CHAPTER ONE, PART III
III
On the long bus ride home the next morning, Mark pondered over the events of the night before. It had been awkward, at first, to meet Tim, but the two had eventually begun to foster a grudging friendship. To Mark’s surprise, Tim had seemed genuinely pleased to meet him, and interested in what he had to say. Now that he had met Tim, Mark felt he could forgive Lauren more completely for watching their movie with someone else. He knew what he had done had been just as bad-even worse. But he was still upset about the movie. Their movie.
The bus swung round a corner, sending Mark into the young woman next to him, and nearly causing a small child to topple over. Mark apologized hurriedly to the young woman, and sighed. Riding the New York City public busses really wasn’t very safe anymore. Did the drivers even get trained these days? What kind of tests did they have to pass, before they were allowed to go roaring down the avenues in busses filled with twenty, thirty, forty people?
Mark glanced out the window. One tenth and Central Park West. They were getting there. Another sigh. Now, what did he have to do today? Mark checked his pocket diary (which, naturally, he kept in his over-sized, bulky messenger bag, not in his pocket). He flipped through the worn pages, trying to find September. Here we go! Ok, the eighteenth. Eighteenth of September… eighteenth. He turned the page, and there it was. Examining the entry, he learned that he was supposed to go out to visit Stan in New Jersey. Well, that should take up a good portion of the day.
“One ten and Broadway!” the bus driver announced. Well, at least he bothered to call out the stops. Not so many did that, nowadays. Mark shoved his calendar back into his bag, and slammed his shoulder against the back door. It slowly creaked open, and he ran out onto the street. He jogged to his apartment, which was just a few blocks away. If he wanted to reach Stan’s house before nightfall, he’d better get changed quickly, and take a cab down to Penn Station.
Stan lived about an hour outside of the city, in a little suburban town. He was a good friend of Mark’s, despite being several times his age. When Mark was a teenager, Stan had become almost like a father to him. For all his grouchiness, the guy could be a true, supportive friend. It had been Stan’s kind words-along with Lauren’s-that had convinced Mark to stay in college, even during the rocky times he faced in his junior year.
Mark had met Stan when he was just fourteen, a year after the death of his mother. Stan’s wife at the time (now his ex) had been a close friend of Mark’s aunt, whom he’d been living with at the time. Stan had immediately taken to him, and within a few months Stan began to take him to movies, help him with homework, and do all those other little things that dads do. Mark’s father had left his mother when Mark was only a toddler, so these things had been completely novel to him. And he’d really enjoyed being able to talk one on one with another guy-not just a friend, but an older, more experienced man. It was the first time he could really discuss hormones, crushes, and all that.
Even though Stan had become rather snarky with age, Mark stayed devoted to him, because of the support he’d received as a teenager, when he had needed it the most. That was why he still traveled out to New Jersey to visit the aging man, on a pretty regular basis.
He would visit Stan more, but the train service wasn’t too great. It was such a hassle, just to get down to Penn Station, then the tickets were expensive, then the train ride was long. And, since Mark didn’t have a car, he had to either walk the four miles to Stan’s house from the train station, or take a cab. The fact was, it wasn’t cheap to get out to Warfield, where Stan lived. Mark didn’t make very much as an artist, and he was mainly living off of his mother’s inheritance and what money his aunts could send him. Still, for Stan, he was willing to spend the money, and make the effort. He just didn’t get out to Warfield as often as he’d like to.
Since it was a lovely, crisp late summer’s day, Mark decided to walk to Stan’s house. He loved walking. It was just about noon, when he got off the train, and the air was warm. He took off his jacket, and carried it over his shoulder. Fall was, perhaps, Mark’s favorite season. He loved to watch the brightly colored leaves, falling, falling… until they formed lush beds of orange, red, yellow, and brown. As a child, he’d loved to jump into the piles of leaves, and swim in the bright pigments, the leaves crackling against his sweatshirt. He still did that, sometimes, even though it felt foolish, now that he was “grown up.” Although Stan still called him “my boy,” half in jest, half in all sincerity.
But the leaves hadn’t quite begun to dance down onto the pavement, yet. Mark smiled as he walked, anyhow. He just enjoyed the lovely weather, and the beautiful surroundings. Warfield was a pretty little town, composed mainly of little brick colonial houses, with neatly painted white verandahs and shutters. Some of the newer places looked odd, but many had tried to paint their houses in such as way that they fit in with the rest of the town.
