Baby Blue
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I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
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I sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the oppressive blue walls.
No one really knows what being a parent will entail when they have
kids. I was more clueless than most. If Judy hadn't told me, I may
have never figured out that she was pregnant.
My dad never really did "dad" stuff with us. But no one's father did,
back then. He went to the store, he worked his twelve hour shift, came
home and went to bed. On weekends, he'd be too exhausted from the week
to do anything with us. Sure, we went to Church on Sundays, but he
never did any "dad" things with us.
When Judy and I had a son, I was going to be the best dad ever. We
painted his room a pale blue, and tucked him into his blue crib
every night with his blue teddy bear. I was going to play catch with
him and take him everywhere with me. I would never be too busy for my
little boy. Isn't that want good dads do?
My boy liked to thwart me, though. He never wanted to play catch or
basketball in the driveway. He wanted to watch that confounded Mr.
Rogers and draw pictures. Judy said that he was an inspired boy.
As he grew up, what my son wanted had less and less to do with me. By
the time he hit the sixth grade, he didn't even want me to drive him
to school.
In high school, he joined the theatre department and the morning news
show. That was fine with me, because nothing made him happier than
theatre and television. I was happy that he was happy, but I didn't
understand anything about his hobbies. I stopped trying to talk to
him, because I didn't want to come across as a lunk. I know now that
it wasn't right to ignore him, but at least he still thought highly of
me. Right?
His senior year, he fell in love. Her name was Lauren, and she made
him miserable. He would lock himself in his room for hours at a time,
not allowing Judy or me to comfort him. The only person he'd
allow to talk to him was Cindy, and she never told us anything.
One night, shortly before the end of the school year, I found him
sitting on the front steps of the house. I went out and sat next to
him.
We sat there for a while, just starring between the trees into the
sunset, before I got the courage to speak. "Marky," I told him, "she's
not worth this. Find something that you love, and throw yourself into
it. Live in what you love until you forget her name."
He didn't say anything, he just went inside and locked himself in his
room. I wonder if he heard me.
That was barely two years ago.
Three weeks ago, my son the genius dropped out of college. He sent us
a letter, a letter I held in my hands as I sat in his old room, saying
that when he got where he was going, he'd let us know.
We still haven't heard anything from him. Of course, we haven't heard
from any morticians either.
I wonder where he is. And who he's with. And if he'll call. And when
he'll be back. And I wonder if I did okay.
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So, that's my "Mark and his Father" story. A lot of authors make Mr.
Cohen abusive, but Mark shows no symptoms of and abused child, so I
tried something different. Yeah. Did it work?
This is also going on the "Mark is half-Jewish" assumption, and
working off the angst of my father losing my brother to college.
Please tell me what you think.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the oppressive blue walls.
No one really knows what being a parent will entail when they have
kids. I was more clueless than most. If Judy hadn't told me, I may
have never figured out that she was pregnant.
My dad never really did "dad" stuff with us. But no one's father did,
back then. He went to the store, he worked his twelve hour shift, came
home and went to bed. On weekends, he'd be too exhausted from the week
to do anything with us. Sure, we went to Church on Sundays, but he
never did any "dad" things with us.
When Judy and I had a son, I was going to be the best dad ever. We
painted his room a pale blue, and tucked him into his blue crib
every night with his blue teddy bear. I was going to play catch with
him and take him everywhere with me. I would never be too busy for my
little boy. Isn't that want good dads do?
My boy liked to thwart me, though. He never wanted to play catch or
basketball in the driveway. He wanted to watch that confounded Mr.
Rogers and draw pictures. Judy said that he was an inspired boy.
As he grew up, what my son wanted had less and less to do with me. By
the time he hit the sixth grade, he didn't even want me to drive him
to school.
In high school, he joined the theatre department and the morning news
show. That was fine with me, because nothing made him happier than
theatre and television. I was happy that he was happy, but I didn't
understand anything about his hobbies. I stopped trying to talk to
him, because I didn't want to come across as a lunk. I know now that
it wasn't right to ignore him, but at least he still thought highly of
me. Right?
His senior year, he fell in love. Her name was Lauren, and she made
him miserable. He would lock himself in his room for hours at a time,
not allowing Judy or me to comfort him. The only person he'd
allow to talk to him was Cindy, and she never told us anything.
One night, shortly before the end of the school year, I found him
sitting on the front steps of the house. I went out and sat next to
him.
We sat there for a while, just starring between the trees into the
sunset, before I got the courage to speak. "Marky," I told him, "she's
not worth this. Find something that you love, and throw yourself into
it. Live in what you love until you forget her name."
He didn't say anything, he just went inside and locked himself in his
room. I wonder if he heard me.
That was barely two years ago.
Three weeks ago, my son the genius dropped out of college. He sent us
a letter, a letter I held in my hands as I sat in his old room, saying
that when he got where he was going, he'd let us know.
We still haven't heard anything from him. Of course, we haven't heard
from any morticians either.
I wonder where he is. And who he's with. And if he'll call. And when
he'll be back. And I wonder if I did okay.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
So, that's my "Mark and his Father" story. A lot of authors make Mr.
Cohen abusive, but Mark shows no symptoms of and abused child, so I
tried something different. Yeah. Did it work?
This is also going on the "Mark is half-Jewish" assumption, and
working off the angst of my father losing my brother to college.
Please tell me what you think.