Author's Note: This has nothing to do with the story…but for some reason I can't read anyone else's stories on this site anymore! Was that something I did? Is this a common problem? I want to read them... Just thought I'd let you know, so it doesn't seem like I'm all "Read my story, but I won't bother with yours!" Believe me, I'm bothering! To no avail! Thanks for all the reviews. I'm on an updating kick, but I this is the last chapter I had pre-written, so now I gotta figure out what to do next. In the meantime, I'm gonna try and read other people's stuff!
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Roger's eighteenth birthday was approaching quickly.
Almost too quickly. A lot of things loomed that neither of us were even mildly prepared for. The remaining days of summer were spent pouring over ads, an ocean of newspapers spread over the floor of my room, highlighter marks glowing an occasional, furious neon.
"Okay so, why is this three bedroom cheaper than the one bedroom and they're on the same block?"
"For the same reason this apartment has no air conditioning but is in my price range."
My dad knocked on the door and we both looked up from our searches.
"Do you boys need any help?"
"Yeah, do you wanna buy Roger an apartment?"
"Very funny. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yep. We're good."
"Okay then. Roger, whenever you're ready to contact the realtor just let me know."
"Thanks Mr. Cohen. I really do appreciate this."
"No problem at all."
My dad was such a huge fraud. No problem my ass. He didn't want Roger in our house for the longest time. He called him a scumbag and a leech. ("What is he doing besides wasting our water?") He was hugely skeptical, and highly suspicious and concerned every time we went somewhere together. ("He's a bad influence Mark. How do you know he's not going to end up just like his father, or worse…?") My dad was only helping Roger with business phone calls because he wanted him out. I didn't contribute to the conversations. I wanted to help, and planned to stick by him.
My dad shut the door.
"Mark, why are looking in the Scarsdale paper?"
"Um…"
"Give me that. I'm not staying here." He shoved the New York Times' classifieds in my face. "This."
"Ooh! Roger- Here's a great opening in Central Park West, only $3,500 a month!"
"You are not helping me. Come on, be serious. That's not even in there."
"Ooh! Roger! Here's an even better one! Central Park Bench! It's completely free, for the duration of your stay, and comes standard with hobo piss and pigeon shit! Automatic air conditioning in the winter and heating in the summer! And it's even bolted to the ground so you don't have to worry about burglary insurance! The only downside is, you have to bring your own plastic bags to keep your shit in."
"Mark, you are a little shit, did you know that?"
"No…I hadn't a clue."
We searched for a few more minutes, before Roger pulled himself from the floor and brushed off his knees. "I give up. For today."
"I think you need a roommate. I don't know how you're going to manage this yourself. I mean, not unless the entire band moves to Manhattan together and pitches in for a place. That is, only if you guys score a gig somewhere. A recurring one…"
"I could always go into prostitution…" Roger said this so nonchalantly he made me choke on my spit. I gurgled and he laughed at me.
"Anyway, that's what I was thinking about. Tim isn't old enough yet to leave home, and Andy is twenty-one, but he's got his own little place somewhere. Joe is in one hundred percent, but we'd have to convince Andy to let us move in with him, or him to ship off with us. But I think he'll do it. If he's really in it for the band and believes we can actually make it out there. We'll just have to find a new guitarist."
"It's gonna be hard." I told him.
He corrected me with a cheesy grin. "No... It's gonna be hard rock."
Roger's birthday arrived the following week. My mom wanted to throw a party, but I wasn't sure if that was such a good idea. The night before his birthday he was sleeping over at our house, but in the morning I awoke to find his sleeping bag empty. His car keys were still on the table.
My mother was extremely disappointed at this, and so she spent the morning hanging even more streamers and balloons to make up for his absence.
"When did you hang those?" I asked her. "Last night?"
"Ooh! Yes, doesn't it look great?"
"You are so weird. How late were you up?"
She just giggled.
I went to work on fixing the projector most of the day, and about 3:00 my parents left to a mandatory city council meeting necessitated by my father's cabinet position. My mom went along for the gossip and doughnuts.
Cindy had moved out at the beginning of the month, and was now fully moved in with Adam.
Luckily the rest of the family was gone when Roger decided to show up.
When I opened the door, I immediately assumed it was his father again, the way he was fidgeting about and shaking.
But upon closer observation, I realized he wasn't paranoid because he was fuming, but because he was high. To clarify, he'd dropped some PCP.
He told me this later of course, because he seemed incapable of staid conversation at the present time. He was babbling about a loft apartment with hardwood floors, constantly repeating himself. He kept assuring me how perfect the apartment was, and how Joe was supporting it too. And how they were gonna play music on their record player…
He continually squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, taking hold of the doorframe while speaking.