Stan’s house was rather large, for a single man, but he’d bought it back when he was living with his ex wife, Mariah, and her two children from a previous marriage. When Mariah and her children had moved out, Stan had given Mark a room of his own in the Warfield house. He still kept it ready for Mark, always ready. The linens were kept clean and crisp, and Stan always told his maid to clean the window, and add a bouquet of flowers every so often.
It nearly broke Mark’s heart that he couldn’t stay in that little room more often. As a teenager, he’d stayed in it quite a lot-whenever he had an arguments with his aunts, he would run over to Stan’s place and fling himself on the bed. These days, he only stayed there once or twice a year. Stan’s dedication to Mark and to the little room made Mark wish he could repay him for it all. He tried to repay Stan, in what way he could: with art. Every year for Christmas, Mark sent his older friend a painting or print or his own, or by an artist friend. Because of these gifts, Stan’s house was filled with paintings.
Mark rounded the corner onto Elm Boulevard, where Stan lived. Spotting the house, he started running. “Stan! I’m here!” he called, bounding up the front steps. There was a pause, and then a happy shout.
“Mark!” Stan came to answer the door still in his pajamas, slippers, and tartan bathrobe. “Watcha doin’ here so early, Mark? But am I please ta see ya!”
“I’m hardly early Stan,” Mark said, embracing him, “it’s just about one o’clock.”
Waving Mark into the house, Stan exclaimed, “Really? Is it so late? Holy Jesus! I thought it was ‘bout eight in the mornin’. Well, just goes to show, time really flies, doesn’t it?”
“It really does,” Mark agreed. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. It was true, time did fly. He wished it didn’t.
“So, Mark? How you been? By the way, come on in to the living room, I was just watching a movie.”
“Really? What movie?”
“Oh, ah… watchamacallit? I think it was The Lord of the Rings or something… the movie with all the rings and short people and whatnot?”
Mark laughed. He had to admit, it was a rather apt description of the recent fantasy epic. “Are you liking it so far?”
“Well yeah, I have to admit I am. You know, when I was a kid, our movies were much more low-key. You had to go to the movie theaters, if you wanted to see one. And they were pretty cheap too-a nickel, a dime, a quarter. By the time I was old enough to go to the movies on my own, it was up to a quarter, I think. That was half my allowance, you know! When I was twelve, my mother and father used ta give me fifty cents a week! And what did you get, when you were twelve? You got five dollars, didn’t yah, Marky Mark?”
“Yeah, that’s true. But think about the inflation, Stan. Everything cost a lot more when I was growing up then when you were growing up.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. That's for sure. But, like I said, things have changed. You’re much better off than I was as a kid.” Seeing Mark’s dubious expression, Stan added, “Money wise, money wise, Marky Marks. When I was growing up, sometimes my dad couldn’t even afford food for all of us-you know, I had five brothers and sisters. Sometimes we would have to go out and beg for food. So when we were nine, we started to work. The fifty cents allowance I got was a portion of my paycheck. I earned five dollars a week, I am proud to say. Now you don’t say anything, Mark, because it was way more than my brothers and sisters, and it was a lot at the time.”
“I know, Stan, I know-“
“Hush, boy! I’m tryin’ ta tell a story! So as I was saying… what was I saying? Oh yes, yes. So I earned not so much then, yeah? Well it kept my family from starving, I can say that much. So when I was twelve, my good old dad started giving me some allowance. Sometimes I would give in and spend it on a movie-one of those read good ones, those westerns-or some candy, but usually, usually I say, I would save up my money. I had this big jar where I kept all of it, you know? And then when I was eighteen I used that money to buy a car. My first car! Ah, she was a real beauty, a real beauty!”
“Ok, ok. I know, Stan. You’ve told me this before, a thousand times.” If there was one thing Stan was great at, it was rambling on and on. Once he got started, he never stopped. “Come on,” Mark said, trying to divert Stan, “let’s go upstairs and watch some LotR!”
“What’s that, Mark? You brought over some weird science fiction watchamacallit? Because I don’t like those things, Marky Marks. They’re so weird. You know the whole Star Trek craze, or whatever it was-that TV show, you know what I mean…”
“Don’t worry, Stan! LotR is just a geekified way of saying “Lord of the Rings.” Mark chuckled, and started up the stairs. “Are you coming?”
Stan stared at him. “Well yeah, yeah. But since when are you a geek, Mark? Do you have some secret computer addiction I don’t know about? Have you started playing those video game things with all the sorcerers running around in long capes and things?”
“Nope, I’m still the same Mark I was when you met me, with plus or minus some maturity, and with short hair. Don’t worry, Stan. I just know some geeky terms. I spend a lot of time on the internet, you know.”
