The Gemini

30 - Birth of A Gemini

January 2, 1979

"Paul Magers, News 11. Our top story this hour: a New Years Eve tragedy. Police were called to the residence of Chris Moon early this morning after a body was found at the bottom of an embankment not far from Moon's home. Guests report that the man found, 21-year-old Andre Anderson, had been attending a party at Moon's when they noticed him go missing just before midnight."

"Minneapolis's own raising star Andre Cymone was found dead early this morning. Authorities say that foul play is a factor."

"This just in, a man found dead after possibly taking a slippery fall. Authorities are ruling out suicide, talks instead of possible murder. The victim, Andre Anderson. Many of you may know him as local musician Andre Cymone. Known for the songs 'Why You Wanna Treat Me So Bad?' and the newly released smash hit, 'I Wanna Be Your Lover.' Cymone, whose debut album was released a week ago, was only 21-years-old."

Roger shut off the television, plunging the room into darkness. Lying back onto the bed he shut his eyes. Still the pleas echoed. For help they called but no one answered. No one was there to hear them. Only Roger and the man that took everything from him. The man that snatched all that he had left. The man to whom he did the same.

.......................

December 31, 1978

Two hours until midnight. 120 minutes until the ball would drop. Dick Clark on the television. All around Roger were smiling faces. Laughing bodies that danced to the music. His music. He didn't want to be here. He didn't even care.

This was Cynthia's doing, dragging him here to this party.

"We always go to Dre's for New Years. What's different about this one?" She'd said.

The girl was dumber than a post. But she could give a good kiss and her accent was even better. The combination was enough to make Roger put up her. Still she didn't know shit. Anyone with eyes could see that Roger wasn't in the mood. But she kept pushing until he went along anyway.

This wasn't just another of Dre's partys. It was a celebration of thievery. The big hurrah. Walking in the doors of Chris's mini mansion, Roger expected there to be banners hanging about that donned the words: "Congratulations, you backstabbing son of a bitch!"

There weren't any. But there were balloons and streamers, stupid party hats on peoples heads, and dumb kazoos being blown even though it was no where near time to count down.

Roger wasn't a drinker but he took one from the bar man anyway. He didn't know what it was. When the man asked what he'd like, Roger shrugged and said alcohol.

"All them bottles back there, pick one and pour it."

He wasn't the mood for stupid questions. As long as it burned on its way down it didn't matter what it was. Maybe it could burn away the negative energy that surged within.

No such luck. The drink was gone now and he still wanted to sucker punch the world and all that inhabited it.

One hour until the midnight. Cynthia found him and wanted to dance. She got him to come to this party but he'd be damned if he was going to dance to pilfered music. Besides, he didn't feel like being touched. He only wanted to make like Greta Garbo and be left alone.

Chris's house was bigger than any that Roger had ever been in. The white carpet was nice. He wished that there was mud on the bottoms of his boots so that he could track it all about. The walls were a hideous beige. In his head popped a thought; maybe he should get Cynthia's lipstick from her purse and scrawl around. A big fatly written "Traitor " would really pull the place together.