Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.
ROGER
I only know the time from the hands of the neon-lit clock behind the bar: 1:53 p.m. I'm cold and confused; my eyes and nose sting from the intoxicated air. The bar is not abandoned, completely, thanks to the group of college-aged boys clustered around a sticky-topped wooden table, occasionally letting off a loud cry of triumph and amusement. I cannot bring myself to agree with them. I sit at a table, feeling too small on the deep bench. Across from me sits the man who is my father.
"I didn't know," he says. He is fairly lucid, but thoroughly drunk, looking at me and seeing somebody else. "I didn't know what was going on when they came… through the streets. In the air. I didn't know. They tell you what it is, they say they're training you, but…" Dad paused to shake his head. "Nothing can prepare you. I walked out seeing gloss… I killed somebody."
The bottom drops out of my churning stomach. I'm less sleepy now. What's going on? What does he mean? I don't know much about Dad's past. He's quiet about it, hides the German accent so well that even when he is angry or drunk he does not slip, save into speaking the words perfectly. I never asked about his past.
I never imagined it could be so bad. Dad killed someone? When? Why? I want to ask but don't dare. He looks as though he's in a trance, and if I break it, I just know he'll be furious. He'll realize who I am, I'm Roger, I'm the bad son, not the son he takes out in the middle of the night to talk to, not the person he chooses for company. My heart's bursting that he chose me. At the same time… he can't've wanted me. I'm just waiting for him to call me 'Peter'.
"They put a gun in my hands and I fired it."
Jesus. I repress a shudder at the thought, and immediately sneak the fork off the table and push it against my palm. It's not right to think that way, not about a parent.
Dad pulls a chain out from beneath his shirt and takes it off. It's a necklace. He hands it to me. "Do you know who this is, Roger?" he asks.
I shake my head. It's a man in a vaguely crude Renaissance style drawing. He sits atop a horse bearing a sword in his hand.
"That's Saint George, Roger," Dad says, like this should mean a lot to me. I know the basic stories: Saint George rescues a damsel, Saint George slays a dragon. I never cared for the metaphors. Didn't dragons deserve life, too? And who said ladies are virtuous? Hell, Cindy Cohen disproves that theory. "He's the patron saint of soldiers. Saved my life during the war."
And he tells me: "I killed a man, Roger. I shot him dead, just pff, gone. After that I dropped my gun and ran. Wasn't much of a soldier. I found a window, cracked, to a store cellar, and spent weeks there before the Americans found me. I spent the whole time listening to gunfire and praying. And I'm alive, Roger. I'm alive."
My heart jolts, because I realize when my father fought. Gooseflesh ripples across my arms and legs. I knew he was in Hitler Youth during the war, but I never knew this. My father was a soldier. My father was a murderer. My father… my father fought--and killed--in the streets of Berlin.
---
The next day, I'm sitting in history class wondering how nothing has changed. It's me and Mark and Collins in the back of the class, me and Mark and Collins not really writing our essays because Mark has big news for us. About two weeks ago I was ready to strangle Mr. Cohen for the mood he sent Mark to school in, but the next day Mark told us--Collins and me--that he felt much better, he and his dad had a long talk and everything was sorted.
I want to talk about the things my dad told me. I need to think and I can't. Thinking isn't my forte, but Collins and Mark are quite good at reasoning things through. They're smart in ways I never could be.
But I can't ask them. I don't need them to look at me that way. Already my blood hurts me. It's dirty. It's tainted. My father, my own father, the things he did… I'm nauseous thinking about it. How could he? As it strikes me that what he did was thoroughly disgusting, I think of the camps and it occurs to me… I look strangely at Mark. I know his grandfather was in the camps. What about his father? I do the math in my head: Cindy was born nineteen years after the end of the war. It's possible Mr. Cohen was never in the camps. It is possible.
I shiver, breathing easier, though I know it doesn't matter. Mark would hate me, anyway, if he knew.
"You okay?" Collins asks.
I look up. Oh. He means me. I nod. "Fine."
He doesn't believe that. "Okay. Mark, you were saying?"
Mark takes a deep breath, his face plastered with glumness, and tells us, "Cindy… killed the bunny."
My face cracks wide open with pent-up giggles. I glance at Collins. He's more restrained, but his eyes are smiling. "You serious?" he asks. Mark nods, then buries his face in his hands. "Mark, it's okay, man."
"I'm selfish," Mark murmurs.
