Disclaimer: I definately don't own the song "Drink With Me" from Les Miserables. Also, none of us even rent Rent. I mean, I don't pay rent. I guess we squat.
Their laughter died down and they fell quiet. Conversations from other tables and restaurant life permeated their silent fortress. Suddenly, the young, small, Caucasian Jew propped his chin on his hand, and looked up imploringly at the taller, older, African-American seated across from him.
"Drink with me?" He asked.
"I'm usually the one instigating the drinking," the friend joked.
The smaller man chuckled dryly, drumming his fingers on the café's table top distractedly.
The African-American continued. "I thought we agreed on a laid back dinner out, man."
"Eh, I can't handle it, Collins," he answered, glancing around at their surroundings briefly before returning his eyes to the table top. "It's overwhelming."
Collins eyed him cautiously. After a moment's pause, he answered, "I know, Mark."
Mark's head snapped up.
"I know," Collins murmured again.
They were interrupted as a table of friends burst out laughing as a member of their group acted out an exchange between himself and what sounded like a landlord figure. He sat down to uproarious applause, and they called out jovially to a passing waiter, "Wine and Beer!"
Mark pulled his knees up to him on the booth and crossed them "German style" (he assumed since he had German blood that it was okay to call it that).
"So," Mark said again, "Drink with me?"
"To what?" Collins asked, uncharacteristically subdued.
Mark quirked a grin, "To days gone by."
Collins unfolded and refolded a decomposing napkin as Mark pushed around the bean curds in the bottom of his soup bowl.
"To days gone by?" he questioned, looking to Mark.
"To the life that used to be." He nodded.
"What about 'no day but today'?" Collins asked.
"At the shrine of friendship, never say die." Mark began to sing quietly.
"Mark—" Collins' eyes widened.
"Let the wine of friendship never run dry." Mark's singing faltered as he tapped his spoon on the side of the bowl.
"Mark! 'No day but today'?" Collins suggested perplexedly, watching him worriedly.
Mark looked across to his startled friend, and shook his head, beginning to laugh. "I never was a good abider by that. Filthy hypocrite, I am." He trailed off, glasses sliding down his nose, reflecting the light from the lamp that hung above their booth.
Collins cocked his head and laughed an odd, strangled, tired laugh. "You feeling alright tonight, Mark? You're soundin' a bit. . . loopy. And theatrical."
Smoke wafted over their table from the bar. Collins itched for a joint.
"Am I ever feeling 'alright'? You know as well as I do that I'm mentally screwed."
Collins shrugged. "We've all had a lot to deal with lately."
"Yeah," Mark said, snorting, "But you weren't 'let go' from your job after losing it in front of half the population of New York."
As if to emphasize his point, it was at that moment that a freshman college-aged looking couple settled into the booth across from theirs, not so subtly mumbling something about "the crazy, anti-America, unbalanced cameraman from that one show" and gesturing in Mark's general direction.
The girl was still looking at Mark, as Collins tried to think up a logical answer to Mark's statement. Mark tried to ignore her stare, but quickly grew increasingly tired of ignoring her and, after the couple's waiter had bustled off, decided to take action.
Mark plastered on a smile and waved genially. "Y'know," he offered, cheerfully, leaning halfway across the aisle, "It's rude to stare, but if you have any questions, the crazy, anti-American, cameraman is open to inquiries from the press."
The girl flushed.
"Oh, it's okay. Don't be embarrassed."
She flushed a deeper red.
"We all have our bad days, y'know."
She shifted her gaze to the table top as her boyfriend looked at him oddly.
"Our days when we might have trouble controlling our staring facilities, or days when we simply lose control of our mind."
Collins looked at Mark incredulously. "Whatchu doin', man? You're acting like Roger."
Mark shrugged. "Well," he said amicably, standing up and throwing his large camera bag over his shoulder, "It was nice to meet you." He extended a hand. "I'm Mark Cohen, resident loony of Alphabet City."
They both shook his hand cautiously. "Darin," the boy supplied. "And Ellen," the girl quickly followed.
Collins scooted out of the booth behind Mark.
"Pleasure. Cute names, by the way. They almost rhyme," Mark muttered, before turning to Collins. "Shall we pay?"
Collins grinned half-heartedly, not sure whether or not to be amused by Mark's disconnected sentences. "If we must."
They walked to the bar to ask for their receipt, leaving a bewildered couple behind them. After they'd had the bill rung up and unwillingly coughed up various crumpled ones and fives (Mark had left his ten in the bottom of his pocket, still hopeful for some form of cheap alcohol), Collins turned to Mark.
"What the hell was that back there?"
Mark shrugged Collins' question off and walked towards the door, "What was what?"
Collins cut in front of him and pushed the door open, suddenly wishing he'd worn shorts. Mark coughed slightly as the muggy air hit him.
"That in there. The way you treated that poor girl."
"What is up with you, Collins?" Mark laughed. "She couldn't have been three or four years younger than me—"
"That means that she probably started college as you finished it," Collins supplied, trying to give him some perspective.