I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, slamming the door. The sound made Roger jump probably five feet. I didn't mean to slam the door on purpose- I think it was a subconscious combination of me being mad at him and fear of him being seen this way.
"What is wrong with you?" I asked quietly, a bit irate.
"Oh- Mark! It's gonna be great, we found one! We found it!"
"I know. You'd mentioned that already. Why don't you sit down or something? Are you okay?"
His knees buckled sideways and he nearly missed the chair, but managed to make contact and put his head down in his arms.
"Roger- are you-" Keys in the lock.
"MA-ark, we're HO-ome! Is the birthday boy here yet?"
Oh. My. God. Why the fuck were they home so early?
"Roger get up!" I hissed.
"But seriously Mark, it's like the best birthday present ever, I gotta tell you about it."
"…Not right now. Come on." I pushed his shoulder.
He stood up and walked in a little circle.
"We gotta go to my room."
"Why? Can I tell you please? Can we tell them?"
"No, we can't tell them! I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you but I will not let them see you this way!"
"Your kitchen smells AMAZING. Did your mom make bread? It smells like BREAD. Okay, so the apartment is in the East Village, okay? Which is going to be fucking amazing because- it's the East Village." He snickered. "And…it's really cheap. Which is SO convenient because we all plan to be starving artists! Because we're so fucking trite! HA HA. Can you just see us? Damn it smells like bread. So anyway, Joe is being refined about it and he was playing opera before- you ever listen to opera? Sometimes I used to but my dad hated it and he broke all my records. I like opera. My mom used to listen to it. Have you ever really, really listened to it? Okay, so Mark, you have to see this place. It's so…"
"Oh THERE he is! Happy BIRTHday darling!"
"Mrs. Cohen, are you making bread? It looks like fucking bread in here!"
This was too surreal.
I sat down in the kitchen chair for a moment and put my face in my hands. Then I leapt up and took a hold of Roger's shoulders and pushed him to the stairs.
"We'll celebrate in a minute mom. Roger isn't ready."
"Oh-uh, okay!" She waved her fingers. "You're going to love your cake!"
"Cake! Haha. Oh. Mark lemme tell your mom!"
I smacked him gently in the back of the head. "No! Shut up! Go upstairs."
"OW. Whoa. Whoa, ow. Ha. Dude, it's my birthday.
I am eighteen.
I am gone." He pointed down the hallway, out the window. "But, okay, okay. I'm going to have the experience," He made little quotations with his fingers. "'Start spreadin' the news' and all that bullshit. Fuckin' CBGB's! Joe thinks we're gonna revamp Studio 54 for God sakes, but I don't know…that neighborhood's being gentrified to all hell, but here we come! The Well Hungarians! The little avant-garde band of brothers! And Andy's place is in Hell's Kitchen- that's no fucking paradox. I think he's a racketeer. Hahaha…Dude, we should eat my cake. Oh man. It's just gonna be music, music, MUSIC, and the city."
I was so happy for him. Seriously, I was so overjoyed, but how could I know for sure if he was right about everything? At the present time anyway… I wanted to congratulate him and jump up and down and really celebrate, but did he really get an apartment? Or was this just distorted reality?
My dad came up the stairs behind us.
" 'Cuse me boys," My dad chuckled. "I have to use the little boys room."
Roger leapt down three stairs and landed in front of him. He fastened his hands to my dad's shoulders energetically.
"MIS-ter Cohen. Listen. We FOUND an apartment. Whoa…Did anyone ever tell you, you look JUST like Warren Beatty? No seriously. I mean, right now, you really do. MARK! Your dad IS Warren Beatty! You're fucking Warren Beatty! Bonnie and Clyde, dude!"
My father reeled back and wriggled from Roger's vice grip. In a very parental tone, he said, "Mark? What is going on here?"
I threw up my hands and sank to the steps. "You know dad, I don't know. This is all Roger."
"We got the apartment, that's what's going on! Why isn't anyone fucking celebrating!"
"Young man, you will watch your language when you are in my house! I have had enough Roger. I don't know what is going on here, but I think the police need to be called."
"What! Dad! No!"
"What, hang on, what!"
"No no, Mark, Roger is obviously under the influence. And that will not be tolerated under this roof. Either he leaves, right now, or I will make the phone call. And Mark, you have nothing to say in this matter."
"Dad!"
"Mr. Cohen, look, I'm really sorry! I just- hahaha…Warren Beatty."
"Roger!"
"Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Nancy, bring me the telephone!"
"Wh- no! No!" Roger looked at me, then back to my dad, panicking. He shifted his weight, grabbing the handrail and whipping down the stairs. He ran across the hallway and out the door, not even bothering to shut it behind him.