Fanfic: Down For The Count
So, this is unbeta'd, but I felt like I was falling behind in the whole FF100 thing, so I'm about to post it anyway. Every and all mistakes are, of course, mine. That's about it.
Author: Stephanie
Fandom, Characters: RENT, Mark, Roger/April, Roger/Mimi, Joanne/Maureen. If you're *really* looking, you might catch a glimpse of the one-sided Benny/Mark, but I doubt it.
Prompt: 2. Middles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,790
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Mark has always been in the middle.
Author's Note: This might be my first fanficion that doesn't involve both the "fanfiction" and "slash" tag. Eerie.
Down For The Count
Round One: Shirley H. Cohen Verses David J. Cohen
Ten-year-old Mark Cohen knows what to do when his dad isn’t home by six.
Since that’s the time that Brady Bunch comes on, and he’s never really liked that show anyway, he turns off the TV, grabs his notebook, and heads to the kitchen.
As far as her son can tell, Shirley Cohen lives in the kitchen. She’s always baking or cooking or just clean up around the kitchen. When she’s bored with that, and Mark doesn’t see how she cannot get bored of being in the same area all day like that, she sits down at the breakfast table and watches TV. Mark feels that it must be a very dull existence, and that it makes sense that his mother is always complaining about how much she cooks and cleans and never gets out. He doesn’t understand why she doesn’t just go do whatever it is grown-ups do for fun, but then he’s just a ten-year-old boy so he can’t tell his mom what she should do.
He sits at the table and opens his notebook, tapping his pencil against a blank page. Mark as always been rather fond of writing, which his mother says is because of his vivid imagination. Mark is the type of kid you can let loose in the backyard and he can spend all day stalking around without a single toy, muttering to himself and acting out scenes from the movies in his head. He’s a little embarrassed that he still does this even at ten, when all the other boys are talking about girls and video games and sports. So he’s stopped playing so much and started writing down all the things that go through his head.
His mother stands over the sick, scrubbing the sides to get rid of the lasagna sauces. She always complains about making lasagna, but Mark knows it’s her favorite meal. Why else would she make it so much if she hated cleaning up? She looks up at Mark and says, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
According to his mom, his bedtime is at seven. According to his dad his bedtime is at ten. Mark compromises by going to bed at eight and staying up until ten daydreaming.
Mark shrugs and looks down at the notebook paper. His stories are always a little weird, he thinks. All the other boys pretend to be cowboys or space pirates. Mark always thought it be cool to be a homeless orphan living on the streets, struggling to survive. Or a boy trapped in a house that’s on fire, trying to break down the door to his little sister’s room to save her in time, or a kid working in a factory under a hard boiled boss who beats him and the girl of his dreams until he finally gets to courage to whisk her away and the police are sent to track them down, so they have to live in the sewers for a month and she gets sick and he has to kill a doctor and steal his medicine, and then she says she can no longer love him after what he’s done and he’s so heart broken that he hands himself over to the cops and she regrets telling him such a thing and has to break him out of jail but then-
“When you have kids,” his mother says, brushing some hair out of her face and leaving a line of water across her forehead. “You’re going to be a great father.”
Mark doesn’t nod. He knows he’s not expected to answer, just like that he’s expected to get married and have children and go to college and have a good job let his mother live with him when she’s too old to care for herself. These are things that Mark has been raised to expect from himself and they’re so ingrained that he never questions them.
His mom turns off the water and starts fishing under the sink. “You’re father, he works to hard,” she says, coming back up with her pail of cleaning equipment. “I remember when we meant, he seemed like such a sweet guy.” She shakes her head, grabbing a spray and some towels and pulling open the oven.
Mark writes down “The Factory by Mark C. Cohen” across the top margin of his notebook.
“I worry you’re going to be like this,” She says, voice muffled as she leans into the oven, scrubbing and spraying and constantly cleaning up everyone’s messes. He knows the last part because she is always yelling it at Cindy and him. “I don’t want you to be so obsessed with your work that you never have time for your family.”
Mark chews over his lower lip, pen held very carefully over the first line on the page. He writes each letter as though he’s painting the story instead of just doing a sloppy rough draft. T-h-e f-a-c-t-o-r-y a-t W-a-l-l-s-e-n-s a-n-d M-c-k-n-i-g-h-t-s…
Shirley Cohen hand pulls herself out of the oven, sighing loud enough that Mark knows he’s suppose to look up at her, which he does only after he rushes to finish his first sentences. “You know your father loves you, don’t you Mark?”
Like the good like child he is, Mark nods. “Of course.” His fingers are twitching around his pen. He wants to be writing, but isn’t sure he’s allowed to stop looking up at his mom yet.
Shirley sighs, shaking her head as she dives back into the oven. “That father of yours…” She mutters, and then adds something more in Hebrew that Mark doesn’t understand. His mother use to teach at the synagogue but stopped after she had Mark. She still slips into Hebrew at random times, which Mark doesn’t think is fair since he doesn’t know half of what she’s saying.
Once his mother starts cleaning again Mark goes back to writing, not to concerned with what she’s talking about. It’s almost always the same. His mom will tell him how much she hopes Mark is different from his dad, how his dad is always working too hard and setting a bad example by not being with his family. When Mr. Cohen does spend time with Mark he tells Mark never to have children, that family isn’t worth it, that all Mark needs out of life is a good job. Mark, little ten year old doesn’t know any better Mark, he just listens to his parents complain about one another. He knows he isn’t expected to say anything, so he never does. He just watches them go about their daily routines and never talks unless asked.
It’s not until much later, when a much more moody sixteen-year-old Mark is sitting at the table, playing with his camera, that he realizes why he’s listening to the same speech his mother had given him when he was ten. David Cohen brings in the money, Shirley Cohen keeps the house in order, Cynthia Cohen pretends to be the perfect older daughter, and Mark Cohen keeps his parents together. It is his niche in the family, to let his parents complain and whine to him about their marriage so that they get it all out before they have to face the other one.
Thus begins Mark’s life as a referee and mediator.
Round Two: April A. Ericsson Verses Random Groupie Number Nine
“He’s so fucking hot.”
Mark moves out of the way as a groupie nearly knocks the camera out of his hands. He agreed to film a few of Roger’s concerts for the singer’s own amusement. Roger says he wants to be bale to go back and pick out his mistakes, but Mark is sure the other guy just gets off at seeing himself on stage. Mark didn’t like the idea of using his valuable film for something as pointless as a rock show when it could go towards his film, but Roger gave him that look and he just couldn’t say no. Not after everything the musician had done for him. He’d given him and Benny a place to stay for the summer, or as it turned out for Mark a place to stay all year round. In comparison, Mark shooting this show is no big deal.
This blond girl next to Mark, she keeps on waving at Roger to get his attention. Her friend is so out of it, Mark is amazed she has managed to stay standing so long. This random groupie, number nine Mark calls her. There are twelve of them that he has memorized by face, having seen them at almost every show the band has put on. Her friend is new to Mark, clinging to the girl’s arm to keep steady. The pair keeps bumping against the filmmaker, ruining his already shake shot.
“Let’s get closer,” Nine says, dragging her friend along as she tries to press through the crowd to the front of the stage. Mark sighs, glad to be filming with only the usually jumps and dancing around him. He turns his full attention back to Roger, always careful to keep him in the center of the shot. As much as he gripped and moaned about wasting his film, Mark didn’t mind coming to these shows. Roger’s band is pretty good, fucking awesome compared to the sets before him. Roger has this way of singing, like he blocks out everything in the word expect for the lyrics, and Mark can feel all the passion and power behind his friend’s song.
“Get out of the way, bitch!”
Mark shifts his camera, making sure that Roger is always at the center of attention, but Mark’s own focus is starting to wander. He’s use to little scuffles and cat fights out on the floor, and usually chooses just to ignore them. Harder to do when it’s right on front of you, and there is some girl being shoved against you.
