Author's Note: Yeah…so, uh, random poetry intervals. This one being "O Captain, My Captain" by Walt Whitman.
Mark's breakdown should be poetic... I'm attempting to do him justice by inserting literary masterpieces into his thoughts. Alas, poetry and tragedy sometimes do go hand-in-hand...
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...Begin scene: Fillmore East nightclub, New York City, Tuesday night.
The players? Renegades and regulars to Manhattan's finest underground. They are the dejected and daring crowd I...used...to like to film. They are raring to go- to be expected, groveling at the feet of Roger's second attempt at a revival show. His revival, in a way...
This is no Hungarians gig. Roger has since grown up and trudged through hell and back. There was an innovative and completely unfamiliar sensation to this entire event. But as always, Roger wasn't playing music. He was living it.
I smile.
The centerpiece? The stage, of course! With Roger at its helm. Oh Captain, my Captain!
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel, grim and daring…The storm of the moshpit rages beneath Roger's ship. Will he steer us home alive?
...The antagonist? A.I.D.S.
But O heart! Heart! Heart! The bleeding drops of red…
Navigate, Roger, navigate.
Enter Joe- First mate, bassist, port side. O Captain, he looks to you for the compass. You're playing too fast for his accompaniment. Quite frankly, you've taken the ship, Roger.
Play Roger, play. The waves crash beneath you. They worship you.
A single spotlight!
Starring: Roger Davis. A solo! Eyes closed, head back, he listens and lives each note. He has abandoned ship. He is outside himself, drowning in the waves cascading from his Stratocaster.
The chorus of the song climaxes. He's gaining speed.
Roger carefully grips the bridge of the guitar, gently yet furiously working the pick upwards.
I close my eyes, waiting to witness the exasperation through sound- the reason Roger was a musician.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shiver. Every show, it never ceases to amaze me how majestic, how...good Roger is.
I open my eyes to capture the last haunting notes of the song, watching just in time as Roger's hand seems to miss the guitar's neck.
The pick flies from his fingers, almost in slow motion, and the backside of Roger's hand hits the strings, causing a terrible 'twang' of a noise. Seemingly at the same time, Roger stops singing to watch his pick twirl to the floor...
As it hits, Roger's knees buckle and he lurches forward, jaw smacking the mic stand- feedback deafening the crowd. The tidal waves- the moshpit- slowly ceases movement and turns as one to watch the guitarist fall toward them, Stratocaster whining uncontrollably in protest, and then 'crack'! snapping in half as Roger's body hits the stage, chin bouncing off the footlights, vomit spewing from his mouth...
"Roger!" I yell, running forward. Where on the deck my Captain lies...
Everyone else at the show has the same idea, and my passage to the stairs is blocked by the tsunami of panicking and concerned fans, all screaming in confusion.
Roger's drummer and bassist rush to his side, grabbing his arms. They hoist him to his knees, as security keeps the onslaught of people from rushing the stage.
Roger's eyes roll back in his head and he gurgles, white foamy spit mixed with brownish vomit trickles down his chin. He shakes and heaves again, yellowish puke running down his shirt and over the broken guitar that remains strapped over his shoulder...
Joe takes hold of his arms and the drummer grabs his feet, as they struggle to carry him to the stage door. Roger turns his head sideways, spewing blood all over Joe's arms.
"Noo!" I scream, ramming my shoulder into a man pushing ahead of me. I never was good at moshing…
I miraculously shove my way to the front of the crowd, bounding up the stage steps and standing face-to-face with a muscular security guard, who pushes my chest.
I bite my lip and glance frantically over the guard's burly shoulder as Roger disappears behind the curtain. The security guard seems to recognize me suddenly, moving ever so slightly to the right to allow me through.
I run, hard, nearly tripping over the fallen microphone, fumbling through the heavy curtain, screaming, "Roger!"
Joe is struggling to hoist the limp Roger into a chair as I stumble backstage, coughing, "Joe, you gotta go wipe off your arms! Let me take care of him!"
Joe yelps and flinches, grabbing for a sweat towel laid on a nearby vanity. Roger sputters a liquidy cough, and I run to his side and hold his head up so he will not choke...
The drummer dials 911.
Joe watches in disbelief, wiping crazily at his forearms with the messy little towel.
"Get a new fucking towel! Use soap and water!" I scream at him. Tears well up in my eyes. April all over again.
Roger moans quietly and shakes, teeth rattling. I hold his head steady as he froths, eyes glazed.
"What's goin' on Roger…?" I ask, almost angrily.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still…I push Roger will all my might into a seating position, using my knee as a prop, sliding the slimy, broken guitar over Roger's head. His breathing begins to get faster, lungs constricting and filling with fluid. I hold his shoulders still.
Joe returns, arms glistening with water, eyes wild.
"You TOLD us you could handle this SHOW!"
Barely cognizant, Roger tears himself from my grip, lunging at Joe's legs, pulling them out from under him.
"Roger!" I yell, diving for my best friend just as he loses consciousness.
I half kneel, squatting with Roger in my arms, for fifteen minutes, until the paramedics arrive. They take Roger from me, pulling us apart...
Then they examine me for any open wounds, cleaning off my hands and forearms.
Roger lays quietly on a stretcher, paramedics reviving him with a manually pumped oxygen mask, his face devoid of color.
O Captain, my Captain. Exult o shores, and ring o bells…