Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!
The telephone rang at nine o'clock in the morning; Mark dragged himself out of bed to answer. Certain Roger slept on, Mark had taken a 'personal morning', lying in bed and savoring the warmth, all too aware of the bitter cold awaiting him when he tossed off the covers. The telephone made him leave, not because, on that particular morning, Mark Cohen gave a damn about the rest of the world. In fact, he felt miserable enough that, had he been Atlas, he'd have been bowling.
But Mark did care about Roger. Despite his stubborn, selfish, arrogant personality, Roger had somehow wormed his way into Mark's heart. Mark loved him, platonically and, painfully, in the other way. Nothing Mark did could change that.
Caring about Roger didn't enable Mark to care for him, though. Mark could stroke himself through the tougher moments of his days, but once his nerves calmed he knew that nothing had changed. Roger continued to deteriorate, and nothing Mark did seemed to change that. So when the telephone rang, he abandoned good sense, leapt from his bed and snatched up the receiver.
"Hello?" he asked, praying it was Collins' voice he heard on the other end of the line.
"Hi, I'm calling from the Twenty-second Street Rehabilitation Clinic. Is this the residence of Roger Davis?" inquired a feminine voice. To Mark's surprise, the voice did not chafe with the bubbliness he expected of one so young--she did sound young.
"Yeah, but Roger won't-- I mean, he can't-- Roger's asleep," Mark stammered. Asleep like a colicky, crack-addicted baby.
"Okay," said the girl, "then is Mark Cohen available?"
"Yes. That's me," Mark said.
"Great! Do you have time to answer some questions?"
Mark checked his watch. "I guess so," he said, as though he had somewhere important to be. He did have work that day, a barely-above-minimum-wage job waiting tables from noon to five, but he needn't leave for another two and a half hours.
"Okay, first off, we need to know if Roger's been using again."
The response came without thought: "No, of course not." He won't leave the house. I'll bring home just about anything, but not drugs.
"That's good… Is he maintaining a healthy diet and regular sleep pattern?"
Regular sleep pattern? Yeah, he never wakes up. "Yeah. Um, he doesn't eat a lot of junk food or anything… mostly fruit and stuff." It wasn't a complete lie. Roger did eat fruit. He loved to eat fruit. There wasn't a fruit on the face of the earth, including the kiwi and the pineapple, that Roger Davis did not enjoy eating, because there was not a fruit on the face of the earth, including the kiwi and pineapple, that Roger Davis could not in some way relate to sex or the sex-related bits of anatomy.
"And is he able to sleep soundly?"
"No," Mark blurted before he could help himself. Shit! Realizing he had given the wrong answer, he amended, "I mean, Roger… since I've known him he hasn't been a very sound sleeper. It works for him."
"Okay."
The girl continued to inquire as to whether Roger was living a full, healthy life. Mark lied through his teeth. Yes, Roger had a job; Mark had finagled him a position at the restaurant where he worked, essentially flipping burgers. It wasn't particularly difficult or high-paying, but they managed. Oh, he worked six days a week, yes, both of them did, and they went out occasionally, them or them and their girlfriends and their friend Collins. Of course Roger took his AZT willingly, he took all of his pills. Roger was a happy man. He was living his life.
At last the girl reminded Mark of the many hotlines and support groups available for people coping with AIDS and those affected by this. "Thank you," he choked, his face awash with tears. That was the life he wanted for Roger. Why couldn't Roger want that life, too? It was a good life. Everything would be so much easier if both of them wanted the same things.
Mark sniffed and rubbed away tears. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. It wasn't going to happen. Not with Roger. What began as a pleasant morning was quickly becoming a sour day; the sole redeeming feature was that, at eight o'clock that morning, Mark remembered hearing grumbling and shuffling, then the sound of running water. Roger took his AZT.
Small miracles, Mark, he told himself.
Dispirited, Mark knocked on Roger's door, then entered without awaiting a response and settled himself on the side of the bed, beside the lump that was Roger. "Rog, you up?" Mark asked, forcing the words out in a bright slur. "Ro-o-o-oge-e-er…"
"Go away, glowing leprechaun."
"'Go away, glowing leprechaun'," Mark repeated dubiously.
Roger rolled over to sort of, almost face his friend. "Why do you wake me?" he demanded sleepily, not unkindly. "Why do you do this, Mark? I thought we were friends."
Mark smiled. Roger was being silly; okay, silly Roger was better than depressed Roger. Mark liked silly Roger. He was a lot of fun. "We were friends," he said, then quickly amended as Roger's eyes bugged, "Are! Are friends, we are friends!"
"So do a friend a favor and let him get back to sleep."
"Ha. Okay, well, you can sleep in a minute. I'm going out. Take your AZT, try to write something today…" Small miracles, Mark reminded himself. "…or just tune the Fender. I'm going out, probably see you around five-thirty. Be awake."