The girl has curly brown hair, all wild and messy and uneven. Mark can’t see much else but her hair flying in his face. He holds the camera up and prays he can keep his shot.
The girl pushes off Mark and marches over to Nine, who is still attempting to worm her way through the crowd. Part of him is hoping that they don’t end up getting in a fight. Part of him has his eyes glued on this girl’s ass and thanking God for tight, tight jeans.
This curly haired girl, she shoves Nine away from her place. “Do you mind?” She snaps, stepping back into the crowd. Most of the people around them are still enjoying the concert. Only a few people have stopped to watch, most of them guys. “I was standing here.”
Nine looks this girl up and down, snorting and rolling her eyes and she tries to get past her again. It doesn’t work. Curly hair steps in front of her, arms crosses and daring Nine to try it again. That gets the groupie rattled. “What the fuck?” She says, narrowing her eyes and building herself up to look as threatening as possible. Next to her, that friend is bent over, dry heaving on the floor. “Listen, I don’t have time for this.”
Against she tries to step around and again she’s is blocked, this time by Curly hair grabs her arm and nearly throws her back. A lot more of the crowd is focusing in on the fight, forgetting about the background nose of the concert. “What’s wrong?” Curly hair asks. “He forgot to pay you?”
There are quite a few “Ooohs” from the surrounding audience. Mark looks between the stage, his camera, and the girls. Nine is twitching, and Mark can tell this is about to get physical.
He turns off his camera and walks over to the two girls. “Hey, you two! Cut it out!” He says, holding a hand out in between them. He isn’t sure what impression he is trying to make, some scrawny little kid stepping in between to very obviously capable women, both pissed and ready to attack. It’s Mark’s nature to try and calm people down, to stop the fights. He isn’t even thinking about it, really. It’s just his reaction.
“Look if you really want to get up front maybe-“ But Roger’s last song is ending. Mark knows the set by heart and pretty soon the audience is clapping him off stage.
“You asshole!” She said, shoving Mark and sending him stumbling back into some guy who pushes Mark right back. Mark rubs his shoulder, holding his camera to his chest to protect it. “You made me miss the last song! And you-“ She turns to Curly hair girl, claws at the ready. “If you weren’t such a bit-“
Mark has to be crazy. He steps between the two girls again, gently wrapped his hand around the curly haired girl’s wrist and giving a small tug. She seems to be the more reasonable one, and Mark trust her not to scratch his eyes out without some sort of warning. He gives her his best pleading look, ignoring the fact that Nine is trying to push between them to get to the girl. “Maybe we should… Um… Go.” And he gives a slight nod towards the back of the club, hoping this girl will understand that he isn’t trying to hit on her or anything creepy like that.
Curley haired girl looks over him for a bit before smiling. She has a gorgeous, unforgettable smile. Mark wonders if she would be interested in playing a part in his movie. “Of course,” She says, wiggling free of Mark and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. She turns to Nine, sticking her tongue out as she leads Mark away. “Let’s go, baby.”
Mark and the girl manage to push through the crowd that is lining up for the next band. He moves a little away from her, but she has a nice strong grip for someone so small and fragile looking. “I wasn’t…” He trails off, chewing at his lower lip while he tries to think of how to put this. “I just.”
“Thanks,” the girl says, smiling up at Mark and he has to smile back. Probably looks like a total dork in doing so. “I didn’t want to have to kick her ass right now, anyway. I’m April.”
“Mark.” They turn towards the backstage door and Mark has to flash the pass Roger gave him. The guy at the door looks over April, and Mark is pretty sure what he’s thinking. He almost stops to explain that it’s not like that, but April is dragging him through the door.
“So, you work here?” She asks, letting go of Mark so that she can look around the huge back room. It’s filled with instruments and crew and the next band. Roger and the rest are probably all further back, making sure their equipment is safe.
“Uh… Not really,” Mark says, ducking and dodging as the crew hauls the next band’s equipment out. They act as if April, who is nearly climbing up on tables and amps looking for Roger, isn’t there at all, but keep giving Mark dirty looks. “I’m, uh, friends with one of the guys. Roger.”
That gets April’s attention back on him. “Really?” She asks, almost as if she doesn’t believe him. Mark nods. “So?” She asks, turning back to her search of the huge room. “Where is he.”
“He usually takes-“ Mark is cut off when Roger appears through the mess and tangle of equipment.
“Hey,” he says, patting Mark on the back. His eyes never leave April. She climbs down off the chair she had been standing on, smiling at Roger in ways that made Mark’s stomach flutter. “You’re that girl who got in the fight?”
“Almost,” April says, glancing over to Mark. “You’re friend here stop us before I could do any damage.”
Roger smiles. “That’s Mark for you.” He holds out his hand. “Roger.”
“April.” She says back, voice much lower and scratchy than it had been when she was talking to Mark earlier.
Mark holds up his camera. “I have to go,” he announces, and neither April nor Roger acknowledge him as he quickly backs out of the room.
Concerts he’s willing to film for Roger. Sexcapades, not so much.
Round Three: Roger M. Davis Verses Benjamin M. Coffin III
Mark doesn’t know what woke him up in the first place, but he decides he’d rather ignore it. Rolling over onto his side he reaches for Maureen and ends up with an arm full of pillows. He’d gone to sleep without her, assuming she’d come back when she is ready. Looks like she isn’t ready yet.
Groaning, Mark struggles against the covers to sit up. He’s still wearing his jeans and sweater. In Scarsdale, March meant the start of spring and warmer weather. In New York, Mark is still freezing his ass off. It doesn’t help that most of his heavier blankets have been moved to Roger’s room. Roger needs it more than Mark or Maureen or Benny.
Mark doesn’t want to think about it. He stumbles out of bed, not even bothering to grab his glasses. He’ll just get a glass of water and check in on Roger to make sure he’s okay, maybe wait up on the couch for a while in case Maureen comes home. All he has to do is make sure he doesn’t wake up Benny. He’s the only one of them with a steady job and doesn’t need to be kept awake by Mark.
Mark stumbles out of his room, blinking to try and clear up some of the blurry shapes. Specifically those that are moving around.
After a few seconds of squinting everything came as close to in focus as Mark could get it without going back for his glasses. “Benny?” He asks, staring at his roommate as Benny piles up a suitcase by the door. Benny looks up from zipping his bags when Mark speaks, but the world is still too blurry for Mark to make out his expression. “Where are you going?”
“He’s finally leaving.” Roger is sitting on the couch, close enough that Mark doesn’t have as much trouble seeing him.
“Roger, what are you doing up?” Mark asks, rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes. Clearly his plan to go back to sleep soon is falling apart on him. Roger doesn’t answer, just continues sitting on the couch, glaring across the room at Benny. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” Mark points out, moving a little closer to his friend who is in fact dressed only a pair of plaid pants. “Roger, what is wrong with you? It’s freezing out! You’re gonna get sick!”
Roger snorts, wrapping his arms around his legs and bringing his knees to his chest. He looks like such a child, and it’s hard for Mark to think of his wild, party-going, ideal New York musician friend as a child, but over the last few months all that raw energy had faded from Roger, leaving behind someone needy and frightened. “What’s it matter?” He growls, refusing to meet Mark’s eyes. “I’ll just-“
“Don’t say it!” Mark snaps, turning back into his bedroom before he can hear Roger finish the thought. First Collins, now Roger. Mark can’t hear the word death or dying any more without falling apart.
He grabs his glasses and what few blankets he has left on his bed before going back into the main room. Roger hardly fights when Mark wraps the blankets around his shoulders, making sure Roger is tucked beneath as many layers as he can. He just shrugs, muttering something that is either “thank you” or “fuck off” under his breath.
Looking back at Benny Mark asks, “Where are you going?”
“To live with that girlfriend of his,” Roger mutters. Mark can’t help but notice he’s still shivering. Maybe he should run to Roger’s room, get him so more covers. “Muffy.”
“Alison,” Benny corrects, cutting off Mark’s thoughts. He’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever heard Benny call his girlfriend by her real name.
