Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all.
Nameless, faceless, soul-sucking corporations…they took the rest, but they won't take Mark.
Roger: Why are you asking me these questions?
They want me to do a story about him.
Roger: Who's "they"?
The people I work for.
Roger: Nobody works for themselves anymore. So ask me whatever you want.
He was found dead this morning.
Roger: Tell me something I don't know.
How does that make you feel?
Roger: Are you retarded?
No.
Roger: Then how stupid are you to ask a question like that? But never mind, you wouldn't understand anyway. You don't remember feelings, do you? You put on your brave, stoical façade in front of a camera-or a person-remember people?-and ask them things that you don't care about.
But I do care.
Roger: Like hell you do.
How do you feel?
Roger: I can't describe it. Like there's this huge hole in me. Like I'll never stop crying. Is that what you want to hear? Or the truth? I haven't cried yet. It will take me a while.
The truth.
Roger: Alright. I'm a person of routine, you know? And I like change and stuff, but I want something constant in my life. Mark was my constant. He was always there when I got home, he was always there to pick me up if I was too wrecked or high or what the fuck-ever. He was inside of me…
Inside of you?
Roger: We made love almost every night.
How has this affected you?
Roger: Are you fucking kidding me?
This lack of Mark? Not having him there? Not having the sex?
Roger: We made love.
They're the same thing.
Roger: They're completely different.
They're synonymous.
Roger: You wouldn't understand.
Getting back to the question…
Roger: I don't feel like it.
I have to submit this interview.
Roger: Live by deadlines, do you? Who do you care about? Who do you answer to? That voice inside of you, or the voice on the intercom that gives you a handout every week? I knew Mark sold his soul when he went to Buzzline.
(Silence falls as the interviewer remembers the sweet feel of the paycheck in his hand, given to him by the masters of his life. Had he once had a soul too?)
Roger: I'm getting bored. Are you quite done yet?
I need more for this obituary. We knew little about him.
Roger: Like you care.
Buzzline cares deeply for its employees.
Roger: An "it" can't care.
Can you tell us about his personal life?
Roger: He loved me. I loved him.
Something deeper than that?
Roger: That's as deep as it gets. You're too shallow to get the meaning of it. Ha, I made a pun, just now. My love just died and I can still laugh. When did you last laugh? Call your wife? Bet you got kids. When did you last talk to them? How old's your daughter? Does your son still have his front teeth? What about your wife-she still pretty as she was the day you got married?
I don't know.
Roger: (smirks in a satisfied way). I repeat my statement: I'm bored.
Okay, we can be done.
Roger: (standing up) That's prize material right there. Careful-don't win a Pulitzer. Be ready to do a follow up on me sometime soon.
A follow up?
Roger: I don't want us to be apart. Nothing can separate us. I never did get your name.
Does it matter?
Roger: (laughs) Nah, I guess it doesn't. We'll never see each other again.
No.
Roger: Well, see ya. Wouldn't want to be ya.
(Roger exits the poorly lit room. The interviewer sits back down in shadow, sighing. How long was it since he saw his wife? His kids? How old were they? What were their names? He had had sex this week, but when did he last make love?)
He probably won't survive through the night. If he doesn't take himself, the grief will. I could tell by being around him, how emotional he was. Behind the arrogance, the caustic remarks, the eyes…I could see everything in his eyes. He knew everything about me without having met me before. He's so receptive. He picks up everything, and remembers it, perfectly, like…like…
Like a camera.
I hope they'll be happy together.