MARK
We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Mark, and my
roommate, Roger. We live in an idustrial loft on the
corner of 11th Street and Avenue B, the top floor of
what was once a music publishing factory. Old rock
and roll posters hang on the walls. They have Roger's
picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the Pyramid
Club. We have an illegal wood burning stove; it's
exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of our
electrical appliances are plugged into one thick
extension cord which snakes its way out a window.
Outside a small tent city has sprung up in the lot next
to our building. Inside we are freezing because we
have no heat.
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