Huddling close to Roger as if he can fend off any gems or cold, Mark keeps staring at Benny. With his glasses on everything is clear, but he’s still confused. “You’re moving? Why didn’t you say something?”
“He doesn’t want you to know he’s a sell-out,” Roger says. Mark thinks Roger might just be acting spiteful, but Benny is now the one who won’t look at Mark. He’s beating his clothes into place, trying to zip his bag closed. “Moving in with his rich little girlfriend and forgetting all about his so-called friends back in Alphabet city.”
Benny sighs, slamming his fist against his bag. He takes a few more deep breaths before he looks up. “It’s not like that,” he says, not for Roger but for Mark, looking right into Mark’s eyes and pleading to be understood. Mark is trying to figure out what is going on, but he can’t help but feel he missed something. “Look, the lofts just getting to crowded.”
“Too crowded?” Mark asks, trying to be as patient as possible when he’s clearly lost and a little hurt. Benny is his friend, has been his friend longer than Roger or Collins or Maureen and now he’s just leaving in the middle of the night. Had he even been planning on telling Mark? “Collins has moved to MIT and Maureen’s never here!”
No one mentions what happened to their sixth roommate. No one really has since December.
Benny is staring down at his feet, and Mark can’t help but feel a little guilty. Roger is right about one thing. Benny didn’t want Mark to know. He just wanted to get out of here as quick as possible, and Mark’s making that difficult for him. “Why are you leaving?” Mark asks, hoping that this time Benny will be the one telling him the truth instead of Roger.
The loft is silent for a while, no sound but the street bellow that has become such fixed background noise they hardly notice it anymore. Not unless there is nothing else to listen to. Finally he looks up, barely holding Mark’s eyes. “It’s just something I have to do.”
This doesn’t sound like a decent excuse to Mark, but it’s the best he’s going to get. Roger doesn’t seem to think it passes either. “You’re a fucking coward,” he spits, nearly falling off the couch when he jerks forward, and for a second Mark is afraid he’s going to attack Benny, but he never even gets up. “Running away because you can’t handle things! Way to go Benny. Landed the girl of your dreams, who just happens to be rich. Yeah, have fun being miserable for the rest of your goddamn life.”
The tension in the room snaps. Benny no longer looks guilty, just furious. “You’re so much better.” His voice is low and calm, right on the edge of screaming. Mark is leaning forward, holding Roger back and looking between the two. He’s not sure why they’re exploding at each other like this and has no way to stop either of them. “Why don’t you tell Mark why you’ve been so much more relaxed these days?”
Mark’s eyes go wide, turning to Roger and torn between punching him and unable to move. “You’re using?”
Roger turns his shoulder to Mark’s face, staring down at his lap. “So?”
“So?” Mark asks, joining into the near hysterics. “So, Roger, you swore you’d stop!” He can’t believe this. Roger can’t seriously be using again? Not after what happened to him and April? Why hadn’t Mark seen it? He’s been taking care of Roger all this time and he just overlooked the track marks? “Roger how-“
“Fuck you!” Roger says, standing up and tearing off the blankets. “You want to take care of someone, Mark? Why don’t you check to see where Maureen is going every night? Why don’t you ask Benny what’s going on in his fucked up head?” He glares at Benny one last time before storming off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Mark cringes, knowing exactly what is happening behind that locked door. He’s so good at seeing only what he wants to see. Roger and his drugs. Maureen staying out this late. Benny unable to stand the loft anymore.
The couch groans when Mark collapses back into it, covering his face with his hands and praying that this is all some twisted nightmare. “You know, Alison’s family has a spare room,” Benny says, taking a seat next to Mark. “You can come with me, if you want.”
Mark shakes his head, moaning as he runs his fingers through his hair. When had his brain started beating to get out of his skull? “What about Roger?”
Benny frowns, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. It’s an old jacket, a really ugly plaid and lined with fluff. Mark is surprised Muffy hasn’t bought him a new one yet. It seems she’s always trying to get Benny into better clothes, better home, better friends. “You’re always thinking about Roger,” he says.
“Someone has to.” Because everyone knows that right now Roger isn’t capable of taking care of himself. Yet Maureen and Benny never stop telling Mark that he spends too much time watching over his friend. Isn’t that what friends are for, though? To care for you when you’re dying? When you don’t even want to live anymore?
“God, Mark.” Benny shakes his head, leaning back to stare up through their skylight. “He’s destroying you, you know that? Just taking you down with him. Ever since December, have you worked on your film? Even picked up your camera.”
The answer is no, of course not, he didn’t have time. Not between the withdraws and the going back to heroin and the begging his dad for AZT money and cleaning up after Roger. Mark didn’t have time for himself anymore, but he didn’t mind. After all, Roger had done so much for him. It’s the least Mark can do.
“You don’t understand,” he mutters. No one seems to understand what Mark is doing, not even Roger. No one expect Collins, who took a part time job at MIT and left Mark to figure this Roger thing out for himself. Every one else just thinks Mark is insane.
Benny sighs, pushing himself off the couch. “I guess I don’t.” He slips out of his jacket, and for a moment Mark thinks he’s going to stay. He folds the coat over his arm, handing it over to Mark. Mark takes it, smoothing out the wrinkles against his lap. So this is it. Benny really is just going to go off and leave, and there is nothing Mark can do to keep his friend around. “Take care of yourself, okay man?” He says, ruffling Mark’s hair.
Mark nods and doesn’t even try and stop Benny from grabbing his bags and leaving.
Round Four: Joanne R.A. Jefferson Verses Maureen S. Johnson
Time stopped mattering to Mark after he moved into the loft. The only clocks here blink at noon, so Mark has learned to look out his window and simply take a wild guess. Right now, the sun is light and not quite center. He puts it at 10:32, which is only fifty-three minutes off.
He stretches out, dragging himself to the kitchen with no one to disturb him. It use to be him and Maureen yelling about how his camera isn’t a toy or how she had been flirting with that shirtless guy who practically had his hands on her ass. There was Benny yelling at their landlord on the phone about how they just need an extra week, asking how Alison was doing and if they could speak. It was Collins laughing as he kicked open the front door, arms full of things with the anti theft tags still attached. There was Roger playing on his guitar as April went on and on about how in love she was with their latest songs.
Now it’s just Mark yawning while he turns on the faucet to get some water ready for the coffee machine. April left a note and now her body is back in Marietta with her parents, who always knew New York would kill their baby. Benny is sitting in the lap of luxury, yelling at Mark over the phone that his rent is past due. Collins and Angel are living each day like it’s the last, refusing to think about how each day might be. Roger is downstairs with his guitar and his Mimi who gave him one last chance to love. As for Maureen, she’s probably with Joanne, her new girlfriend.
There’s a loud knock at the door, and it’s way to early for this. Mark yelps, jumping back and spilling water down his shirt. “Mark? Mark! I know you’re there!”
So maybe Maureen isn’t with Joanne, because said lawyer is pounding at Mark’s door and it’s way to early for Maureen to be up. “Just a second!” He shouts, shaking out the front of his soaked through shirt as he moved to the door.
He hardly has time to get it unlocked before Joanne is pushing past him, not even looking up at Mark when she storms into the loft. Mark backs up against the wall, feeling a lot like a trapped animal even though she hasn’t said anything and the exit is wide open right next to him. Joanne and him managed to bond pretty quickly over their common sickness that is Maureen, but that didn’t make her any less intimidating.
She’s digging through her purse for something and not even saying anything. After a few seconds she sighs, throwing down her hands and staring at their ceiling. “Why do I let her do this to me?”
It’s a sentiment Mark is all too familiar with. It’s times like these he really apprentices Maureen’s newfound sexuality. “What she do this time?” He asks, a little less nervous now that he knows Joanne’s frustration is all aimed at her girlfriend.
Joanne looks Mark up and down, taking in his unclean hair and wet shirt. She shakes her head, crossing her arms and picking at something in her purse. “What time is it?” She asks, even if she is the one with a watch.
