and die.

What?

My neurons fired. Why did I go to school? I went with the only logical answer.

"Because my mom wants me to."

Looking satisfied, Roger replied, "I'm…beginning to see a pattern."

Dumbfounded, I said, "Oh my God, so am I." We laughed. "What are you, the anti-Christ or something? What magic do you possess? You just made me question authority."

"Deep breaths, Tiger."

"Wow. That's really ironic."

"Well, don't go dropping out of school, okay?"

"Don't worry. You haven't managed to juxtapose that much rebellion into my brain just yet."

"Rebellion." He snorted. "You make me sound so taboo."

"Put yourself in my place. You're practically Charles Manson here."

"I'm a murderer because sometimes I skip class?"

"Metaphor."

"Well, then you're Captain Kangaroo to my Charles Manson. What kid, in his normal, Scarsdale, West Prep life, goes slinking around in back alleys searching for absolute truths through a camera lens?"

"Me."

"Exactly."

We fell silent again. He fiddled with a small, red, plastic triangle.

"Guitar pick?"

"Yep."

"You play?"

"Yep."

"Are you any good?"

"The Well Hungarians."

"What?"

"The Well Hungarians. You've never heard of us?"

"Us?"

"Oh, come on. That's my band."

"It sounds like a sick joke."

"It's that too- really? You've never heard of us?"

"No, sorry."

"Well, you don't know what you're missing! Here-" He rocked to the side to yank something from his back pocket. It was a yellow flyer for the band.

"You should come feed my ego."

"Oh…but it's next Monday night…"

"So?"

"So-" I pointed to the building behind us.

"Oh no! Pottery class! The world is ending! It's called, play hooky. Pretend you are going, and come with me." He explained, as if I were a two-year-old.

"Are you sure?"

"Live a little, Captain Kangaroo."

"How do we get there?"

He pulled a set of keys from his pants and dangled them in my face. I gasped.

"You stole a car!"

He reeled back. "What? No! Sheesh, jump to conclusions much? I drive." He pointed to a beat up blue Mustang across the parking lot.

"Rad."

"So will you come?"

I glanced back at the building and frowned. "Yes. Yes I will. How much is it?"

"Seven dollars."

"Here." I pulled out my wallet. "I'll give you this now," I handed him a five and two singles. "In case I change my mind later."

"Awesome."

"…You're really called the Well Hungarians?"

"We really are."

"That's so funny."

It was quiet again, for a longer period of time. I racked my brain for a conversation starter, but all ideas fell short. The silence grew awkward. He broke it.

"Wanna get high?"

"What? I asked, turning quickly to face him.

"Weed." He clarified. "Grass. Cannabis. Pot. Mrs. Mary Jane. Do you want some?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I prefer to not alter reality."

He took in my reasoning and shook his head. "Okay. But I would prefer to."

He pulled himself from the ground and gestured to his car. I got up and reluctantly followed. He unlocked his door, got in, and then reached over to pull open the lock on the passenger side. I scanned the parking lot, and then hesitantly slid into the seat.

"What?" Roger laughed. "I'm not going to kidnap you!"

I shrugged.

The interior of the Mustang was rather messy- soda cans, fast food packaging, condom wrappers- were strewn on the floor of the front seat. A pin-up of Hustler magazine's Miss June- Faye Dunaway- was tacked to the driver's side sun visor. In the backseat, a beat up Fender acoustic lay across the red vinyl seat.

Roger reached across my lap into his glove box, digging under a heap of napkins and his registration, to pull out a fairly large supply of weed in a plastic bag. My jaw dropped.

"Holy cow."

He fiddled in his pocket, pulled out a rolling paper, and went to work, producing a picture-perfect joint, and cramming the bag back under the napkins.

I watched with an intent look of horror. I'd never dappled with drugs, nor had I ever been this close to a real-live person consuming any.

I rolled down my window and scooted towards it, in fear of a contact high.

Roger opened the sunroof and started up the vehicle. The dashboard glowed to life, and Aerosmith blasted deafeningly out of the speakers.

Nervously, I adjusted my glasses.

We decided to go cruising along the Hudson until it was time for me to get back.

I loosened up over the course of the drive. I feared the stoned Roger might be unpredictable, but he proved even mellower than the sober Roger. He turned the music down, eventually, so we could chat, and we took a slow ride on the outskirts of town once the river had been bypassed.

"So where do you live?" He asked.

"Eastchester… Scarsdale."

"Eastchester…Scarsdale…" Roger mocked, falsetto. "Yeah, I live in Scarsdale too. But Highland Road. My mom's a nurse, so she can pay property tax, but she split and my old man- fucking bastard- doesn't…" He trailed off and stared intently at the road for a moment, in silence.

"You got a girlfriend?" He changed the subject.

"…No…" I answered reluctantly. I felt lame, but I had the feeling if I lied, he'd detect it.

He chuckled. "Shame. I bet there's a load of nerdy chicks over there at West with the hots for you."

I blushed.

"Aw. That's cute cause it's true." He laughed again.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked. The condom wrappers at my feet seemed to defeat the purpose of my question, but I asked anyway.

"Nope." He replied.

"No?" I said, a bit shocked.

He simply shrugged.

We fell silent again, so I told him about my family- our hypocritical practices of Judaism, my older sister Cindy, who was fairly cool coming from our parents, our conservative lifestyle, my dad's pompous job and high expectations, my overprotective mother…

When I was through, he merely said, "Must be nice." And no more was said about anything until we returned to the parking lot.

"I'll see you around." I said, as I exited his car. "Thanks for the ride."

"Don't forget about the show." He reminded me, waving the flyer out the window. I took it from him and assured him, "I won't. I paid."

He grinned, honked the horn, and then recranking the music, peeled out of the parking lot.