“Ah, well, I’m very glad to hear that. I’ve seen some of those ‘geeks,’ as you’ve dubbed them, and they’re pretty scary. They sit around all day at the arcades at the mall, playing games and yelling. They’re really very rowdy… not a good sort.” Stan rubbed the tip of his nose, an indication that he was truly worried. He always seemed to rub his nose, just like that, whenever he was anxious about Mark.
The thought that someone would be really troubled by the possibility of him being a geek amused Mark greatly. Nevertheless, he tried not to laugh. Stan seemed very serious, and it was generally best not to disillusion him. “Those are just the gaming geeks, Stan. The only kind of geek I’m in danger of becoming is an art geek. Or possibly a computer geek. Hm… maybe even a movie geek?” Mark feigned an evil laugh. “Oh, imagine the possibilities!”
“Eh…?” Stan looked hopelessly perplexed.
Mark grinned. “Don’t mind me. I’m just being a goof. You know how I am. Always being crazy!”
“Well, yeah, I suppose that’s true. You always were a bit of a goof,” Stan admitted. He rumpled Mark’s hair, and started up the stairs. “I guess we’d better get on that Lotter, or whatever you geeks call it.”
“Yeah, I suppose. And it’s LotR, by the way.”
“Oh… ok. Come on. Up the stairs we go!” For a man of eighty-six, far past his prime, Stan sure was agile! He practically darted up the stairs and threw himself into his blue armchair in the living room.
Hurrying into the room, Mark chose a large, comfy looking recliner. “Ready to start the movie?”
“Lotter?” Stan snorted. “Yes, I sure am. Will you just dim the lights, young man? I can’t stand watching movies when in a brightly lit room. There’s something just wrong with that!”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” Mark jumped to his feet, turned off the lights, and closed the door. “You ready now?”
“That’s great, thanks.” Stan gave a sigh of contentment, and sat back in his chair. Then he picked up the remote and examined it carefully. “From the beginning, Marky Marks?”
“Nah, don’t bother. Wherever you left off is fine by me.”
“Ok, here goes.” In a simple, practiced motion, Stan pressed “On,” and then “Play.”
Comments are welcome! I'm hard at work on Part IV. Plot is building up, I sweaaarrr...
On the long bus ride home the next morning, Mark pondered over the events of the night before. It had been awkward, at first, to meet Tim, but the two had eventually begun to foster a grudging friendship. To Mark’s surprise, Tim had seemed genuinely pleased to meet him, and interested in what he had to say. Now that he had met Tim, Mark felt he could forgive Lauren more completely for watching their movie with someone else. He knew what he had done had been just as bad-even worse. But he was still upset about the movie. Their movie.
The bus swung round a corner, sending Mark into the young woman next to him, and nearly causing a small child to topple over. Mark apologized hurriedly to the young woman, and sighed. Riding the New York City public busses really wasn’t very safe anymore. Did the drivers even get trained these days? What kind of tests did they have to pass, before they were allowed to go roaring down the avenues in busses filled with twenty, thirty, forty people?
Mark glanced out the window. One tenth and Central Park West. They were getting there. Another sigh. Now, what did he have to do today? Mark checked his pocket diary (which, naturally, he kept in his over-sized, bulky messenger bag, not in his pocket). He flipped through the worn pages, trying to find September. Here we go! Ok, the eighteenth. Eighteenth of September… eighteenth. He turned the page, and there it was. Examining the entry, he learned that he was supposed to go out to visit Stan in New Jersey. Well, that should take up a good portion of the day.
“One ten and Broadway!” the bus driver announced. Well, at least he bothered to call out the stops. Not so many did that, nowadays. Mark shoved his calendar back into his bag, and slammed his shoulder against the back door. It slowly creaked open, and he ran out onto the street. He jogged to his apartment, which was just a few blocks away. If he wanted to reach Stan’s house before nightfall, he’d better get changed quickly, and take a cab down to Penn Station.
Stan lived about an hour outside of the city, in a little suburban town. He was a good friend of Mark’s, despite being several times his age. When Mark was a teenager, Stan had become almost like a father to him. For all his grouchiness, the guy could be a true, supportive friend. It had been Stan’s kind words-along with Lauren’s-that had convinced Mark to stay in college, even during the rocky times he faced in his junior year.