Mark is pretty sure he knows what she needs to hear. “At least four.” He’s only off by about six hours.
“I need a drink.”
*
“She’s impossible!”
Mark wants to agree, but at the same time he wants to sink down into his seat until the Earth swallows him whole. He gives a small nod, mostly hidden behind his beer. On a scale of awkward conversations to have, talking to your ex-girlfriend’s girlfriend about her girlfriend flirting with other girls had to be pretty far up there.
Joanne growls, glaring down at her own drink, which she ordered about half and hour ago and hasn’t touched yet. “I don’t understand,” she says, throwing her hands into the air as if giving up. Mark knows the feeling. Sometimes he just wanted to surrender to Maureen. Okay, you won. Let’s stop playing now. “I’ve tried everything, Mark. Done everything she asks. I’ve been the best girlfriend I could be and she still…” Joanne groans and shakes her head, rubbing at her temple trying to ease the headache that is Maureen Johnson.
“She’s was like that for me,” Mark says, giving Joanne a comforting pat on the back. She sighs, leaning forward on to the table, and Mark can’t help but feel a little relieved that this isn’t him. How did Roger, Benny, and Collins ever deal with him like this? “She’s got a… very open personality.” It sounded better than admitting that Maureen would flirt with anyone who could deal with her, and occasionally those who couldn’t.
“I just want to be able to say, no more Maureen, no more.” Joanne sits up, slamming her hands down on the bar and frightening one of the drunker guys sitting next to her. “I’m sick of the games and the looks and the touches. Last night, and the club, she was all over this girl in rubber.” Joanne motions to her own loose fitting suit and jacket. “How am I going to compete with that?”
The same way Mark had been competing with all the boys with their bikes and money and looks, and the only thing he had to keep Maureen around was a camera. Of course, look how that went for him. “It’s not about competing. Maureen, she just likes getting under your skin.”
Joanne snorts. “It’s what she’s good at.”
Mark can’t argue with that. Maureen did have a way of getting to people. Poor, innocent people like him and Joanne who got drawn in be her wild smile and outrageous flirtations and ended up stuck. “She’s just… It’s Maureen’s way of making sure you still love her.” Confident, beautiful Maureen who gets so insecure she needs to give her boyfriend, now girlfriend, a near heart attack to make sure they still want her as much as she’s afraid to want them.
Mark knows this, because after every one of their fights he would end up holding Maureen, as if she is the one that got hurt. He’s betting Joanne knows this as well. But Joanne isn’t Mark who sticks around through heroin-withdraw beatings and being gone for three nights only to come back drunk and with another guy. He’s a wimp, and he knows it, but Joanne doesn’t seem like the type of woman who will just sit back and let her girlfriend play these kinds of games. In the end, either Maureen is going to have to give or Joanne is going to walk away. If these girls continue like they are, they’re going to explode. It doesn’t take Mark with his director’s eye and ever present camera to see that.
The sad thing is, that is why Mark came to this run down bar when Joanne called, because as much as Maureen hurt him, he doesn’t want to see her get hurt back. “I better get home. Maureen wants to practice her protest.”
All Mark can do is offer a half smile. Sitting here helping Joanne keep Maureen, it feels like all those old relationship wounds need to be wrapped again. “Remember, Joanne, she doesn’t mean it.”
Joanne’s smile looks even worse off then his, if that’s possible. “Thanks, Mark.”
Round Five: Roger M. Davis Verses Marianela “Mimi” J. Marquez
“So this is it?” There are very few people in the world Mark feels comfortable yelling at. He’s a pretty calm guy, not all that aggressive. Hell, he never even really fought with Benny and they guy is kicking his friends out of their loft! Maureen and Roger, they always manage to bring it out in him.
Roger doesn’t answer, just swings into the loft and slams the door shut behind him. Undeterred, Mark yanks it back open with an equally loud crash. “You can’t just leave!” He says, following Roger into his room. Roger still isn’t answering. He picks up a bag and begins stuffing clothes into it. “Roger, slow down! What are you even going to do when you get to Santa Fe? You don’t even have any money!”
Mark is trying to stay reasonable, trying to be the middle ground in this fight but it’s hard when Roger is being a complete jerk. Sure, he bought that car, but Mark figured that was just an idol threat. He didn’t think it had meant much. Just Roger reacting to finding out that Mimi is with Benny again. They all talked about going out to Santa Fe, but then at some point they all talked about giving up and getting real jobs, leaving behind their art and trashed loft for good and other than Benny no one has ever gone through with it.
Of course, Mimi had a way of making Roger do things Mark didn’t expect him too. Like getting out of the loft, falling in love, and leaving New York. “Roger? Are you even listening to me?” Mark asks, hovering just a step behind Roger as he storms through his room, grabbing handfuls of T-shirts and underwear and throwing them into his bag. “Come on, Roger. Mimi didn’t-“
“Shut the fuck up!” Roger turns around so fast Mark has to stumble backwards to give him space. “What the fuck do you know, huh? All day, you play with that camera of yours. What the fuck do you know about Mimi?”
“I know she loves you!” Mark yells, not backing down when Roger takes a very threatening step into Mark’s personal space. “I know she loves you more than she ever loved Benny.” Mark saw it. He saw the way Mimi looked at Roger during the funeral. Saw it in his old footage when they would hug and kiss and simply be together. It’s everywhere, in everything Roger and Mimi do together. How Roger can’t feel it, how he can fail to see just how much he means to Mimi, Mark will never understand.
“Well then, where is she?” He asks, motioning around to the trashed room filled with old guitars and broken amps and a storm of sheets and clothes but no loving girlfriend. “Where is Mimi if she loves me so much?”
Mark’s hands clench up into first. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down before he does something that will push Roger all the way to Santa Fe. “You have to-“
“Fuck off, Mark,” Roger says, zipping up his bag and tossing it over his shoulder. He pushes Mark aside, heading to the door without another word.
Mark, of course, chases after him, because that’s what he’s become so good at after all these years. “So that’s it? You’re just… Giving up? That’s your big solution? That’s how much you love her, that you won’t even stay and try?” He’s saying anything he can that will get him a reaction. Anything to keep Roger from walking out the door and abandoning this girl who loves him so much that even Mark, disassociated and disconnected behind his camera, can feel it.
He wants Roger to scream or punch him or break down. Something to show that Roger knows how much he’s screwing up by walking out that door. What he gets is one last look from his so-called best friend, empty of most emotions. Like the blank expression of a girl sprawled out on their bathroom floor. A look Mark hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
“You’re always trying to fix everything, Mark. Acting like it’s so important to you to keep everyone together and happy.” Roger shakes his head. “That’s not it, though. You’re just afraid to take sides. Afraid to feel something, really feel it. You just want to stay in the middle. You just want to pretend that you’re so much better than us, because you see all our fights and faults.”
“That’s not true!” Mark protests, but it doesn’t have the power his earlier convictions did, because something in Mark’s head is telling him that maybe it is. After all, isn’t Mark better than his parents who stayed trapped in their marriage years after the love was gone? Isn’t he better than April, the girl who lost against the drugs? And Benny, who gave up this bohemian life for a warm building, and flirty-flight Maureen with her desperate girlfriend? Doesn’t Mark think he’s better than those people, at least. Even if he can’t compare to the rest of the world, there a hundreds of people on his film that he can claim pity for.
It’s not fair, that a guy who doesn’t even see what he has can see all of Mark’s own problems.
“The truth is, you can’t see anything. You don’t understand.” Roger turns away, shrugging his bag onto his shoulder. Mark can’t move. He would have rather had Roger punch him in the gut. It would have been less painful. “I have to go.”
The door closes and Mark is cut off from Roger, the rest of the world, and it doesn’t even hurt anymore. His best friend is gone, his girlfriend isn’t coming back, the most amazing person he’d ever known is dead, and Mark is just standing in the empty loft, in the middle of nowhere.
