Monday couldn't have arrived soon enough. I was eager to experience Roger's musical talent, and I nearly bolted into the alley to meet up with him.
He was pacing between the two trashcans when I jogged up, and the second he saw me he clapped his hands together and immediately took off toward the Mustang.
"Come on!" He called over his shoulder. "I gotta grab something from home first." He motioned to his car, and I had no choice but to follow.
I was barely in the passenger seat before he squealed out of the parking lot, sending gravel showering out from underneath his tires.
"I gotta grab my amp. I didn't get a chance to before." He gasped, between panting, impatient breaths. We peeled down numerous back roads, disregarding the residential speed limit by several miles per hour. We crossed a viaduct to the east the east side of town, where the scenery seemed to change. Not drastically, but visibly, it was no Eastchester… It wasn't unsightly, but it was what my dad called the "poor rich". Basically, these people couldn't afford landscapers and housemaids. They were, uh…normal.
We pulled a sharp left turn off of Highland Road and went a few blocks down, to a street called Robertson. Roger's house was on the right side of the street. It was a rickety old Victorian, egg white, crumbling fresco siding, huge, paned windows outlined by periwinkle vinyl shutters. Cracked red brick steps lead to the elevated front porch, where a slashed screen door dangled by its bottom and center hinges. Several wind chimes and other knick-knacks, worn from the elements, were suspended from the porch overhang, and tinkled lightly in the May breeze.
We pulled into the long concrete driveway that ran alongside the house. On the garage door, in black, Old-English style lettering 'Davis' was painted.
Leaving the car running, Roger popped the trunk and gestured for me to come inside the house. We entered through a side door.
The interior of the house was even less impressive than the outside. Normally, I wasn't one to judge, but it was really bad. It smelled too.
A sticky kitchen floor, caked with dirt in the mortar filled cracks, ran through to the back of the house. A skinny calico cat emerged from underneath a dingy stove that appeared ancient, and not at all suitable for cooking on. The cat stretched, and after noticing me, darted after Roger down the hall. I followed.
The cat lead me to a living room of sorts. The plush carpet under my feet had probably once been fluffy and white, but now was worn through to the hardwood floor in some places, and had turned a sickening shade of deep gray.
A brown lamp with a crooked yellow shade, very much a relic from the sixties, shed a thin beam of light over a man asleep on a tattered, brown leather recliner. The newspaper was spread over his gut, and a half-eaten Swanson dinner lay cold and abandoned on a TV tray in front of him, accented by empty beer cans. The television blared.
"Mark." Roger whispered loudly from a staircase behind the sleeping man. "Don't wake him up. Come here."
Tiptoeing, I bypassed the man and crept up the stairs. At the top Roger alleged, "That's my dad. Don't wake him up. And don't let him know we're doing this, okay?"
"Okay…?"
A small hallway lead to Roger's room. It was the last door at the end of the hall. Except, there was no door.
"…No door?" I asked.
Roger sighed, seemingly at me, and then said, "My dad took it off."
"Why-"
"Because." Roger cut me off.
I began to feel a little apprehensive about being in this house.
Roger's room looked like I'd imagined- a lot like his car: messy, a bit dirty, rock posters covering the walls, random things thrown about everywhere. In place of condoms however, (Now I knew why they inhabited his car. It had doors.) was rumpled clothes and old food. I waded my way through the piles, to his bedside, where he struggled to hoist an amp into his arms.
"Do you need help?" I offered.
"No, I got it-" He was cut short by a shout from downstairs.
"Roger? Boy! Are you home?"
Roger threw his amp on the bed and tossed up his hands.
"Roger, I hear you up there."
He sat down on the bed, and then stood up again. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." He sang quitely. "FUCK! What? What dad? What DO you want? What could you POSSIBLY need from me?"
"C'mere Roger."
"I'm busy, dad."
"You ain't busy unless I say you're busy. Come down here."
Roger seemed to forget I was even in the room. "No! Fuck you!"
"Roger, get your ass down those stairs, Right. Now."
Head down, Roger stomped out of the room and descended the staircase.
"What. Do. You. Want."
"You can't-" His father stopped talking when I appeared at the foot of the stairs.
"-Well! Who's this Roger?"
Roger glanced over his shoulder and looked a bit startled. "Shit." He swore under his breath.
"Why hello there young man! Who is this Roger? Is this your boyfriend?" Roger's father chuckled, and then erupted into a coughing fit. Roger blushed angrily.
"I have to go."
"You-" Roger's father continued coughing and then hacked up a glob of gray phlegm onto the Swanson dinner tray. He wiped his mouth. "You're not going anywhere, boy. You gotta do the grocery shopping. We're out of fucking milk and bread." He stopped to cough. "And beer."