Mark had met Stan when he was just fourteen, a year after the death of his mother. Stan’s wife at the time (now his ex) had been a close friend of Mark’s aunt, whom he’d been living with at the time. Stan had immediately taken to him, and within a few months Stan began to take him to movies, help him with homework, and do all those other little things that dads do. Mark’s father had left his mother when Mark was only a toddler, so these things had been completely novel to him. And he’d really enjoyed being able to talk one on one with another guy-not just a friend, but an older, more experienced man. It was the first time he could really discuss hormones, crushes, and all that.
Even though Stan had become rather snarky with age, Mark stayed devoted to him, because of the support he’d received as a teenager, when he had needed it the most. That was why he still traveled out to New Jersey to visit the aging man, on a pretty regular basis.
He would visit Stan more, but the train service wasn’t too great. It was such a hassle, just to get down to Penn Station, then the tickets were expensive, then the train ride was long. And, since Mark didn’t have a car, he had to either walk the four miles to Stan’s house from the train station, or take a cab. The fact was, it wasn’t cheap to get out to Warfield, where Stan lived. Mark didn’t make very much as an artist, and he was mainly living off of his mother’s inheritance and what money his aunts could send him. Still, for Stan, he was willing to spend the money, and make the effort. He just didn’t get out to Warfield as often as he’d like to.
Since it was a lovely, crisp late summer’s day, Mark decided to walk to Stan’s house. He loved walking. It was just about noon, when he got off the train, and the air was warm. He took off his jacket, and carried it over his shoulder. Fall was, perhaps, Mark’s favorite season. He loved to watch the brightly colored leaves, falling, falling… until they formed lush beds of orange, red, yellow, and brown. As a child, he’d loved to jump into the piles of leaves, and swim in the bright pigments, the leaves crackling against his sweatshirt. He still did that, sometimes, even though it felt foolish, now that he was “grown up.” Although Stan still called him “my boy,” half in jest, half in all sincerity.
But the leaves hadn’t quite begun to dance down onto the pavement, yet. Mark smiled as he walked, anyhow. He just enjoyed the lovely weather, and the beautiful surroundings. Warfield was a pretty little town, composed mainly of little brick colonial houses, with neatly painted white verandahs and shutters. Some of the newer places looked odd, but many had tried to paint their houses in such as way that they fit in with the rest of the town.
Stan’s house was rather large, for a single man, but he’d bought it back when he was living with his ex wife, Mariah, and her two children from a previous marriage. When Mariah and her children had moved out, Stan had given Mark a room of his own in the Warfield house. He still kept it ready for Mark, always ready. The linens were kept clean and crisp, and Stan always told his maid to clean the window, and add a bouquet of flowers every so often.
It nearly broke Mark’s heart that he couldn’t stay in that little room more often. As a teenager, he’d stayed in it quite a lot-whenever he had an arguments with his aunts, he would run over to Stan’s place and fling himself on the bed. These days, he only stayed there once or twice a year. Stan’s dedication to Mark and to the little room made Mark wish he could repay him for it all. He tried to repay Stan, in what way he could: with art. Every year for Christmas, Mark sent his older friend a painting or print or his own, or by an artist friend. Because of these gifts, Stan’s house was filled with paintings.
Mark rounded the corner onto Elm Boulevard, where Stan lived. Spotting the house, he started running. “Stan! I’m here!” he called, bounding up the front steps. There was a pause, and then a happy shout.
“Mark!” Stan came to answer the door still in his pajamas, slippers, and tartan bathrobe. “Watcha doin’ here so early, Mark? But am I please ta see ya!”
“I’m hardly early Stan,” Mark said, embracing him, “it’s just about one o’clock.”
Waving Mark into the house, Stan exclaimed, “Really? Is it so late? Holy Jesus! I thought it was ‘bout eight in the mornin’. Well, just goes to show, time really flies, doesn’t it?”
“It really does,” Mark agreed. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. It was true, time did fly. He wished it didn’t.
“So, Mark? How you been? By the way, come on in to the living room, I was just watching a movie.”
“Really? What movie?”
“Oh, ah… watchamacallit? I think it was The Lord of the Rings or something… the movie with all the rings and short people and whatnot?”
Mark laughed. He had to admit, it was a rather apt description of the recent fantasy epic. “Are you liking it so far?”
“Well yeah, I have to admit I am. You know, when I was a kid, our movies were much more low-key. You had to go to the movie theaters, if you wanted to see one. And they were pretty cheap too-a nickel, a dime, a quarter. By the time I was old enough to go to the movies on my own, it was up to a quarter, I think. That was half my allowance, you know! When I was twelve, my mother and father used ta give me fifty cents a week! And what did you get, when you were twelve? You got five dollars, didn’t yah, Marky Mark?”