Mark wasn't about to add that he'd graduated a year early.
"And you graduated early out, so maturity wise you have even more years on her, Mark."
Mark sighed inwardly.
"The point is, Collins, that I was rude to her, but she was rude to me first." Mark kicked a can as they walked down the sidewalk.
Collins opened his mouth to say something, but Mark plowed on. "Crazy, sarcastic Mark took over, and, I must say, he's quite clever sometimes."
Collins kicked the can back to Mark, who proceeded to violently kick it into the street, narrowly missing a revving gas guzzler.
Collins chuckled. "Were you aiming?"
Mark shrugged. "Maybe."
Collins shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well," he offered, "this'll pass. There are actually a lot of philosophical theories on this topic. For example—"
"On this topic? You mean: How the world continues to revolve as two best friends have a falling out following the death of one friend's girlfriend and the subsequent resurrection of said friend's drug habit?"
"No, Mark. Denial and mental collapse," Collins answered, refusing to be moved by Mark's sarcastic stabs at solid philosophy, logic, and reason.
"Oh."
Collins laughed. "Yeah, 'oh'."
"Yeah."
Collins' grin faltered. "Yeah."
Mark jumped onto a low wall that ran the length of the sidewalk. "So," he said to
Collins, throwing his arms to either side to keep his balance, "Do you like Frisbee?"
"Frisbee?" Collins spluttered. Sure, he and Angel had been known for their randomness and abandon, but this was absurd.
"Y'know, the modern, and much safer, adaptation of the discus?" Mark said, quirking another half-smile, and raising a leg high to the side, precariously balancing on one foot.
"Yeah, yeah, ballerina, I know what you're talking about."
Collins' eyes widened as Mark sprang off the wall and landed in front of him, whipping a pink and gold championship style Frisbee out of the large side pocket of his camera bag.
"Shall we?" Mark asked, jerking his head in the direction of Tompkins Square.
"If we must," Collins said with mock dread.
"We must."
Mark grabbed Collins' arm and pulled him over the wall into the park. Mark set out determinedly toward an open green area. Collins trailed behind sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets as Mark waved and called out to a group of people playing Frisbee a few yards away.
They waved back and jogged over to Mark and Collins.
"Hey, Jon, you mind if we play?" Mark asked the person who was obviously a team leader.
Jon quickly responded. "No, of course not, Mark!" He surveyed Collins quickly. Tall, he decided. "We need defense help. You're on our team."
"Mark, you're on Liz's team," he gestured to an African-American girl donning braids and tossing a green Frisbee in the air. She waved. Mark hadn't met her before. "They need more offensive players."
"Awesome!" Mark sat down his camera bag with someone's backpack and jogged to the other side of the "field".
Collins stood rather awkwardly.
"Alright," Jon shouted, "Go!"
Liz threw the green Frisbee from the very rear of the field. One of Jon's teammates jumped for it, but missed, sliding on his knees on the grass. Liz's team ran to Jon's side, set up, spread out, and got ready for a play. One of their team members intercepted Jon's pass and the play passed to Liz's team.
Mark sprinted wide. "Lea! Lea! Open, open!"
He caught her pass and tossed it forward to Liz, over Collins' head, as she dashed into the scoring area.
Mark's team erupted into cheers.
Collins stared at Mark blankly. "Um, Mark?" He ventured.
"Yeah?" Mark said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pushed his glasses up.
"I have no idea how to play this game, man." He scratched his ear and shrugged nonchalantly.
The two friends looked at each other, eyes locking for barely a moment before they burst out laughing.
Jon looked at them oddly. "Mark, you okay?"
"Yeah," Mark managed, smiling widely, "Yeah."
Collins grinned, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulders. "We've had a tough couple weeks, but—"
Mark tensed as both teams turned toward him and Collins.
"Yeah, I heard about what happened from Jon, man. Really sorry. If there's anything we can do to help, you know Jon's number, honey," Liz directed toward Mark, lilting Caribbean accent relaxing his tensed shoulders.
"Sounds great," Collins supplied for him.
"Yeah, if you need a place to crash if Roger's, y'know, acting strange or some—" Jon started.
"Roger's in rehab," Mark said sharply, surprising even himself. "I mean. . ."
Liz elbowed Jon hard in the side, smiling at Mark innocently.
"Oh," Jon stuttered, "I understand."
Mark glanced at the ground, fingers twitching oddly.
"Well," Collins said, "I think we're going to head home." He strained to smile, patting Mark's shoulder. "Thanks for the game."
"Yeah," Mark managed, "Thanks."
Collins wheeled Mark around, scooping his camera bag off the ground.
"No problem!" Liz called.
"See you around!" Several others chorused.
"Bye!" Collins waved over his shoulder.
Several yards away, Collins let go of Mark, handing him his camera bag and turning to face him. "How you know so many people, boy?"
Mark chuckled, shoving a hand in his pocket as the other gripped his camera bag. "I'm not a complete recluse, Collins."
"Yeah," Collins mumbled, surprised.
Once they were back on the sidewalk, Mark looked up at his friend. "Drink with me?"
