Chapter Four

I cringe when I see the sign.

Welcome to New York.

I am a mere thirty minutes away from NYC, the loft, a life I knew everything about only two and a half years ago.

There was only two months between my realization, and, well, Boston.

Every time I saw Mimi run to the bathroom because of morning sickness, I felt fear creep up on me. Roger's smile drove me to the solitude of my room.

I knew what I was doing.

Distance.

You pretend to observe and create
When you really detach from feeling alive

No one noticed at first. I would slip out whenever talk about the baby came up. I had lunch with Joanne one afternoon and she mentioned Roger and Mimi.

I changed the subject.

Maybe Joanne noticed something was wrong then. Maybe not. I left the loft often, claiming filming as the reason.

Truth was, I never shot anything.

I just wandered, trying to convince myself that Cindy was wrong, that I could get past this.

I missed David more than ever.

It was July. I walked back into the loft after another useless stretch of wandering. Roger was there alone, on the couch, his guitar in hand. Pamphlets from the clinic around the block were scattered around him.

The door clicked behind me.

"Hey." Roger looked up at me, the back down.

"Hey."

I did a quick survey of the room. "Where's Mimi?"

"Work." He absently played the same chord over and over again. I pushed some of the clutter away to sit next to Roger. One particular piece of paper struck me and I picked it up.

The HIV positive child.

Shit.

My eyes fell to Roger again. His mood told me he'd read it. I let silence fall between us and Roger stopped playing. His eyes strayed toward me and the pamphlet in my hand.

"Christ, Mark. Don't ask." He got up abruptly. I just sat there staring down. I was afraid to open my mouth. If I did, I knew I couldn't offer reassurances.

"It's the real world, Roger," I found myself saying before I could even think about it. Roger turned back to me, walked over, and grabbed the paper out of my hand.

"Yeah, well, the real world sucks." I wondered if he and Mimi had gotten into a fight over the subject. I let my gaze fall to his again and I saw it. The "just tell me there's just hope, Mark" look. The look that started back during his withdrawal. The days filled with reassurances made to bloodshot eyes. His diagnosis and all the "It can be okay, Roger"s and the "don't act like you're done with life" and "you need to get out of the house."

He needed another reassurance.

And I was supposed to be the dependent one.

And, fuck, I couldn't give reassurance to him. Instead, I grabbed the pamphlet back from him.

"Jesus, Roger, I can't." I flung it back at him. "I don't know if it'll be okay. This isn't a fucking reminder to take your AZT. This is a risk. A risk that be more life-changing than drugs, than -"

If I'd been wise, I would have stopped there.

"Shit, even if you and Mimi manage to have a baby that isn't HIV positive, what's gonna happen when you're --, you're, when you and Mimi -" My voice cracked. I couldn't say the word. I got up from the couch.

"And what if, more realistically, this kid is sick? Not only would you and Mimi worry about day to day infections, but you'd have a baby to worry about too."

Roger just stared at me. I needed to stop. I knew I did. I knew I needed to or this conversation would move far beyond Mimi's pregnancy. It would move into territory I couldn't -- wouldn't - face.

"Don't tell me anything I don't fucking know!" Roger countered back. He walked toward the door. "I need to go out."

"That's right, walk out. Walk out of every potentially serious conversation. Just like I'm sure you did when Mimi wanted to have this conversation." I guessed at the last one. Figured Mimi was the one who went down to the clinic. Shit, I was getting aggressive here. I should just back away, change the subject, take a gentler tone . . .

Roger stood frozen at the door, his hand on the knob. He turned it.

"Right, walk away. Mark's crazy. Just fucking crazy. Go."

Silence.

"You should fucking talk."

He was now face to face with me. The loft door was swung open and forgotten.

Just back away, gentler tone . . .

"Me? I'm not the one that's trying to ignore a conversation that borders on reality?"

"Reality? What the fuck do you know about reality, Mark? Behind that fucking camera; it doesn't change. Film, joke it off, fill Roger's head with false reassurances, detach from the world around you. All of a sudden reality pops into Mark's head. Reality's been here a long time, Mark. Who's been avoiding it now!"

He was shouting.

Back away . . .

"Forgive me. I don't have as much fucking sorrow in my life as Roger Davis."

Gentler tone . . .

I was ignoring my own advice.

Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive

Roger wasn't letting down.

"The great Mark Cohen and his fucking advice. Think he knows about life. The guy who says he spends his trying to get closer, when he really just backs away. Same old thing. Months later and it hasn't changed. No wonder you're fucking alone, Mark."

His words echoed through my head.

Alone . . .

I snapped.

"Fuck you, Roger." I picked up my camera as I spoke. I headed toward my bedroom. "Fuck you!" Before I knew it, I was throwing things into a box. Roger was at my door.

"Christ, dramatics," he commented.

I dropped my camera into the box, picked it up and walked past Roger. I stopped at the couch and turned to him.

"You know what, Roger? It won't be okay. It'll be fucked up. And that kid will just have to deal with the fact that he's got selfish shit for a father."

I walked out the door, down the stairs, giving that one glance up before heading toward the subway.

New York was no longer a part of my life.

Today, I realize that my trip wasn't much different then Santa Fe.

I'm such a hypocrite.