“Yeah, that’s true. But think about the inflation, Stan. Everything cost a lot more when I was growing up then when you were growing up.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. That's for sure. But, like I said, things have changed. You’re much better off than I was as a kid.” Seeing Mark’s dubious expression, Stan added, “Money wise, money wise, Marky Marks. When I was growing up, sometimes my dad couldn’t even afford food for all of us-you know, I had five brothers and sisters. Sometimes we would have to go out and beg for food. So when we were nine, we started to work. The fifty cents allowance I got was a portion of my paycheck. I earned five dollars a week, I am proud to say. Now you don’t say anything, Mark, because it was way more than my brothers and sisters, and it was a lot at the time.”
“I know, Stan, I know-“
“Hush, boy! I’m tryin’ ta tell a story! So as I was saying… what was I saying? Oh yes, yes. So I earned not so much then, yeah? Well it kept my family from starving, I can say that much. So when I was twelve, my good old dad started giving me some allowance. Sometimes I would give in and spend it on a movie-one of those read good ones, those westerns-or some candy, but usually, usually I say, I would save up my money. I had this big jar where I kept all of it, you know? And then when I was eighteen I used that money to buy a car. My first car! Ah, she was a real beauty, a real beauty!”
“Ok, ok. I know, Stan. You’ve told me this before, a thousand times.” If there was one thing Stan was great at, it was rambling on and on. Once he got started, he never stopped. “Come on,” Mark said, trying to divert Stan, “let’s go upstairs and watch some LotR!”
“What’s that, Mark? You brought over some weird science fiction watchamacallit? Because I don’t like those things, Marky Marks. They’re so weird. You know the whole Star Trek craze, or whatever it was-that TV show, you know what I mean…”
“Don’t worry, Stan! LotR is just a geekified way of saying “Lord of the Rings.” Mark chuckled, and started up the stairs. “Are you coming?”
Stan stared at him. “Well yeah, yeah. But since when are you a geek, Mark? Do you have some secret computer addiction I don’t know about? Have you started playing those video game things with all the sorcerers running around in long capes and things?”
“Nope, I’m still the same Mark I was when you met me, with plus or minus some maturity, and with short hair. Don’t worry, Stan. I just know some geeky terms. I spend a lot of time on the internet, you know.”
“Ah, well, I’m very glad to hear that. I’ve seen some of those ‘geeks,’ as you’ve dubbed them, and they’re pretty scary. They sit around all day at the arcades at the mall, playing games and yelling. They’re really very rowdy… not a good sort.” Stan rubbed the tip of his nose, an indication that he was truly worried. He always seemed to rub his nose, just like that, whenever he was anxious about Mark.
The thought that someone would be really troubled by the possibility of him being a geek amused Mark greatly. Nevertheless, he tried not to laugh. Stan seemed very serious, and it was generally best not to disillusion him. “Those are just the gaming geeks, Stan. The only kind of geek I’m in danger of becoming is an art geek. Or possibly a computer geek. Hm… maybe even a movie geek?” Mark feigned an evil laugh. “Oh, imagine the possibilities!”
“Eh…?” Stan looked hopelessly perplexed.
Mark grinned. “Don’t mind me. I’m just being a goof. You know how I am. Always being crazy!”
“Well, yeah, I suppose that’s true. You always were a bit of a goof,” Stan admitted. He rumpled Mark’s hair, and started up the stairs. “I guess we’d better get on that Lotter, or whatever you geeks call it.”
“Yeah, I suppose. And it’s LotR, by the way.”
“Oh… ok. Come on. Up the stairs we go!” For a man of eighty-six, far past his prime, Stan sure was agile! He practically darted up the stairs and threw himself into his blue armchair in the living room.
Hurrying into the room, Mark chose a large, comfy looking recliner. “Ready to start the movie?”
“Lotter?” Stan snorted. “Yes, I sure am. Will you just dim the lights, young man? I can’t stand watching movies when in a brightly lit room. There’s something just wrong with that!”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” Mark jumped to his feet, turned off the lights, and closed the door. “You ready now?”
“That’s great, thanks.” Stan gave a sigh of contentment, and sat back in his chair. Then he picked up the remote and examined it carefully. “From the beginning, Marky Marks?”
“Nah, don’t bother. Wherever you left off is fine by me.”
“Ok, here goes.” In a simple, practiced motion, Stan pressed “On,” and then “Play.”
Comments are welcome! I'm hard at work on Part IV. Plot is building up, I sweaaarrr...