Collins rolled his eyes. "To what?"
"Days gone by," he replied in song.
"Why?" Collins inquired.
Mark pulled the ten out of his pocket and flashed it in Collins' face. "Here's to pretty girls who went to our heads," Mark continued, singing. "Here's to witty girls who went to our beds."
"And boys," Collins said, winking.
"And boys," Mark sung on a shaky D above the staff, feigning death by lack of air while rolling his eyes.
Collins ruffled Mark's hair. "Okay," Collins said, as Mark stifled his suffocating dramatics. "One case of beer."
Mark wrinkled his nose. "I hate beer."
Collins sniggered. "Or wine coolers."
"Or wine coolers," Mark approved, shoving Collins playfully.
Later that night, Mark sat curled up on the couch staring at the wall, camera in his lap and wine cooler in his hand. A book of photos lay open on the milk crate in front of him beside the perilously perched wine cooler case.
Collins walked into the room, scratching his head.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Mark responded.
Collins plopped onto the couch beside Mark, eyes glancing over the photo album as he reached for the radio on the floor and pulled it into his lap. He turned the dial to the NPR station and settled back, hands behind his head and eyes closed.
"It's 10:00 PM and you're listening to the National Public Radio. NPR is sponsored by. . ."
The announcer's shaky voice droned on.
"Y'know what?" Mark asked after several minutes and the hourly news.
"What?" Collins opened his eyes, turning to face Mark's curled form.
Mark took another sip of his wine cooler and placed it on the floor. He faced Collins. "I don't feel any better."
Collins ran his finger over the dials on the radio, not responding for several moments. "Roger comes home soon."
Mark pushed himself up, grasping his camera with both hands. "I know." He stood and looked at Collins. "Good night."
"Night, boy," Collins said to Mark's retreating form.
The thin bedroom door closed and Collins heard Mark's flimsy spring mattress squeak as he flung himself onto it.
Collins picked up the book of photos, his eyes glancing over the pictures and their hurriedly scrawled labels. Roger and Mimi. Joanne, Maureen, and me. Collins and Angel. Jon and Lea. Benny and an eviction notice. Mimi and Angel.
A tape clicked on in Mark's room. Broken chords played behind the door.
Collins flipped the page.
Roger and me.
Collins sighed and sunk back into the couch, grabbing Mark's half-empty wine cooler and raising it half-heartedly into the air.
The staple line of the song passed by.
He laughed sadly.
"To days gone by."
Collins downed the bottle before lowering it gently to the floor.
He leaned back with his arms behind his head, propping his legs on the milk crate beside the five remaining wine coolers. As he closed his eyes to listen to the radio, his legs twitched and the bottles fell to the floor, each one shattering in rhythm to the music that pulsed out of Mark's room.
Will the world remember you
When you fall?
Could it be your death
Means nothing at all?
Is your life just one more lie?
Alcohol, flavoring, and emotion being absorbed by the floor to be forgotten by morning.
Collins opened his eyes just enough to see the empty bottle he'd so carefully placed on the floor. He brought his foot down beside it, kicking it and sending it across the room. It shattered against Mark's door.
Collins closed his eyes again.
The music clicked off.
Mark carefully pushed open his door and walked out, crossing the floor to the couch, stepping over the broken glass, and sinking into the couch beside Collins.
"And now The World. Renewed violence in the Gaza Strip worries Israelis and Palestinians, says Palestinian Prime Minister Arafat. An orthodox synagogue. . ."
Collins blindly reached an arm out, pulling Mark towards him despite the heat.
Mark, surprisingly, leaned into the comfort. He closed his eyes, too, vaguely listening to the news.
"We're gonna be alright," Mark said, but it was more of a question than a statement.
Collins opened his eyes and looked down at Mark, taken aback. Angel had always said there would come a point when Mark would need him, too. But could he lie to him?
Collins shrugged, outer mask not revealing his inner struggle. "I dunno, Mark."
Mark had closed his eyes and leaned into Collins' arm, head rested at a rather odd angle on the back of the couch. Collins watched him carefully.
Mark shrugged. "Okay." A pause. "Okay."
He opened his eyes and pulled away from Collins', looking at him sincerely.
"You want to try Ultimate again tomorrow?"
Collins chuckled bemusedly. "Sure, Mark. Sure."
Mark kicked a foot out, spreading the glass pieces even farther out.
He quirked a grin. "No day but today."
Collins smirked, not sure whether to give into one of Mark's few and far between Hallmark movie moments. He didn't think, however, that any Hallmark movie maker in their right mind would make a movie about them. Venturing below 14th street would be unheard of.
"Yeah, Mark. No day but today."
They looked at each other, momentarily trying to suppress their giggles, before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
The radio fell out of Collins' lap and lay forgotten on the ground, droning on.
". . . made possible by Merck, where patients come first. Bill Clinton to run for president? Tune into Fresh Air tomorrow at seven for. . ."
They rolled around on the couch releasing pent-up emotional energy, broken bottles and broken friendships temporarily forgotten.
Thank you for reading!