Mark pulls his jacket tighter around him. He needs to call Alexia Darling from Buzzline back. The sooner he gets to work, the better.
Author: Stephanie
Fandom, Characters: RENT, Mark, Roger/April, Roger/Mimi, Joanne/Maureen. If you're *really* looking, you might catch a glimpse of the one-sided Benny/Mark, but I doubt it.
Prompt: 2. Middles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,790
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Mark has always been in the middle.
Author's Note: This might be my first fanficion that doesn't involve both the "fanfiction" and "slash" tag. Eerie.
Down For The Count
Round One: Shirley H. Cohen Verses David J. Cohen
Ten-year-old Mark Cohen knows what to do when his dad isn’t home by six.
Since that’s the time that Brady Bunch comes on, and he’s never really liked that show anyway, he turns off the TV, grabs his notebook, and heads to the kitchen.
As far as her son can tell, Shirley Cohen lives in the kitchen. She’s always baking or cooking or just clean up around the kitchen. When she’s bored with that, and Mark doesn’t see how she cannot get bored of being in the same area all day like that, she sits down at the breakfast table and watches TV. Mark feels that it must be a very dull existence, and that it makes sense that his mother is always complaining about how much she cooks and cleans and never gets out. He doesn’t understand why she doesn’t just go do whatever it is grown-ups do for fun, but then he’s just a ten-year-old boy so he can’t tell his mom what she should do.
He sits at the table and opens his notebook, tapping his pencil against a blank page. Mark as always been rather fond of writing, which his mother says is because of his vivid imagination. Mark is the type of kid you can let loose in the backyard and he can spend all day stalking around without a single toy, muttering to himself and acting out scenes from the movies in his head. He’s a little embarrassed that he still does this even at ten, when all the other boys are talking about girls and video games and sports. So he’s stopped playing so much and started writing down all the things that go through his head.
His mother stands over the sick, scrubbing the sides to get rid of the lasagna sauces. She always complains about making lasagna, but Mark knows it’s her favorite meal. Why else would she make it so much if she hated cleaning up? She looks up at Mark and says, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
According to his mom, his bedtime is at seven. According to his dad his bedtime is at ten. Mark compromises by going to bed at eight and staying up until ten daydreaming.
Mark shrugs and looks down at the notebook paper. His stories are always a little weird, he thinks. All the other boys pretend to be cowboys or space pirates. Mark always thought it be cool to be a homeless orphan living on the streets, struggling to survive. Or a boy trapped in a house that’s on fire, trying to break down the door to his little sister’s room to save her in time, or a kid working in a factory under a hard boiled boss who beats him and the girl of his dreams until he finally gets to courage to whisk her away and the police are sent to track them down, so they have to live in the sewers for a month and she gets sick and he has to kill a doctor and steal his medicine, and then she says she can no longer love him after what he’s done and he’s so heart broken that he hands himself over to the cops and she regrets telling him such a thing and has to break him out of jail but then-
“When you have kids,” his mother says, brushing some hair out of her face and leaving a line of water across her forehead. “You’re going to be a great father.”
Mark doesn’t nod. He knows he’s not expected to answer, just like that he’s expected to get married and have children and go to college and have a good job let his mother live with him when she’s too old to care for herself. These are things that Mark has been raised to expect from himself and they’re so ingrained that he never questions them.
His mom turns off the water and starts fishing under the sink. “You’re father, he works to hard,” she says, coming back up with her pail of cleaning equipment. “I remember when we meant, he seemed like such a sweet guy.” She shakes her head, grabbing a spray and some towels and pulling open the oven.
Mark writes down “The Factory by Mark C. Cohen” across the top margin of his notebook.
“I worry you’re going to be like this,” She says, voice muffled as she leans into the oven, scrubbing and spraying and constantly cleaning up everyone’s messes. He knows the last part because she is always yelling it at Cindy and him. “I don’t want you to be so obsessed with your work that you never have time for your family.”
Mark chews over his lower lip, pen held very carefully over the first line on the page. He writes each letter as though he’s painting the story instead of just doing a sloppy rough draft. T-h-e f-a-c-t-o-r-y a-t W-a-l-l-s-e-n-s a-n-d M-c-k-n-i-g-h-t-s…
Shirley Cohen hand pulls herself out of the oven, sighing loud enough that Mark knows he’s suppose to look up at her, which he does only after he rushes to finish his first sentences. “You know your father loves you, don’t you Mark?”
Like the good like child he is, Mark nods. “Of course.” His fingers are twitching around his pen. He wants to be writing, but isn’t sure he’s allowed to stop looking up at his mom yet.
Shirley sighs, shaking her head as she dives back into the oven. “That father of yours…” She mutters, and then adds something more in Hebrew that Mark doesn’t understand. His mother use to teach at the synagogue but stopped after she had Mark. She still slips into Hebrew at random times, which Mark doesn’t think is fair since he doesn’t know half of what she’s saying.
Once his mother starts cleaning again Mark goes back to writing, not to concerned with what she’s talking about. It’s almost always the same. His mom will tell him how much she hopes Mark is different from his dad, how his dad is always working too hard and setting a bad example by not being with his family. When Mr. Cohen does spend time with Mark he tells Mark never to have children, that family isn’t worth it, that all Mark needs out of life is a good job. Mark, little ten year old doesn’t know any better Mark, he just listens to his parents complain about one another. He knows he isn’t expected to say anything, so he never does. He just watches them go about their daily routines and never talks unless asked.
It’s not until much later, when a much more moody sixteen-year-old Mark is sitting at the table, playing with his camera, that he realizes why he’s listening to the same speech his mother had given him when he was ten. David Cohen brings in the money, Shirley Cohen keeps the house in order, Cynthia Cohen pretends to be the perfect older daughter, and Mark Cohen keeps his parents together. It is his niche in the family, to let his parents complain and whine to him about their marriage so that they get it all out before they have to face the other one.
Thus begins Mark’s life as a referee and mediator.
Round Two: April A. Ericsson Verses Random Groupie Number Nine
“He’s so fucking hot.”
Mark moves out of the way as a groupie nearly knocks the camera out of his hands. He agreed to film a few of Roger’s concerts for the singer’s own amusement. Roger says he wants to be bale to go back and pick out his mistakes, but Mark is sure the other guy just gets off at seeing himself on stage. Mark didn’t like the idea of using his valuable film for something as pointless as a rock show when it could go towards his film, but Roger gave him that look and he just couldn’t say no. Not after everything the musician had done for him. He’d given him and Benny a place to stay for the summer, or as it turned out for Mark a place to stay all year round. In comparison, Mark shooting this show is no big deal.
This blond girl next to Mark, she keeps on waving at Roger to get his attention. Her friend is so out of it, Mark is amazed she has managed to stay standing so long. This random groupie, number nine Mark calls her. There are twelve of them that he has memorized by face, having seen them at almost every show the band has put on. Her friend is new to Mark, clinging to the girl’s arm to keep steady. The pair keeps bumping against the filmmaker, ruining his already shake shot.
“Let’s get closer,” Nine says, dragging her friend along as she tries to press through the crowd to the front of the stage. Mark sighs, glad to be filming with only the usually jumps and dancing around him. He turns his full attention back to Roger, always careful to keep him in the center of the shot. As much as he gripped and moaned about wasting his film, Mark didn’t mind coming to these shows. Roger’s band is pretty good, fucking awesome compared to the sets before him. Roger has this way of singing, like he blocks out everything in the word expect for the lyrics, and Mark can feel all the passion and power behind his friend’s song.
“Get out of the way, bitch!”
Mark shifts his camera, making sure that Roger is always at the center of attention, but Mark’s own focus is starting to wander. He’s use to little scuffles and cat fights out on the floor, and usually chooses just to ignore them. Harder to do when it’s right on front of you, and there is some girl being shoved against you.
The girl has curly brown hair, all wild and messy and uneven. Mark can’t see much else but her hair flying in his face. He holds the camera up and prays he can keep his shot.
