.Mimi stopped coming by after the first few night's Roger was here. Nobody could get here on the phone, and her apartment was empty. She stopped showing up for work. Nobody knows where she is again. Maybe I prayed for Mimi to come back. I couldn't deal with Roger on my own. Or perhaps I prayed for Roger, because what the hell am I going to do without him?
Walking down the hallway, I stopped and asked somebody working at the nurse's station what time it was.
Six twenty nine.
That meant that I could walk to the loft, take a shower, change, and get back to work.
"You're late!" some guy shouted at me as I chained up my bike in front of the Life Cafe.
He was standing there, in front of the big sign, smoking. It was the manager. I hadn't even bothered to learn his name yet, despite this being my third day of work.
"Sorry," I mumbled. I hurried inside, tying the bottom half of the apron around my waist. A stack of orders was shoved into my hand and along with a wet rag.
"These people need their food, and tables three and eleven need to be waited on," a loud, boisterous waitress told me. Her name was Sally. She reminded me of an older and heavier Maureen. Good thing Maureen isn't.
There was nothing worse than having to work with something I've gone so long without. It was almost unbearable to throw away the food that people left on their plates. It made me so angry that people who come here everyday for lunch can throw away half their meal and then at the loft all you can find is a can of cranberry sauce that's probably black because it's been expired for a year or so. That they have enough money to waste on lunch while we have to count pennies from the couch cushions to pay for the AZT.
I was beginning to think that being broke was better than having money. I'd rather be a starving friend than a rich sell-out.
"Look who's back," Roger said with his eyes partially closed. I thought he was asleep. "When the hell are you going to get me out of here?" I shut the door and sat in the chair beside his bed.
"I don't really know..." I began. I didn't really know what to say, that is. "Whenever you think you're ready." I told him.
"I think I'm ready now," Roger said. "I want to go home." his free hand went through his hair.
I just sat there for a moment. Did that mean that he wanted to be with me? Or that he just wanted to go home?
"I'll ask the doctor when you can come home," I told Roger, not looking at him directly. I could already see the hurt look in his eyes, an almost half empty look.
I was ready for him to come home, I had a little bit of money in my pocket. I could easily put in my two days' notice and walk, since I had money to my name. I just wanted everything to get back to some sort of normal, whatever that was.
When Dr. Scales walked in, Roger gave me a knowing glance. I didn't know what to say, I froze up. I didn't want to seem too eager to take Roger home, yet I didn't want to seem like I just wanted to abandon him at the hospital.
"How much longer do I have to do this?" he asked the doctor once he looked up from his clipboard briefly.
"At least throughout the night. Unless you'd like to break it up into sessions?" Dr. Scales asked.
"No, no. I'd rather have it all done at once." Roger said hoarsely. I saw him nervously eye the needle that was stuck in his arm.
I found it quite peculiar that he didn't mind all the needles and syringes when he was a junkie, but now, they always seemed to irk him. I assume that's a good thing, that he really has changed after all.
"Tomorrow, we'll do another T-Cell count. Depending on those numbers...I'm sure they've improved," he added quickly. "Somebody will check up on you in a little bit." he said, walking out into the hallway.
"Can you close the door?" Roger asked quietly. He looked a bit discouraged. I got up and did so. I sat back down in the chair next to him, and scooted it a little closer to his bed. "Take me out of here, Mark. I don't want to be another AIDS statistic. Another drug using, bisexual man who dies of this and ends up being apart of the pariah group to the world." Roger said all in one breath. I lowered my head. "I don't want to die like Angel. "
"But he had us in the hospital." I mumbled.
"But he still died in vain. Anybody who dies of this will die in vain. I'd rather die in the loft than in the hospital." he choked out. "I'd rather be hurting and in pain than here day in and day out. At least at the loft -" he stopped suddenly. I didn't know what was wrong. His eyes looked glazed over, his pupils suddenly dilated. "It hurts," was the only thing he said.
I took his hand and tried to comfort him. He would experience a million more things that I will never have to go through because of this. And there wasn't any way to avoid it. I moved a few pieces of hair out of his face. His expression was unreadable. I saw his other hand slowly inch towards the morphine drip they'd given him and press down hard on it. In a few moments he was asleep.
"If there's any other way, I'll do anything for you." I crooned into his side an hour later. I couldn't stop crying. It was more like a quite sob than anything. I took his hand and placed it on top of my head, careful not to squeeze down too hard on the needle that was strategically placed there. I felt his hand gently smooth down my hair. I looked up, and he was still asleep. He smiled sadly to himself in his sleep. Maybe he was dreaming of life after this.
I'd like to say thanks for the reviews so far. & a big thanks to my beta - Tigg Pawns. Feedback is always wanted.