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.