The girl pushes off Mark and marches over to Nine, who is still attempting to worm her way through the crowd. Part of him is hoping that they don’t end up getting in a fight. Part of him has his eyes glued on this girl’s ass and thanking God for tight, tight jeans.
This curly haired girl, she shoves Nine away from her place. “Do you mind?” She snaps, stepping back into the crowd. Most of the people around them are still enjoying the concert. Only a few people have stopped to watch, most of them guys. “I was standing here.”
Nine looks this girl up and down, snorting and rolling her eyes and she tries to get past her again. It doesn’t work. Curly hair steps in front of her, arms crosses and daring Nine to try it again. That gets the groupie rattled. “What the fuck?” She says, narrowing her eyes and building herself up to look as threatening as possible. Next to her, that friend is bent over, dry heaving on the floor. “Listen, I don’t have time for this.”
Against she tries to step around and again she’s is blocked, this time by Curly hair grabs her arm and nearly throws her back. A lot more of the crowd is focusing in on the fight, forgetting about the background nose of the concert. “What’s wrong?” Curly hair asks. “He forgot to pay you?”
There are quite a few “Ooohs” from the surrounding audience. Mark looks between the stage, his camera, and the girls. Nine is twitching, and Mark can tell this is about to get physical.
He turns off his camera and walks over to the two girls. “Hey, you two! Cut it out!” He says, holding a hand out in between them. He isn’t sure what impression he is trying to make, some scrawny little kid stepping in between to very obviously capable women, both pissed and ready to attack. It’s Mark’s nature to try and calm people down, to stop the fights. He isn’t even thinking about it, really. It’s just his reaction.
“Look if you really want to get up front maybe-“ But Roger’s last song is ending. Mark knows the set by heart and pretty soon the audience is clapping him off stage.
“You asshole!” She said, shoving Mark and sending him stumbling back into some guy who pushes Mark right back. Mark rubs his shoulder, holding his camera to his chest to protect it. “You made me miss the last song! And you-“ She turns to Curly hair girl, claws at the ready. “If you weren’t such a bit-“
Mark has to be crazy. He steps between the two girls again, gently wrapped his hand around the curly haired girl’s wrist and giving a small tug. She seems to be the more reasonable one, and Mark trust her not to scratch his eyes out without some sort of warning. He gives her his best pleading look, ignoring the fact that Nine is trying to push between them to get to the girl. “Maybe we should… Um… Go.” And he gives a slight nod towards the back of the club, hoping this girl will understand that he isn’t trying to hit on her or anything creepy like that.
Curley haired girl looks over him for a bit before smiling. She has a gorgeous, unforgettable smile. Mark wonders if she would be interested in playing a part in his movie. “Of course,” She says, wiggling free of Mark and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. She turns to Nine, sticking her tongue out as she leads Mark away. “Let’s go, baby.”
Mark and the girl manage to push through the crowd that is lining up for the next band. He moves a little away from her, but she has a nice strong grip for someone so small and fragile looking. “I wasn’t…” He trails off, chewing at his lower lip while he tries to think of how to put this. “I just.”
“Thanks,” the girl says, smiling up at Mark and he has to smile back. Probably looks like a total dork in doing so. “I didn’t want to have to kick her ass right now, anyway. I’m April.”
“Mark.” They turn towards the backstage door and Mark has to flash the pass Roger gave him. The guy at the door looks over April, and Mark is pretty sure what he’s thinking. He almost stops to explain that it’s not like that, but April is dragging him through the door.
“So, you work here?” She asks, letting go of Mark so that she can look around the huge back room. It’s filled with instruments and crew and the next band. Roger and the rest are probably all further back, making sure their equipment is safe.
“Uh… Not really,” Mark says, ducking and dodging as the crew hauls the next band’s equipment out. They act as if April, who is nearly climbing up on tables and amps looking for Roger, isn’t there at all, but keep giving Mark dirty looks. “I’m, uh, friends with one of the guys. Roger.”
That gets April’s attention back on him. “Really?” She asks, almost as if she doesn’t believe him. Mark nods. “So?” She asks, turning back to her search of the huge room. “Where is he.”
“He usually takes-“ Mark is cut off when Roger appears through the mess and tangle of equipment.
“Hey,” he says, patting Mark on the back. His eyes never leave April. She climbs down off the chair she had been standing on, smiling at Roger in ways that made Mark’s stomach flutter. “You’re that girl who got in the fight?”
“Almost,” April says, glancing over to Mark. “You’re friend here stop us before I could do any damage.”
Roger smiles. “That’s Mark for you.” He holds out his hand. “Roger.”
“April.” She says back, voice much lower and scratchy than it had been when she was talking to Mark earlier.
Mark holds up his camera. “I have to go,” he announces, and neither April nor Roger acknowledge him as he quickly backs out of the room.
Concerts he’s willing to film for Roger. Sexcapades, not so much.
Round Three: Roger M. Davis Verses Benjamin M. Coffin III
Mark doesn’t know what woke him up in the first place, but he decides he’d rather ignore it. Rolling over onto his side he reaches for Maureen and ends up with an arm full of pillows. He’d gone to sleep without her, assuming she’d come back when she is ready. Looks like she isn’t ready yet.
Groaning, Mark struggles against the covers to sit up. He’s still wearing his jeans and sweater. In Scarsdale, March meant the start of spring and warmer weather. In New York, Mark is still freezing his ass off. It doesn’t help that most of his heavier blankets have been moved to Roger’s room. Roger needs it more than Mark or Maureen or Benny.
Mark doesn’t want to think about it. He stumbles out of bed, not even bothering to grab his glasses. He’ll just get a glass of water and check in on Roger to make sure he’s okay, maybe wait up on the couch for a while in case Maureen comes home. All he has to do is make sure he doesn’t wake up Benny. He’s the only one of them with a steady job and doesn’t need to be kept awake by Mark.
Mark stumbles out of his room, blinking to try and clear up some of the blurry shapes. Specifically those that are moving around.
After a few seconds of squinting everything came as close to in focus as Mark could get it without going back for his glasses. “Benny?” He asks, staring at his roommate as Benny piles up a suitcase by the door. Benny looks up from zipping his bags when Mark speaks, but the world is still too blurry for Mark to make out his expression. “Where are you going?”
“He’s finally leaving.” Roger is sitting on the couch, close enough that Mark doesn’t have as much trouble seeing him.
“Roger, what are you doing up?” Mark asks, rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes. Clearly his plan to go back to sleep soon is falling apart on him. Roger doesn’t answer, just continues sitting on the couch, glaring across the room at Benny. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” Mark points out, moving a little closer to his friend who is in fact dressed only a pair of plaid pants. “Roger, what is wrong with you? It’s freezing out! You’re gonna get sick!”
Roger snorts, wrapping his arms around his legs and bringing his knees to his chest. He looks like such a child, and it’s hard for Mark to think of his wild, party-going, ideal New York musician friend as a child, but over the last few months all that raw energy had faded from Roger, leaving behind someone needy and frightened. “What’s it matter?” He growls, refusing to meet Mark’s eyes. “I’ll just-“
“Don’t say it!” Mark snaps, turning back into his bedroom before he can hear Roger finish the thought. First Collins, now Roger. Mark can’t hear the word death or dying any more without falling apart.
He grabs his glasses and what few blankets he has left on his bed before going back into the main room. Roger hardly fights when Mark wraps the blankets around his shoulders, making sure Roger is tucked beneath as many layers as he can. He just shrugs, muttering something that is either “thank you” or “fuck off” under his breath.
Looking back at Benny Mark asks, “Where are you going?”
“To live with that girlfriend of his,” Roger mutters. Mark can’t help but notice he’s still shivering. Maybe he should run to Roger’s room, get him so more covers. “Muffy.”
“Alison,” Benny corrects, cutting off Mark’s thoughts. He’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever heard Benny call his girlfriend by her real name.