As Collins tries to comfort him, I leap out of my seat and stride to the front of the room. "Mrs. Jones?" I ask. "Could Mark, Tom and me have a moment outside, please?" She looks up, ready to ask why, and I jerk my head. She notices Mark and nods. I go to the back of the class. "Come on, Mark," I say. "Collins, let's go."
Behind the classroom, I hug Mark and rub his back. "It's okay," Collins tells him.
"I don't see how," Mark admits. "Cindy's having a baby… fuck… and all I can think about is myself."
I glance at Collins. He knows something. He knows something that I don't, and for some reason, that makes me hurt. After a moment I realize it's envy. Mark always talks to me. He came to me when his grandfather was dying. Wasn't I good to him? Wasn't I a good enough friend?
In this moment, I hate Collins. Why does he have to be so perfect? Why does he have to take my friend? Worst of all is the knowledge that I could not possibly compete. Mark deserved a friend like Collins, not some substance-abusing little Nazi whelp. I turn to go.
"Roger?"
I turn back. Mark, tear-stained, watches me with his mouth open. "Yeah?"
"Don't," he says. I put my arm around his shoulder, and I feel like a liar because how can I comfort him, how can I be his friend, knowing what I know?
We sit outside for a long time, talking about Cindy and what she did. She won't name the father, Mark says, and his parents don't know if they're going to keep it or not, but it's hard to listen to. They speak as though the decision is their to make. "I want to know what she wants," Mark says. "It's… I never thought this would happen, something like this…"
Collins hugs him. I light up a joint and we share it. After he takes his first puff, Mark doubles over, coughing. He's never had marijuana before, and momentarily I feel a pang of guilt. They tell you that drugs are bad, and well, I guess a part of me thinks so. But it's not a constant rule. Collins, for example, he uses marijuana a little but only a tiny bit, it relaxes him. I smoke a lot, I mean not too much and it doesn't change me that much, I just like it.
But it's different for Mark. Collins is so smart, nothing can change that, it's super-human. Me, doesn't matter since I'm not smart, not headed for college. Mark's different. Mark's better. Even so, when he reaches for the joint, I only hesitate half a second before handing it to him.
Mark's a good student with a future so bright he oughta wear sunglasses, but he's a person, too. He needs to be treated like one.
The joint upsets Mark. I don't think he even gets a buzz, he just looks at me and says, "How can you do that? Stop it! I can't do this, I'm going to college!" I think he's angry with himself for having taken the joint at all. It's so much easier to blame me. I brought the drugs, I lit up, so it's not his fault for taking it, it's my fault for offering it. That's crap, but I'm not one to go off at someone as upset as Mark. Besides, the marijuana is calming me.
"Mark, they smoke tons of pot in college," Collins says.
Mark starts to cry. I pull him into my arms and rub his back. "Shh, shh," I whisper. I've done this so many times with Sarah, so many times wished someone would do it for me, it's second nature. "Shh, sweetheart, it's okay. You're okay." I don't even know I'm calling him the name until it's done, and then it's too late, but Mark says nothing so I assume he accepts it.
And two days later, during English class, I finish Mark's play for the second time, grinning insanely. Mark has always been my best friend and I've always thought the world of him, but Mark is a genius and here in my hands is irrefutable proof. Okay, it's not perfect, I admit that. The father is difficult to believe and Matt has no spine, but there's more potential here than… than even a blind man could miss! I hug the notebook to my chest and give it a good squeeze.
I don't notice the paper on the floor until Mr. Simpson points it out. "What's that?" he asks, already picking it up. I haven't a clue, but apparently Mark does because he's frozen and the color is draining from his face as Simpson opens the paper. His eyes widen slightly, and he says, "Who… is this yours, Roger?"
I glance at Mark. I'm fairly certain the paper was in the notebook, and fairly certain it's worth a pinch of trouble, and though I've never minded trouble Mark hates it, especially now that his parents aren't even allowing him over to my house unless my parents are there, which they aren't of course, and I miss Mark like mad. But that's not exactly something one says, is it? I miss you, Mark. I miss spending time with you. It'd be okay to a girl, maybe, but to him…
So this is an opportunity on all fronts. I take the blame and spare Mark the trouble. I catch that trouble for myself and finally Dad looks at me. He hasn't let his eyes linger since giving me the Saint George, which I've not taken off except in the shower, and even then I'm quicker than usual and I slap the chain around my neck even before grabbing a towel. Whatever Mark's done is with disciplining, and Dad has to look at me, acknowledge me to discipline me. So I'm glad to be in trouble for Mark. I'm glad to help and glad to be seen.
"Yes," I say. "It's mine, Mr. Simpson."
