Sorry to disappoint you. Mark doesn't cry and he doesn't have sex with Roger. But he does have mental breakdowns. This story takes place during the year following the conclusion of RENT. This will explain Mark's behavior in upcoming "Bohemian Offspring" stories.
The first part is narrated by Mark. As Mark's condition worsens, Roger will take over.
Ó Jonathan Larson owns all the original characters from RENT. Any other characters belong to moi.
December 24, 10:45 pm.
"The power is officially restored," Collins announced in a mock British accent. He sat down on the floor, his back against the rusty orange couch. Mimi was lying across the couch with her head in Roger's lap. My best friend ran his fingers through his girlfriend's curly mane. He wouldn't take his hands off of Mimi's body – I guess he was afraid of losing her again. Maureen and Joanne were lying on the floor. I sat in a folding chair.
Someone suggested we order in some Chinese takeout, and surprisingly enough, everyone agreed – even Maureen and Joanne. Fifteen minutes later, the smells of egg rolls, hot and sour soup, Szechwan eggplant, egg foo young, and lo mein filled the loft. I grabbed an egg roll and passed the carton to Collins.
"Turn the projector on," a voice called out to me. I turned my head toward the location of the voice. She had beautiful brown eyes and dark curly hair. Joanne said something to her, and she looked at Joanne. "Oh, Pookie," she purred, giving Joanne a sexy pout. I scratched my head. Damn! I know her! Her voice, her hair, those full lips, and that pout – and "Pookie" – why the hell can't I remember her name?! "Marky, can you please turn on the projector?" the woman repeated. "I want to see your film."
I silently obliged. As I fiddled with the controls and settled back down to watch my past year's endeavors, I attempted to place a name with the woman's face. This was starting to bother me. I have known this person for years now, and I have never once failed to recognize her.
The footage of Roger playing his guitar, me in the dark, and Benny played again. The colors were more vibrant than they had been an hour ago. Whenever a new slide appeared, the first thing I saw were patches of color. These patches slowly came together to form recognizable images. I had edited the footage myself, so I knew what each slide contained. But by the time my brain registered things, it was time for the next one. Why are my eyes playing tricks on me? I wondered. Maybe they put something in the egg rolls. I glanced at my friends. None of them seemed to be having my problem. The brightness was starting to hurt my eyes.
The couple next door were having an argument. I ignored the yelling at first, but I couldn't take it anymore. I was having a hard time concentrating as it was. I jumped up and ran over to the wall. "Will you shut up in there!" I screamed. "We're trying to watch a movie in here." My friends were giving me quizzical looks.
"Mark, who are you shouting at?" Joanne asked.
"The people next door," I answered. She doesn't hear them? They're so loud, I bet the whole city hears them. "They're arguing again." Maybe Joanne and Maureen – that's who that woman is! – fight so much they are immune to it.
"This is the only apartment on the top floor," Mimi pointed out.
Maureen giggled. "Are you hallucinating, Mark?"
All eyes were on me. I felt my cheeks turn red. "Um, a bed – I think – sleep – I think I'll go lie down now," I stammered. Roger stood up to help me, but I waved him off. "I'm fine, Roge, really. Just need sleep." I dragged my feet up the small flight of stairs that led to our bedrooms. I didn't even bother changing my clothes. I lie down on the covers and fell asleep faster than I had since Angel's memorial service.
Over the next few months, the people next door started to argue more frequently. My friends tried to convince me that there was no next door and no neighbors, but I knew that they were just ignoring the fighting, hoping the situation would go away. I could never make out exactly what the people were saying in their arguments. All I could understand was the anger and hate-filled voices. They always seemed to conflict with each other. Sometimes, the couple next door whispered, and other times, they screamed and smashed windows and furniture. I got so fed up with it, I decided to visit Joanne at her law firm.
"I want to sue my neighbors," I told her matter-of-factly when I entered her office.
She looked up from the paperwork on her desk. "You want to – what, Mark?"
"Sue my neighbors," I repeated. "For violation of the noise ordinance."
Joanne shook her head and gave me a funny look. Come on, Joanne, will you stop looking at me like that? Please stop. Please. "Mark, you don't have any neighbors. Your loft is the only apartment on the third floor."
She doesn't want to face them, does she? …I'm the only one who's brave enough. "You haven't been in the loft in awhile, have you?" I ask. "They argue constantly. I've had furniture thrown against the wall. The paint's starting to peel in my room from the weight of the things they throw during their fights."
She shuffled through some paperwork. "Mark, I repeat – you can't sue your neighbors."