Roger leaned in, very close to his father's face, and jabbed him in the shoulder with his index finger. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "Dad? Get off your ass, and do it yourself." He turned and went back up the stairs.
"Roger! You are going, TONIGHT. Bring this little fag with you, I don't care." He hurled one of the empty beer cans at me. It missed my head by an inch. It sailed across the room and hit the bookcase, sending the cat skittering down the hall again. Wide-eyed, I chased Roger back upstairs.
He was already coming down the hall, fumbling with the amp. When he saw me coming from the opposite direction, he pushed me with one hand, rather hard, back toward the stairs. I stumbled and grabbed the railing for support.
"Go!" He commanded, edgily.
I walked briskly past his father, who was now standing. I avoided eye contact and went straight to the kitchen. I stood with the cat at my feet, licking itself.
"Where do you think you're going!" His dad roared.
"Dad!" Roger cried. There was a loud 'thud', and then a splintering 'crack!'
It was dead quiet for a few seconds, and then I heard Roger mutter, "Ha! Great. Lovely. Thanks dad. Thanks."
"You're welcome." His dad replied.
"You are such an asshole. Fuck you. FUCK YOU!" Roger screamed. There was the sound of a fist making contact (I only recognized this because my dad watched professional boxing) and then it was quiet.
Footsteps clomped down the hallway, and I prepared to run, but Roger's father called, "I hope you brought the grocery list!"
Roger appeared in the kitchen, minus the amp. His nose bled profusely. He stomped right past me, staring blankly ahead, but smacked the back of my shoulder with the palm of his hand- a sign to follow him.
I jogged behind. He slammed the trunk of the car violently, got in, and slammed his door closed equally hard. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, using his other hand to wipe his nose with his sleeve.
"He broke the amp."
"Oh…!" I didn't know what to say.
We backed out of the driveway.
"He broke the amp." He repeated. He didn't seem to be talking to me.
We drove in silence until we reached a big house a few blocks down. Several cars were parked in the driveway and along the street. Roger checked his nose in the rearview, and then rolled up his sleeve to conceal the blood smears.
"Where…are we?" I asked quietly.
Roger turned slowly to look at me. "At the show." He said impatiently. "Where do you think we are?"
"You're still gonna play the show?" I asked, amazed.
Roger raised an eyebrow. "Um, fuck yes?"
"But your amp."
"There's other amps. It's just that, that one was-" Roger sighed. "New."
"Oh…" I said again.
We exited the car and went in through the side. We bypassed the kitchen on this house and went straight down to the basement.
It was extremely spacious, even bigger than the house itself, and off to the right was a makeshift stage. On it was a drum set, two guitars on stands, a bass, and…several amplifiers. Stage lighting hung from the piping above the stage. Two tacked up bed sheets served as a backdrop.
About sixty people filled the area front and center. The back of the basement was lined with chairs, and there was a pool table, but no one occupied that area. Thick clouds of cigarette and pot smoke wafted up to the ceiling, hanging heavily above the mass of mumbling people.
A boy, a bit shorter than me, with spiky hair and many facial piercings, approached us from behind.
"Hey man. Geez, we thought you were never gonna show. Where the fuck were you?"
"Sorry. I got, caught up. Uh- hey Joe, this is Mark."
"Oh. Hey Mark." He stuck out his cuffed wrist and I shook his hand.
"Mark, this is Joe, our bassist."
"Nice to meet you."
"Yeah. You too."
"Mark's never heard of us." Roger said. I sensed a bit of embarrassment in his statement.
"Oh. Well, leave it up to Davis to recruit new fans. You like punk?"
"Uh…I don't kn- I listen to like, Elvis Costello."
"Geek rock. That's okay. That's cool. Stick around though. I know you'll enjoy it. Make yourself at home, we gotta set up and we start in-" He glanced at his watch. "Ten?"
"Sounds good." Roger complied. "Go mingle or film people or something." Roger commanded me. "It's gonna be awesome, just wait." He beamed.
Roger seemed to put on a whole different air in this atmosphere. He appeared happier, less out of place, and it looked like he'd forgotten the previous traumatizing events completely.
Very sadly, I had a gut feeling Roger's everyday home life was similar, if not worse, to what I'd experienced tonight.
And what's more, he'd adapted. For one thing, I defiantly hadn't, and I doubted I ever would. I tried to shake my nerves. I thought of "mingling", but then I remembered I wasn't good with big crowds. I preferred seclusion. I took a seat in one of the empty chairs, and sighing heavily and watched Roger wander gleefully backstage.