Simpson nods. He folds the paper, unable to look at it, and says, "I'd like you to stay after class, Roger." I nod.
After class, I'm still sitting at my desk. Simpson and I are the only people in the room. "Roger," he says, then pauses. I wish I knew what was making him so uncomfortable. "Um… try not to bring that stuff to class, okay?" he says. "I know you know better. It's… it's just not appropriate for you to be thinking about… hormones during class. You should be focusing on studying."
I nod. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Simpson," I say, adding the title to assure him of my utmost respect. And I do respect Simpson, though he's a bit pathetic and sad. He's middle-aged, single, and sometimes wears a suit to school 'because it's fun to dress up once in a while.' "It won't happen again."
He nods. "Okay, you may go, Roger."
"May I have it back?" I ask.
Simpson hesitates, then nods. He hands me the paper. "I know you'll be careful about this," he says, "so all I can think to say is, make the right choices."
"I will," I promise. I sling my bag of my shoulder and head out to break, unfolding the paper as I do.
My heart catches in my throat. Shit. This is a picture, a hand-drawn picture of a boy, and that boy is stark naked. That boy smiles up through long eyelashes; he has one hand resting on his inner thigh, almost touching himself, the other reaching out with splayed fingers. He seduces and hints at a secret. He wears his nakedness like a grand cloak, proud of his skinny torso and the penis--circumcised, I note--attempting to hide, though an outline remains of a more prominent member, erased as the artist lost his note.
And that boy is me.
I know it is. He looks like me--not down there, he and I are nothing alike in that region, but he has my long fingers, complete with cross-hatched calluses and bitten fingernails. And at the bottom of the page, my name is written.
Mark is home from school, which is just as well. I have the chance to think about this, figure out what's going on and how I feel about it.
I knew he was gay. I mean, I thought I knew. What I never considered was that he might be gay for me. Mark and I, we're close. I'm comfortable sleeping in bed with him, or was when his parents let him come over to my house. Sometimes it wasn't even for sleepover nights. If he was tired or upset about something, I told him he could have a nap if he wanted, and if he had trouble getting to sleep I sat with him or played a little. We never talked about it. We would wake up together and that was just fine, end of story.
And I figure, I liked that. I like lying close together with someone, especially with Mark. So if it's a little hot for Mark, well, I'm fine with that fact. Sometimes a guy needs closeness. It's not hurting either of us.
---
I slip the oven mitts off my hands and toss them on the counter. A baking tray rests on the stovetop, topped with tiny little golden-brown twists of dough. I grin at Collins. "Come on, Tom. Let's eat out on the porch." I scoop a few handfuls into a bowl, careful not to touch the hot sheet of metal. "You okay sharing a dish?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, "it's no big deal."
We sit cross-legged on the back porch. It's dark out and raining fairly steadily; despite Collins' assurances that he's fine walking home, it's no big deal, I'm already waiting for the moment to ask him if he'd like to spend the night. "Is 'no big deal' a California thing?" I ask. Collins doesn't say "cowabunga" or "dude" or anything like that, but there are little things he says that are just different. Mark says "no big deal", too, but maybe he picked it up from Collins and I never noticed.
Collins shrugs. "I wouldn't know," he tells me. "I'm still pretty thoroughly California."
I pick up a wonton and crunch into it. Mmm, we've done quite well, Collins and I. I chase the hot dough with a slug of Coke and ask him, "Would you tell me about it?" I have to raise my voice to be heard over the din of the rain. "Tell me about California."
"Okay… what do you want to know?"
"I dunno. Do you speak Spanish?"
He nods. "I lived in L.A., that's not far from the border."
"Say something in Spanish."
"Vivo en el Pueblo de la Reina de Los Ángeles," he says. "'I live in The City of the Queen of Angels, which is what L.A. is really called."
"Say something else."
Then Collins sighs, rolls his eyes at me, teasing, opens his mouth and says in a high voice, "Ay, que dolor! Me caí en un hoyo!"
"What's that?" I ask.
"Aah, the pain! I fell in a hole!"
When it's too cold outside we move up to my room. I slide onto the floor. Collins sits beside me.
"I like your glowstars," he says.
"Thanks. Wanna see 'em glow?"
He does, so I switch off the lights and we lie, head by head but with our feet pointing different directions, and watch the stars stuck to my ceiling. We breathe, and it could be the silence of darkness, but our breathing is much louder now than it was before.
"Do you miss Los Angeles?" I ask after a while.
"Sometimes," Collins admits. "It helps having friends here. It helps having somewhere to miss, too."