I leaned toward her, gripping her eyes with my own. "I've lost sleep because of them," I explained. "I want to sue them, and if you don't do it, I'll find someone else." She can't talk me out of this. My mind's made up to sue them, and I'm going to sue them.
Joanne was silent for a moment. I'm pretty sure she was attempting to pull my thoughts from my mind so she could read them and twist my thoughts around. Finally, she spoke. "Why don't I talk to Roger and Mimi and see if your neighbors' – fights – have been bothering them also," she suggested.
I stood up and shook her hand. "Thanks, Joanne," I said. See, Mark, I knew she would pull through for you. I ran home to tell Roger the news.
Joanne promised to get back to me about the case against my neighbors. Meanwhile, Roger discovered he had a five-year-old son when an ex-girlfriend dropped the boy off en route to LA. Roger, Jr. had as much energy as one could expect from a kindergartener. Sometime in early May, about two months since the boy arrived, I walked into the apartment to find a glass of lemonade on the table – right next to my camera. I rushed over to the table and grabbed my camera. The kid's trying to play a trick on me. He poured lemonade onto my camera. I felt the camera – it was sticky. Roger and Junior were watching cartoons on TV. I walked up to them. I was blocking Scooby-Doo, but I didn't care. I held the sticky camera in front of them.
"Did you spill lemonade on my camera?" I asked the boy. Roger, Jr. shook his head. "I don't drink lemonade," he said.
I knelt down in front of him. "Well, someone has a sick sense of humor," I told the boy. "Do you know what happens to people who mess around with my stuff?" I snarled. The kid buried himself into Roger's chest. "They get hurt – bad."
"Leave him alone, Mark," Roger ordered. "It's my lemonade, and no one spilled anything on your camera."
"Oh yeah?!" I retorted. I shoved the camera into his face. "Feel it, why don't you! It's sticky."
He placed his a hand on the camera, then handed it back to me. "It's fine," he said. "I didn't notice any sticky spots."
"You don't work with this camera day in and day out like I do," I explained. "I should know when it feels sticky or not." I ignored Roger's protests. How the hell would he know, anyways? Nobody takes me seriously anymore. Everyone's so wrapped up in their own lives. Why should anyone care about me. I picked up the glass of lemonade and pitched it to the wall next to the couch. "Anyone who tries to mess with my camera – that'll be your head!" I screamed before storming up to my room.
* * *
June 30, 8:30 pm.
"Have some meatloaf," Mimi told Mark. She pushed the meatloaf towards the filmmaker.
"I'm not hungry," he mumbled.
"You should eat something," she said, pointing to his empty plate. "Mark, you hardly eat anymore."
And your weight shows it, I thought grimly. He had always been thin, but the last few months had left him looking almost like a skeleton.
Mark stood up. "I'm going to bed. See you later."
"Hey, Mark," I called out. "Eat something in your sleep, willya?"
He stopped short, and whirled around. Mark's eyes hardened, and he clenched his jaw. "What did you say?" he growled. He leveled his face in front of me. "What the fuck did you say???!!!!" he shouted.
I edged away from him. "Would you relax, Mark? I didn't say anything." I took a bite of my meatloaf. "You know, your mom's cooking is pretty good."
Mark slammed his fist on the table. The sound reverberated and nearly spilled Mimi's Sprite. "You don't change the subject unless I tell you to change the subject!"
All I could do was stare at my best friend's sudden transformation. One minute ago he had been Mark, and now he was a shaking, angry man with cold, dark eyes. This stranger (it couldn't possibly be gentle, fragile Mark) was pitching a plate at me. I leaned out of the way, and the plate smashed against the wall. More plates were thrown. I jumped up and grabbed Mark's arm. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I asked forcefully.
Mimi stood up and put her arm around Mark's shoulder. "Are you ok, honey?" she asked gently. Her response was a harsh slap across the face. She winced and rubbed the spot Mark had struck.
I turned to Mimi. "Are you all right?" I did not loosen his grip on Mark's arm. The tighter I held him, the harder Mark squirmed and kicked me.
Mark glared at me. "Let go of me."
Reluctantly, I complied with the request. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground with Mark's hands clasped around my neck. I tried to grab Mark's wrists and wrest them off, but Mark's grip was too strong.
My six-year-old son watched, wide-eyed. He didn't understand what was going on, but he knew this wasn't good. He turned to Mimi. "Why is Daddy's face turning blue?" he whispered.
Mimi tousled the boy's hair. "Don't worry, hon."
I was starting to see black spots. "What the hell's gotten into you?" I asked. I thought I saw Mimi mouth the words I'm going to call 911 but I shook my head. I don't want to put Mark in jail. The grip around my neck got tighter. What if he tries to hurt Mimi and Roger? I thought grimly. "Get out of here, Mimi!" I tried to shout, but it came out as more of a hoarse whisper.