Roger pulled a pillow over his face. "Have a good day," he muffled.
"Thanks," Mark said, laughing. Something had changed. Roger had changed. Whatever had happened, Mark was pleased with it. Roger was awake, joking, he seemed to be happy. Mark couldn't remember Roger being happy since…
It was not when April died. Roger wasn't happy before that, either. It was the drugs, and the music, which never sounded as good to him as it used to, and why were his songs so flat when he was in love? Because you only loved the drugs. That was what April told him. They would fight, and every few weeks it was Mark sitting in the bar with half-drunk Roger, listening to him wonder what was going on with April and consider breaking up with her.
Mark had hated those nights
So Roger hadn't been truly happy with April. Eventually, he might have been, and she might have been, but she decided not to stick around and find out. And Roger fell apart: drugs replaced conversation, replaced food, replaced sleep. Replaced music. Certainly he had been unhappy then.
About that time, Mark had become afraid of Roger. Always there had been a wariness of him, but that was a natural thing: Roger was a big man with a short temper. He did many things that brought him only regret. But always there was the knowledge, one unable to conquer emotion but at least to stay it, that Roger cared too much about Mark to hurt him. Roger knew Mark would crumple under a single punch, and when he wanted to hurt Mark, in their most vicious fights, Roger chose cruel words to blows.
Then heroin made him a skeleton.
This review of Roger's recent, miserable life had taken Mark out of the loft and down into the underground, where he had filmed the blanketed beggars shivering under their tattered, mismatched raiment.
He silenced his narration--four years of high school had taught Mark how to avoid unnecessary fights--but said to himself, One gazes in fascination at these unfortunates, who bundle themsleves beneath every scrap they own.
He lowered the camera. It's almost tough to be sorry, he thought. Ever since Roger had come home from rehab, Mark had stopped giving change to beggars. He cared. He could not stop caring, with the painful twist of guilt in his gut insisting that he could afford the toss out whatever dimes floated in his pockets, but Roger mattered more. AZT was expensive, and in truth the decision more often than not was, for Mark, did the beggars matter more than Roger? More than food, more than film, more than guitar strings (G-d willing)?
And always, the answer was no. Social reform could wait. The documentary was for social reform. Mark worked for social reform.
He turned up the collar of his jacket and bent his head in a manner that might have been intending protection against the cold. As Mark strode from the station, the only flaw in this plan was his knowledge that the angry desperation of blanket people would not bounce off his poor armor. To avoid their scorn, Mark dove into his thoughts, where he heard nothing.
The heroin made Roger a skeleton. He would shoot up, and Mark would search for any excuse not to walk near his locked door. When Roger left the door open, as he mistakenly would when thinking of nothing but his next high, the sight of him prone on the floor made Mark nauseous. His 'kit' would lie in a messy pile on the floor: the spoon, the lighter, the needle and the little plastic bag.
Mark had stolen it once--the bag. He crept into Roger's room and took the bag, and that was that. Roger had accused Collins of taking it. It was a kind accusation, but an accusation nonetheless. "Did you take it?"
There was no question as to what it was. "No," Collins had replied honestly, "but I'm glad you lost it. Maybe now you'll actually get clean."
After a monumental fight between Roger and Collins, when Mark's nerves had barely calmed, as the five of them--Mark, Roger, Collins, Benny and Maureen--sat down to eat that night, Roger dropped his spoon. At first he could smile and pass this off as an accident, but anyone could see that he had started to sweat. When he picked up the spoon, it shook so badly he had to put it down again. Grinning weakly, Roger had said, "Guess I'm… just tired." He stifled a groan as he stood and wandered to his room. Even his walk had changed.
Mark and Collins traded glances. Shit. Roger was apologizing for their fight in the best way he could think of: by getting clean.
"You guys might want to get out of here for a couple of days," Collins warned the others. "This is… this isn't going to be nice."
Maureen laughed. "I think I can handle not nice," she said.
"Roger is going to scream," Collins explained, ignoring Maureen. "He's going to sweat. He'll be in pain and he won't sleep. He'll lock himself in the bathroom for hours, he'll vomit. No one would blame you for leaving for a couple of days." Maureen and Benny both agreed to leave. Mark shook his head. "You sure?" Collins asked.
"I'm not… gonna leave him alone for this. Or you."
So began the fruitless journey of Collins and Mark, trying to help Roger through withdrawal at home.
"And," Mark muttered to himself as, months later, he kicked up the stairs from the subway station, "it didn't even work."
He checked his watch. Where had the hours gone? Already it was past eleven o'clock, more than half past. Mark sighed and headed for work, determined not to let depression get the better of him. He knew better than anyone the dangers of that.
TO BE CONTINUED!
