Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Chain Link Fence

Picture Roger Davis, eight years old, at the edge of the baseball field, catcher's mitt on his left hand.

Picture his fingers gripping the chain link fence as he watches Bobby Marrow land on second with the whooping of his teammates cheering him on.

Picture the sad green eyes, the longing to belong, the itch to run the dirt diamond with the other boys.

"Davis, you're too scrawny," Jason Markson had taunted earlier, as he was left out of the pick. Roger watched 9 year old Nick Cartier walk over to the 'Tigers' team as the kids split up, moved towards the pitcher's mound, and re-congregated to flip a coin.

He fell behind, retreated to the chain link fence and watched the game progress.

Picture a hurt tear sliding down the dirt-smudged cheek before he turned to hide the humiliation that burned through his small body.

Picture the little Davis boy walking home by himself in the middle of the street, over-sized baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and Chuck Taylors untied with dirty shoelaces dragging on the asphalt. Hands swinging low at his sides, pace slow and unwilling - the sun setting behind him.

Picture the disappointment on his father's face when little Roger finally admitted he didn't get to play.

"I don't understand you," Said the beer-tinged breath and the glazed eyes, "What is wrong with you? Why don't you just play?"

But Roger couldn't say, "Dad, they don't like me for some reason. I want to play. I really do. They won't let me."

Instead, with the cowlick that always tumbles into his face as he takes his ashamed little boy stance, Roger says, "I don't know."

And the clucking of the tongue starts. The rolling of eyes starts. The rough hand on his neck as he's pushed a little less-than gently into the kitchen for dinner. The silence of his mother's body as his father starts on the whole "being a man" gig. The whole growing up to be a MAN, Roger, and men play baseball and go to work and make the living. Men drink beer and watch games. Men don't cry, Roger, they don't cry.

And the green eyes aged, and Roger was ten, thirteen, sixteen, eighteen. He played guitar and skipped gym. Pushed the jocks in school and had a best friend that was a girl. Stood up for Mark Cohen, the kid with the glasses and the camera, and refused to get a job.

The beer-tinged voice, the man, got violent. Got pushy, told his son "not to be a fag". Told his son to grow up. Told his son that being a rockstar was not a good way to live life. Was too much of a cheap way out.

And the green eyes aged, and Roger was nineteen, and then twenty, and he'd run away from the little house he grew up in, moved into a loft with Mark Cohen and an anarchist and performance artist and a beautiful redhead named April.

Got addicted to drugs, lost his beautiful redhead, and fell in love with a junkie. Became best friends with a drag queen with more life then anyone he'd ever met. Helped his best friend with his now-lesbian ex-girlfriend.

And he wouldn't change it for anything. Not to live in the suburbs, drink beer, play baseball or 'be a man'.

Picture Roger Davis, twenty-seven years old, with a cool wet rag on his forehead, coughs rumbling from his chest.

Picture his fingers gripping Mark's tightly, as he watches his best friend hide his tears.

Picture the bittersweet green eyes - the green eyes that had aged, lived, seen good and bad, the eyes that were beginning to die. The eyes that had lived life to the best of his ability.

Picture the man that had succeeded in his biggest goal - to be himself. To not be his father. To die knowing he'd tried his hardest.

Picture the green eyes sliding closed, and the filmmaker's sobs filling the room. Picture the sadness, the bittersweetness, the hope.

The life, the man, the songwriter, the little boy, standing behind the chain link fence.