Huddling close to Roger as if he can fend off any gems or cold, Mark keeps staring at Benny. With his glasses on everything is clear, but he’s still confused. “You’re moving? Why didn’t you say something?”
“He doesn’t want you to know he’s a sell-out,” Roger says. Mark thinks Roger might just be acting spiteful, but Benny is now the one who won’t look at Mark. He’s beating his clothes into place, trying to zip his bag closed. “Moving in with his rich little girlfriend and forgetting all about his so-called friends back in Alphabet city.”
Benny sighs, slamming his fist against his bag. He takes a few more deep breaths before he looks up. “It’s not like that,” he says, not for Roger but for Mark, looking right into Mark’s eyes and pleading to be understood. Mark is trying to figure out what is going on, but he can’t help but feel he missed something. “Look, the lofts just getting to crowded.”
“Too crowded?” Mark asks, trying to be as patient as possible when he’s clearly lost and a little hurt. Benny is his friend, has been his friend longer than Roger or Collins or Maureen and now he’s just leaving in the middle of the night. Had he even been planning on telling Mark? “Collins has moved to MIT and Maureen’s never here!”
No one mentions what happened to their sixth roommate. No one really has since December.
Benny is staring down at his feet, and Mark can’t help but feel a little guilty. Roger is right about one thing. Benny didn’t want Mark to know. He just wanted to get out of here as quick as possible, and Mark’s making that difficult for him. “Why are you leaving?” Mark asks, hoping that this time Benny will be the one telling him the truth instead of Roger.
The loft is silent for a while, no sound but the street bellow that has become such fixed background noise they hardly notice it anymore. Not unless there is nothing else to listen to. Finally he looks up, barely holding Mark’s eyes. “It’s just something I have to do.”
This doesn’t sound like a decent excuse to Mark, but it’s the best he’s going to get. Roger doesn’t seem to think it passes either. “You’re a fucking coward,” he spits, nearly falling off the couch when he jerks forward, and for a second Mark is afraid he’s going to attack Benny, but he never even gets up. “Running away because you can’t handle things! Way to go Benny. Landed the girl of your dreams, who just happens to be rich. Yeah, have fun being miserable for the rest of your goddamn life.”
The tension in the room snaps. Benny no longer looks guilty, just furious. “You’re so much better.” His voice is low and calm, right on the edge of screaming. Mark is leaning forward, holding Roger back and looking between the two. He’s not sure why they’re exploding at each other like this and has no way to stop either of them. “Why don’t you tell Mark why you’ve been so much more relaxed these days?”
Mark’s eyes go wide, turning to Roger and torn between punching him and unable to move. “You’re using?”
Roger turns his shoulder to Mark’s face, staring down at his lap. “So?”
“So?” Mark asks, joining into the near hysterics. “So, Roger, you swore you’d stop!” He can’t believe this. Roger can’t seriously be using again? Not after what happened to him and April? Why hadn’t Mark seen it? He’s been taking care of Roger all this time and he just overlooked the track marks? “Roger how-“
“Fuck you!” Roger says, standing up and tearing off the blankets. “You want to take care of someone, Mark? Why don’t you check to see where Maureen is going every night? Why don’t you ask Benny what’s going on in his fucked up head?” He glares at Benny one last time before storming off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Mark cringes, knowing exactly what is happening behind that locked door. He’s so good at seeing only what he wants to see. Roger and his drugs. Maureen staying out this late. Benny unable to stand the loft anymore.
The couch groans when Mark collapses back into it, covering his face with his hands and praying that this is all some twisted nightmare. “You know, Alison’s family has a spare room,” Benny says, taking a seat next to Mark. “You can come with me, if you want.”
Mark shakes his head, moaning as he runs his fingers through his hair. When had his brain started beating to get out of his skull? “What about Roger?”
Benny frowns, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. It’s an old jacket, a really ugly plaid and lined with fluff. Mark is surprised Muffy hasn’t bought him a new one yet. It seems she’s always trying to get Benny into better clothes, better home, better friends. “You’re always thinking about Roger,” he says.
“Someone has to.” Because everyone knows that right now Roger isn’t capable of taking care of himself. Yet Maureen and Benny never stop telling Mark that he spends too much time watching over his friend. Isn’t that what friends are for, though? To care for you when you’re dying? When you don’t even want to live anymore?
“God, Mark.” Benny shakes his head, leaning back to stare up through their skylight. “He’s destroying you, you know that? Just taking you down with him. Ever since December, have you worked on your film? Even picked up your camera.”
The answer is no, of course not, he didn’t have time. Not between the withdraws and the going back to heroin and the begging his dad for AZT money and cleaning up after Roger. Mark didn’t have time for himself anymore, but he didn’t mind. After all, Roger had done so much for him. It’s the least Mark can do.
“You don’t understand,” he mutters. No one seems to understand what Mark is doing, not even Roger. No one expect Collins, who took a part time job at MIT and left Mark to figure this Roger thing out for himself. Every one else just thinks Mark is insane.
Benny sighs, pushing himself off the couch. “I guess I don’t.” He slips out of his jacket, and for a moment Mark thinks he’s going to stay. He folds the coat over his arm, handing it over to Mark. Mark takes it, smoothing out the wrinkles against his lap. So this is it. Benny really is just going to go off and leave, and there is nothing Mark can do to keep his friend around. “Take care of yourself, okay man?” He says, ruffling Mark’s hair.
Mark nods and doesn’t even try and stop Benny from grabbing his bags and leaving.
Round Four: Joanne R.A. Jefferson Verses Maureen S. Johnson
Time stopped mattering to Mark after he moved into the loft. The only clocks here blink at noon, so Mark has learned to look out his window and simply take a wild guess. Right now, the sun is light and not quite center. He puts it at 10:32, which is only fifty-three minutes off.
He stretches out, dragging himself to the kitchen with no one to disturb him. It use to be him and Maureen yelling about how his camera isn’t a toy or how she had been flirting with that shirtless guy who practically had his hands on her ass. There was Benny yelling at their landlord on the phone about how they just need an extra week, asking how Alison was doing and if they could speak. It was Collins laughing as he kicked open the front door, arms full of things with the anti theft tags still attached. There was Roger playing on his guitar as April went on and on about how in love she was with their latest songs.
Now it’s just Mark yawning while he turns on the faucet to get some water ready for the coffee machine. April left a note and now her body is back in Marietta with her parents, who always knew New York would kill their baby. Benny is sitting in the lap of luxury, yelling at Mark over the phone that his rent is past due. Collins and Angel are living each day like it’s the last, refusing to think about how each day might be. Roger is downstairs with his guitar and his Mimi who gave him one last chance to love. As for Maureen, she’s probably with Joanne, her new girlfriend.
There’s a loud knock at the door, and it’s way to early for this. Mark yelps, jumping back and spilling water down his shirt. “Mark? Mark! I know you’re there!”
So maybe Maureen isn’t with Joanne, because said lawyer is pounding at Mark’s door and it’s way to early for Maureen to be up. “Just a second!” He shouts, shaking out the front of his soaked through shirt as he moved to the door.
He hardly has time to get it unlocked before Joanne is pushing past him, not even looking up at Mark when she storms into the loft. Mark backs up against the wall, feeling a lot like a trapped animal even though she hasn’t said anything and the exit is wide open right next to him. Joanne and him managed to bond pretty quickly over their common sickness that is Maureen, but that didn’t make her any less intimidating.
She’s digging through her purse for something and not even saying anything. After a few seconds she sighs, throwing down her hands and staring at their ceiling. “Why do I let her do this to me?”
It’s a sentiment Mark is all too familiar with. It’s times like these he really apprentices Maureen’s newfound sexuality. “What she do this time?” He asks, a little less nervous now that he knows Joanne’s frustration is all aimed at her girlfriend.
Joanne looks Mark up and down, taking in his unclean hair and wet shirt. She shakes her head, crossing her arms and picking at something in her purse. “What time is it?” She asks, even if she is the one with a watch.
Mark is pretty sure he knows what she needs to hear. “At least four.” He’s only off by about six hours.