I know what he means. Sometimes, when I'm particularly upset, I wish I could have a place to run to, gardens to conjure like Mark does or a city across the nation like Collins left behind. Mine is no place but the feeling lifting my chest as I strum my guitar and hum a little tune and sometimes, if I trust my voice, sing.
"Roger."
"Hm?"
"I'm--"
The door opens. "Roger? Could I have a word with you, please?"
It's Dad. I understand that though he phrased it as a request, he was not asking. I stand. "Um, if you'll excuse me," I say to Collins.
Dad leads me into his room. I've never thought of it as Mom's room, though she sleeps there, too. I can see her clothes in the closet and smell her perfume lightly on the air, or perhaps it has soaked into the creamy bedsheets. I sometimes think my parents aren't around enough to leave an imprint on the house, but in their bedroom I see things of a humiliatingly intimate nature, things like jewelry, a little bottle of pills, used underwear.
"This was in one of your schoolbooks," Dad tells me, pulling my attention back to him. He's shaking a folded sheet of paper, and I know immediately that it's Mark's drawing. "I…" He shakes head, unable to believe, unsure where to start. "Say something!" he snaps at me. "Don't you have anything to say? Don't you know it's disgusting?"
"It's not disgusting." Usually, when Dad starts shouting, I start goading him. I start saying all the right words, the ones that make him the angriest. This time, I'm just saying what I believe. Homosexuality just is. It's not right or wrong.
He smacks me across the mouth. "Yes it is, Roger."
"No, Dad, it's not."
"Don't give me cheek," he warns, as he's always warning. Dad's always warning me. Don't give me lip. Don't talk about that. Don't read this. Don't leave your stuff lying around.
"I'm not. It's okay to be gay, Dad, it's--"
Another smack. "Not in this house."
What I do then, I don't know if I do it from habit or because it's honestly funny. He thinks I'm gay? Absolutely not. Sure, I can look at guys and appreciate a pretty smile, a nice ass, but I'd rather see it on a girl. Penises don't turn me on. It's so ridiculous that my father thinks I'm a homosexual, I start to laugh. Gay? Me? It's just not plausible.
When he hits me this time I'm already red in the face and a little loopy from the laughter, it's that hard, and I topple right over and stop laughing when my shoulder hits hard against the wall. "Pornography," Dad mutters. "Faggot porno."
Every time I think clearly about this, when I'm lying in bed or in the bath and I'm calm and secluded enough to think about these moments from a purely logical standpoint, I promise that next time I'll curl up and squeeze into a corner to protect myself, but right now, while he yanks me to my feet, I know that my skin is flaming with pleasure on the place at the base of my neck where his knuckle scraped my skin. I know that I'm not thinking about the wall and how quickly it comes up to me, I'm thinking about the fact that it's his hand cupping my head. I'm thinking that it's his voice speaking to me, just me, only for me.
After a while he stops. I don't know how long it's been. He sets me on my feet and straightens my shirt and says, "Ask your friend to go home now, Roger."
That's when I start to feel bad. I start to, and as I turn from the room I feel worse, and by the time I reach my bedroom door all I can think of is what must Collins think now? And I'm ashamed. The ugliness of my family has been aired in public, aired for him, for the boy who won't judge or ridicule, who will just put it all into painful, honest perspective and make me feel about this in a way I'm not comfortable feeling.
I know he's staring at me, but I can't make myself look back at him. "I think it's better if you go now," I say. "I'll see you on Monday."
"Rog…"
He reaches out to touch me, but I repeat, "Monday." Because it's Collins, I add, "I'll explain on Monday."
"I understand," he says, telling me it's too late, he's already set in his belief. Shit.
---
On Saturday morning, I slide into the desk next to Mark's. He looks positively green. "Hey," I say, grinning. "Ready to kick some SAT ass?"
Mark swallows loudly, shakes his head and takes a drink of water. I wonder if he slept last night. "C'mon," I encourage him, "just show them how great you are."
The proctor calls us to attention and instructs us in basic things, which pencil to use (#2) and how to fill in our answer documents. The test begins, three hours of questions, and even I feel a stir of nerves as I open the booklet, though I don't care about college. Maybe, maybe not. It's an option, but unlike Mark, I don't think it's the only option, and specifically probably not the right option for me. School has never suited me.
But as I scan the test, my nerves ease. Why was Mark studying and stressing about this test? It's the easiest thing I've ever seen.
TO BE CONTINUED!
I promised drama, didn't I? And it will get evenmore dramatic. Snicker. Reviews are always loved!
On history: In the Battle of Berlin, most of the German soldiers were members of Hitler Youth.