Mimi grabbed little Roger's hand and headed for the door.
"I wasn't finished eating!" the boy complained.
"I'll make you a PBJ downstairs." I heard the door slam as they left.
This is it. I'm going to die. Mark's vicious look was growing blurry. Why did I tell Mimi not to call the cops? I didn't want Mark to go to jail, but I didn't want to die, either. At least I've found my one song glory.
* * *
I blinked, trying to get the scene in front of me to come into focus. Roger was on the floor, his face turning blue. Somebody's hands were holding onto his neck. Someone's strangling Roger! I looked down and realized with horror that those hands belonged to me.
What the hell is going on here? Where am I? Roger opened his eyes and began coughing.
"What…Roger…I didn't…no harm…what did I do to you?" I asked.
Roger gasped for breath. "You were trying to strangle me, you jerk!"
"Oh shit! I'm sorry, Roge." I sunk to the ground and buried my face in my knees. "I'm losing it, aren't I?"
My friend cautiously approached me. "What the hell is with you these days?"
"I don't know. I don't know!" I stared at the floor. He's right. What the fuck is wrong with me? "I do things … I don't remember doing them … I don't know." What's wrong with me? I never used to lose my temper like this.
Roger lifted my chin and forced me to look him in the eye. "Mark, you need help," he said. I grinned and burst out laughing. That's the funniest thing I've heard since last Christmas. "I'm serious!" Roger continued. "We're all starting to worry about you."
October 31, 2pm.
Angel's voice is in my ear …
There was only one way to make all of this disappear. The voices … the oranges and their secret plot to poison us … the loud neighbors … and especially the loneliness that had been suffocating me since the day I was born. I'm the only person who can make my pain go away, I told myself as I finished writing my goodbye note. I held the kitchen knife in front of me. Its metal blade glistened under the bathroom light. The sharp blade was a symbol of freedom. I pressed the point into my skin and dragged the knife across my chest. I gasped when I first felt the pain shooting from my body. It enveloped me like a shroud. Thick crimson pools leaked out of my chest and washed over the white tiled floor. I was finally doing something good for myself. See this blood here? I wanted to scream. I control how I die! I control my own fucking life – not you!
The sink and the toilet were growing blurry. The bathroom faded away to reveal a makeshift Christmas tree. Angel, dressed in her Santa dress, was tapping a steady beat on her 10-gallon plastic pickle tub. Roger was sitting on a table, strumming chords from Musetta's Waltz.
"Today for you, tomorrow for me!" Angel cheerfully explained.
"There's no day but today," I pointed out to her. "And for me, there is no tomorrow."
My friend gestured to the sky. Maureen was sitting on a cow's back. They were leaping out of orbit, jumping over the moon. "Have a leap of faith, Marky," she shouted. "Only thing to do is jump over the moon!"
* * *
October 31, 2:10pm.
I entered the loft and placed my guitar on the table. The Well Hungarians had just finished practicing for our gig tonight. We were going to play at a one-year-memorial service for Angel. You don't realize how much you affected our lives, did you girl? I whispered. How could we lose you, Angel? I had invited Mark and Mimi to watch us practice. Roger was at school. Mimi's mother was taking care of April tonight. Mimi had joined me, but Mark had told me he had something important to do. Is he finally filming again?
"I'm using the restroom," Mimi announced.
I laughed. "You don't need to broadcast that," I chided.
She kissed my cheek and ran to the bathroom. I climbed onto the table and started absentmindedly strumming chords from Musetta's Waltz. I couldn't remember when I had started playing my guitar on tables, but I had my best ideas for songs while sitting on this one.
My thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream. I almost dropped my guitar as I jumped off the table and hurried to the bathroom. "Are you ok?" I shouted. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. I peered in and tried to stop the gagging sounds from escaping my throat. "Mark?" I whispered. Oh god! Please no …
My best friend was slumped on the ground, blood soaking up the front of his green sweatshirt and sinking into the cracks of the white tile. Mimi removed her coat and pressed it against Mark's chest. The coat was quickly soaked in his blood. "Get me some towels and call 911!" Mimi yelled.
My feet were glued to the ground. I noticed a piece of notebook paper that was stained red. I carefully picked it up, almost afraid to see what it contained.
Don't breathe too deep. Don't think all day.
Dive into work. Drive the other way.
That drip of hurt. That pint of shame.
Goes away – just play the game.
Dying in America at the end of the millennium.
We're dying in America to come into our own.
And when you're dying in America
You're not alone.
To be continued …