Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, and I don't own...uh...the Great Depression?
And Richard Moscowitz lived happily ever after.
No.
And they were never heard from again.
Still not right.
Five years later, they were both arrested and hanged.
Fuck it.
Mark ripped the page out of his typewriter and threw it on the floor. Paper was awfully expensive these days, especially for a burnt-out reporter trying to get his job back at the New York Times. He shouldn't be wasting it like that, but he'd probably burn it later. The reporter would still be burning his old clothes, if he had any left. Thank God winter was finally coming to an end.
When he opened the door of his rusty Ford truck, Mark Cohen saw the same thing he saw every day. Six hundred or so people in just the same situation as him. They'd all lost their jobs, or been evicted from their homes because they couldn't pay their rent, or kicked out for being on the jazz. It was just the way it was.
The year was 1933. Welcome to Central Park.
Gazing around the reservoir, two things struck him. Firstly, he realized he hadn't been outside his truck for three days. Secondly, he hadn't seen Roger in just that amount of time. He hoped his friend wasn't on the coke again. The two of them had no money as it was, and didn't need to be in any more debt than they were already- there was only room in the truck for one person in the cab and one in the truck bed. Whoever was in the bed only had an old blanket to keep him warm and dry.
Hopefully, Roger was at his usual spot in Times Square with his trumpet, trying to make some sort of money.
I doubt it.
Have you seen that new dancer down at Ma Vie En Rose?
That was the question being asked all over Seventh Avenue. Not necessarily because she was beautiful, and not necessarily that she was anything more scandalous or tawdry then your average dancer- at least, depending on who you asked. It was because this new dancer, a newcomer of about nineteen, was a man.
This wouldn't be a problem, if this dancer didn't insist on wearing a skirt and high heels for all his performances. Such would've been unheard of anywhere else, but hell…anything's possible in New York City. More importantly, anything's possible for a little publicity.
The 'bar' Angel worked at did, indeed, get a good deal of publicity out of their new moneymaker, but the pay was still shit. She found herself surviving mostly on tips and 'extra work' she found milling about the back of the establishment- mostly debtors that couldn't pay even the small amount they said they were and filthy ex-carpetbaggers that had ordered one too many 'Jorums of Skee'. She'd stand on a corner of Seventh with her best friend, and fellow dancer, Mimi Marquez, every night after work. She'd moved to a different part of the street when Mimi quit to be with her new boyfriend, Benjamin Coffin.
Big Benny Bootlegger, they called him. Angel hated him the moment she saw his slimy face and striped suit, but kept her yap shut for Mimi's sake, and Mimi's sake only. She could understand why her friend was with him, or hoped she did. For the money. With Big Benny, Mimi could have a nice apartment with him and only have to mess around with him. It wasn't a bad life if you could take it.
No matter that Angel still lived in a tent because her wages were too low to afford an apartment in the city. No matter that her private customers treated her like scum. No matter that, to half of New York, she was scum. She was living her life, something more than she could say for a lot of people she knew, and she was alive.
a/n: Don't be hatin', dawg!