Chapter 5

Boston, in a way, was a combination of two worlds.

The upscale shopping, the nice homes, the front of nicely dressed people, proudly expressing their upper middle class status reminded me of Scarsdale.

Boston also reminded me of New York.

From the moment I arrived at South Station, I knew I wasn't going to go back to New York - not Scarsdale and not NYC.

Still, I felt lost and out of place in Boston.

I only had a box filled with a small portion of my life. I suddenly had no idea where to go. A name flashed in my head.

Greg Garrison.

He, Benny, and I hung together at Brown. However, Greg and I were nothing alike. He was a big man on campus, studying law, and reveling in success and wealth. Benny was trying to get him to cash in on his studio idea. Greg came from money and would die from money, most likely, so Benny pounced on him. I think it was the only reason he was around - Benny knew how to be a kissass when he wanted to.

Greg tried to convince me to stay in school, to follow my father's ideals, to welcome success and money into my life.

Sure, I wanted success, but it was far from Greg's idea of success.

I left for New York with Benny.

Greg and I hadn't spoken since.

Though Benny, I knew he lived in Boston. Benny and I may no longer be friends, but we talked - small talk about the old days and such. I also knew that Greg was currently married to my old college girlfriend.

Another reason I saw no loss in our non-contact friendship.

Joan was wonderful. I fell for her as fast as I fell for Maureen. Jeez, I had a history of distancing myself with people, and maybe Joan was no exception. I didn't completely pour my heart out to her; I would just adore her. Funny, now I see I basically did the same thing with Maureen.

I gave up on dating for a while when we broke up.

Still, I was alone in the middle of South Station, with nothing but a box filled with a few pieces of my life. Maybe Greg could push me in a direction. After all, starting anew was sounding nice.

Starting over . . .

Alone.

Roger's words would forever echo in my head.

Past is past. Cindy is wrong. I had to repeat that to myself over and over again as I found a pay phone and dug through my pockets hoping I at least had a quarter and that Greg's number would be listed.

Joan picked up the phone.

Shit. Forget about the past . . .

"Hi. Joan." Pause. Swallow. "It's Mark Cohen." Swallow. "From Brown, remember? Well, I -"

"Mark?" I heard hesitation. I knew she remembered. Who could forget? We were together for two years.

Joan was the typical upper-class woman. She was ambitious, but had a sense of determination, that was not unlike Maureen's. I was far over her; I knew this. But I was also over Maureen. It didn't mean that it didn't hurt each and every time I saw her with Joanne.

Shit. What hole did I just dig myself into?

I almost hung up the phone.

"Mark?" she repeated. Pause. "It's good to hear from you." Before I could blink I heard her talking to Greg and I was getting directions to their apartment. After a T ride, I was standing in front of beautiful Boston estate. It reminded me of my parents.

Back in Scarsdale, I grew up in a nice house, part of the community that just screamed "materialistic." My mother was a lover of "things." She would spend money without even pausing to think about it. My father hated that.

For a second, I was having a nice normal memory of my family.

For a second.

I noticed rips in my family shortly after David's death. Every time my father came home from work late, mom would go out and buy something.
The night he claimed he was just doing paperwork.

New clothes.

The night he came home late claiming a patient crisis.

Jewelry.

The night he came home late with lipstick on his collar.

She called a contractor to redo the kitchen.

The night he didn't come home at all, though, she brought nothing.

She started smoking again instead.

By the time the divorce rolled around, she was a mess. A woman with far too many material things and a defeated spirit.

I couldn't stand to be around the person she'd become. More mothering than usual, pretending to throw herself into her children's lives.

It was no wonder Cindy eloped.

I stood in front of Greg's place, and knew this was a mistake. I needed distance. God, I ran from Roger because I needed distance from my feelings and here I was, about to walk back into the other part of my life. The part I hated more than anything.

I am so fucked up.

I turned to leave, when I heard the door open.

"Mark?"

Shit, it was Joan.

I could've keep walking or told her I wasn't Mark Cohen, that she was mistaken.

I turned instead.

"Yes."

Half an hour later, I was sitting at their dining room table, trying to avoid talking about my life - explaining why I was in Boston, clothes disheveled, holding a box of crap. I asked Greg about his life. Greg liked talking, especially about himself, so it was easy.

Joan played absently with her fork the entire time.

Greg told me I was welcome to stay.

Later that night, I stared out the kitchen window. It was late. 2 a.m. at least. I didn't hear Joan behind me until her hand gripped my shoulder.

I jumped and swung around.

She was standing there in her nightgown and I had a sudden flashback.

"It won't work, Mark. I want this life - you're unhappy. You shouldn't be here."

I knew I shouldn't.

"I envy you, Mark," she whispered.

I was shocked. I didn't say a word at first; I just looked at her.

"Why? I'm just fucked up, Joan -"

"No." She raised her hand up. "Maybe you're not happy, but at least you're out."

I was confused. She sighed.

"I said I wanted this. You were understanding." She paused. "I was wrong."

She moved closer. My heart made the same leap it did when I was twenty, sitting in the student union as she brushed up against me, reading a textbook over my shoulder.

"Mark." She looked at me and I wasn't prepared for her. Shit, I was taking a trip down memory lane, down the memory lane that began in Scarsdale and ended in NYC.

And was slowly replaced with other memories.

Then she kissed me.

Joan was beautiful. She still was. Wavy red hair. Sparkling green eyes. The kind of woman any man would love to kiss.

I ran.

I broke the kiss and ran. Grabbed my box, my shoes, and left.

I didn't need this.

I spent the night walking, trying to think of anything but Roger, Mimi and her pregnancy, NYC, Joan.

I thought about change.

I stood in front of the Charles River with my camera, poised to shoot. The scene was beautiful, perfect for an opening scene, the camera panning across slowly . . .

I put the camera down and shut it off.

The next day I bought a newspaper and looked at the want ads. A week later, I ended up at a small commercial company, doing editing work. I hadn't picked my camera up since that night at the Charles. Instead I was editing crappy local commericals that would do nothing toward a successful film career. I got the job purely from my editing skills from my only close-to-being-completed film.

Several people at work said I should be marketing that film.

Instead in was in a box, lacking the proper ending and to me, was a record of a time that I let my detachment, my guard, down just the slightest bit.

Joan shouldn't envy me.

I wasn't going to go back.

Even though I was physically still, I was still running.

I didn't know if I'd ever stop.

Chapter six coming soon . . .