“I need a drink.”
*
“She’s impossible!”
Mark wants to agree, but at the same time he wants to sink down into his seat until the Earth swallows him whole. He gives a small nod, mostly hidden behind his beer. On a scale of awkward conversations to have, talking to your ex-girlfriend’s girlfriend about her girlfriend flirting with other girls had to be pretty far up there.
Joanne growls, glaring down at her own drink, which she ordered about half and hour ago and hasn’t touched yet. “I don’t understand,” she says, throwing her hands into the air as if giving up. Mark knows the feeling. Sometimes he just wanted to surrender to Maureen. Okay, you won. Let’s stop playing now. “I’ve tried everything, Mark. Done everything she asks. I’ve been the best girlfriend I could be and she still…” Joanne groans and shakes her head, rubbing at her temple trying to ease the headache that is Maureen Johnson.
“She’s was like that for me,” Mark says, giving Joanne a comforting pat on the back. She sighs, leaning forward on to the table, and Mark can’t help but feel a little relieved that this isn’t him. How did Roger, Benny, and Collins ever deal with him like this? “She’s got a… very open personality.” It sounded better than admitting that Maureen would flirt with anyone who could deal with her, and occasionally those who couldn’t.
“I just want to be able to say, no more Maureen, no more.” Joanne sits up, slamming her hands down on the bar and frightening one of the drunker guys sitting next to her. “I’m sick of the games and the looks and the touches. Last night, and the club, she was all over this girl in rubber.” Joanne motions to her own loose fitting suit and jacket. “How am I going to compete with that?”
The same way Mark had been competing with all the boys with their bikes and money and looks, and the only thing he had to keep Maureen around was a camera. Of course, look how that went for him. “It’s not about competing. Maureen, she just likes getting under your skin.”
Joanne snorts. “It’s what she’s good at.”
Mark can’t argue with that. Maureen did have a way of getting to people. Poor, innocent people like him and Joanne who got drawn in be her wild smile and outrageous flirtations and ended up stuck. “She’s just… It’s Maureen’s way of making sure you still love her.” Confident, beautiful Maureen who gets so insecure she needs to give her boyfriend, now girlfriend, a near heart attack to make sure they still want her as much as she’s afraid to want them.
Mark knows this, because after every one of their fights he would end up holding Maureen, as if she is the one that got hurt. He’s betting Joanne knows this as well. But Joanne isn’t Mark who sticks around through heroin-withdraw beatings and being gone for three nights only to come back drunk and with another guy. He’s a wimp, and he knows it, but Joanne doesn’t seem like the type of woman who will just sit back and let her girlfriend play these kinds of games. In the end, either Maureen is going to have to give or Joanne is going to walk away. If these girls continue like they are, they’re going to explode. It doesn’t take Mark with his director’s eye and ever present camera to see that.
The sad thing is, that is why Mark came to this run down bar when Joanne called, because as much as Maureen hurt him, he doesn’t want to see her get hurt back. “I better get home. Maureen wants to practice her protest.”
All Mark can do is offer a half smile. Sitting here helping Joanne keep Maureen, it feels like all those old relationship wounds need to be wrapped again. “Remember, Joanne, she doesn’t mean it.”
Joanne’s smile looks even worse off then his, if that’s possible. “Thanks, Mark.”
Round Five: Roger M. Davis Verses Marianela “Mimi” J. Marquez
“So this is it?” There are very few people in the world Mark feels comfortable yelling at. He’s a pretty calm guy, not all that aggressive. Hell, he never even really fought with Benny and they guy is kicking his friends out of their loft! Maureen and Roger, they always manage to bring it out in him.
Roger doesn’t answer, just swings into the loft and slams the door shut behind him. Undeterred, Mark yanks it back open with an equally loud crash. “You can’t just leave!” He says, following Roger into his room. Roger still isn’t answering. He picks up a bag and begins stuffing clothes into it. “Roger, slow down! What are you even going to do when you get to Santa Fe? You don’t even have any money!”
Mark is trying to stay reasonable, trying to be the middle ground in this fight but it’s hard when Roger is being a complete jerk. Sure, he bought that car, but Mark figured that was just an idol threat. He didn’t think it had meant much. Just Roger reacting to finding out that Mimi is with Benny again. They all talked about going out to Santa Fe, but then at some point they all talked about giving up and getting real jobs, leaving behind their art and trashed loft for good and other than Benny no one has ever gone through with it.
Of course, Mimi had a way of making Roger do things Mark didn’t expect him too. Like getting out of the loft, falling in love, and leaving New York. “Roger? Are you even listening to me?” Mark asks, hovering just a step behind Roger as he storms through his room, grabbing handfuls of T-shirts and underwear and throwing them into his bag. “Come on, Roger. Mimi didn’t-“
“Shut the fuck up!” Roger turns around so fast Mark has to stumble backwards to give him space. “What the fuck do you know, huh? All day, you play with that camera of yours. What the fuck do you know about Mimi?”
“I know she loves you!” Mark yells, not backing down when Roger takes a very threatening step into Mark’s personal space. “I know she loves you more than she ever loved Benny.” Mark saw it. He saw the way Mimi looked at Roger during the funeral. Saw it in his old footage when they would hug and kiss and simply be together. It’s everywhere, in everything Roger and Mimi do together. How Roger can’t feel it, how he can fail to see just how much he means to Mimi, Mark will never understand.
“Well then, where is she?” He asks, motioning around to the trashed room filled with old guitars and broken amps and a storm of sheets and clothes but no loving girlfriend. “Where is Mimi if she loves me so much?”
Mark’s hands clench up into first. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down before he does something that will push Roger all the way to Santa Fe. “You have to-“
“Fuck off, Mark,” Roger says, zipping up his bag and tossing it over his shoulder. He pushes Mark aside, heading to the door without another word.
Mark, of course, chases after him, because that’s what he’s become so good at after all these years. “So that’s it? You’re just… Giving up? That’s your big solution? That’s how much you love her, that you won’t even stay and try?” He’s saying anything he can that will get him a reaction. Anything to keep Roger from walking out the door and abandoning this girl who loves him so much that even Mark, disassociated and disconnected behind his camera, can feel it.
He wants Roger to scream or punch him or break down. Something to show that Roger knows how much he’s screwing up by walking out that door. What he gets is one last look from his so-called best friend, empty of most emotions. Like the blank expression of a girl sprawled out on their bathroom floor. A look Mark hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
“You’re always trying to fix everything, Mark. Acting like it’s so important to you to keep everyone together and happy.” Roger shakes his head. “That’s not it, though. You’re just afraid to take sides. Afraid to feel something, really feel it. You just want to stay in the middle. You just want to pretend that you’re so much better than us, because you see all our fights and faults.”
“That’s not true!” Mark protests, but it doesn’t have the power his earlier convictions did, because something in Mark’s head is telling him that maybe it is. After all, isn’t Mark better than his parents who stayed trapped in their marriage years after the love was gone? Isn’t he better than April, the girl who lost against the drugs? And Benny, who gave up this bohemian life for a warm building, and flirty-flight Maureen with her desperate girlfriend? Doesn’t Mark think he’s better than those people, at least. Even if he can’t compare to the rest of the world, there a hundreds of people on his film that he can claim pity for.
It’s not fair, that a guy who doesn’t even see what he has can see all of Mark’s own problems.
“The truth is, you can’t see anything. You don’t understand.” Roger turns away, shrugging his bag onto his shoulder. Mark can’t move. He would have rather had Roger punch him in the gut. It would have been less painful. “I have to go.”
The door closes and Mark is cut off from Roger, the rest of the world, and it doesn’t even hurt anymore. His best friend is gone, his girlfriend isn’t coming back, the most amazing person he’d ever known is dead, and Mark is just standing in the empty loft, in the middle of nowhere.
Mark pulls his jacket tighter around him. He needs to call Alexia Darling from Buzzline back. The sooner he gets to work, the better.