"…So, I'm talking to her, and she sighs and says, 'I'm just gonna get a breath of fresh air.' And she stands up, and I never see her again. Didn't even come back for her coat." Collins sighed, finishing his long-winded story about a blind date Maureen had set him up with.
"You can't say that you didn't care." Maureen huffed defensively. "You said you weren't even attracted to her," she pointed out. "Or any girl for that matter."
"Then why did you try to set me up with—what was her name? Evelyn? Eve? Eva?"
"Her name was Ava, and she's very nice."
"If she's so nice she could have at least waited until the end of the meal to leave. It's common human decency! Common respect." Collins shot back. The six bohemians were lounging around the loft during a pre-Life Café Dinner. (They always tried to cut down on excess time at the Café-- it lowered the chance of being thrown out.)
Roger laughed. "In order to be respected like a decent human being, you have to dress like one. I bet that you couldn't dress decently for one meal-- no, wait, I dare you!"
Mark snickered. "No one backs down from Roger Davis' dares."
Collins sighed. "Don't I know it."
"Mark, why don't you lend Collins some clothes?" Mimi suggested from the chair, where she was (basically) sitting on Roger.
"Take clothes from that geek? No way. He can't even keep away from his scarf for a night!" Collins exclaimed, not making his distain unknown.
"I could too!" Mark said angrily, or the closest he could come to that.
"Fine. I dare you to stay away from your scarf for tonight." Collins said, grinning.
"I won't even miss it!"Mark said stubbornly, pulling off his scarf and discarding it in a neat little pile on the table.
"Ver? Él es un valeinte hombre." Mimi said, giving Roger a little push as Collins sulked off to Mark's room to find something that A) fitted and B) looked "decent".
"Meems, if you're gonna insult me, at least do it in English." He said, giving her a peck on the cheek. Mimi had taken to speaking in Spanish when there was no one to understand her.
"I propose Mimi isn't allowed to speak Spanish all evening!" Joanne called from across the room, where she was sprawled on the couch next to Maureen.
"You propose…" snorted Maureen. "I 'propose' you aren't allowed to say anything lawyerly all evening! In fact, you can't even say the word 'law!'"
"And I propose you can't boss anyone around!" Roger called. Mark laughed and Collins returned, wearing a smart black jacket and white dress-pants that were an inch too short for him.
"Oh, and you're just sitting around, without a care in the world!" Maureen said sarcastically.
"Hey," Roger said, "it's not my fault I'm sitting here. Mimi's sitting on me!" This only caused Mark and Collins to laugh harder.
"You still don't have a dare!" she teased.
"So give me one," he said, his eyes challenging her.
"Fine. I dare you-- I dare you-- to… to… to talk with an Australian accent all evening!" Maureen stuttered.
"Why?" said several people at once. Maureen shrugged. "It just kinda popped into my head, but now that I think about it, it's pretty good, right?"
"Oo… Este es vigente a estar duro. Muy dificil." Mimi muttered. Mark, Collins and Joanne glared. "What? The evening hasn't started yet."
"Right…" Roger said with a surprisingly good Australian accent. "Crikey, it's late. Let's go."
As the group made its way down the stairs, Mark called out. "Wait."
Roger turned around, still with his accent. "What is it now, Cohen? You have your camera."
"Yeah, I know but…" he searched blindly for an excuse. "My tape's almost out. I just want to grab a replacement."
"I'll go with you, Marky," Maureen said cheerfully. Mark could feel daggers from Joanne's eyes boring into his flesh. He shivered.
"No, I can go alone." He ran back up the stairs and grabbed his scarf from off the table, kissed it and stuffed it in his camera bag-out of sight of everyone- before hurrying to meet the group.
"How's Buzzline going?" asked Joanne. Topics were scarce as they weren't allowed to do (or talk about) their favorite activities.
"Fine. Last time I talked to Alexi she mentioned a promotion, but she hasn't said anything since…" Mark trailed off.
"See, I have this really funny story about my first job, but I can't tell you it without permission of Miss Johnson."
Maureen, hearing her name, turned. "What, pookie?" She asked.
"Am I allowed to tell Mark that story about my first job?" Joanne asked.
Maureen looked at Joanne blankly, obviously remembering neither the story nor the job. "What was your job?"
"I was a secretary for my uncle." Joanne sighed.
Maureen continued to stare, trying to remember the story. Joanne took this as confusion and clarified. "My uncle was a lawyer."
"Oh," Maureen said. "No, then."
Joanne sighed, "You got a story about your first job?" she asked Mark. Maureen went back to talking to Collins.
"My first job was a 'retail assistant' at model houses…" Mark said uncertainly, as if he doubted the memory of it.
Joanne laughed. "This sounds interesting. What'd you do?"
"Um," Mark said abashedly, starting to fold his napkin into a paper crane, "I handed out brochures…"
"Never mind. It sounds boring." Joanne sighed. Mimi took a break from her make-out session with Roger to add to the conversation.
"I remember my first job… I helped at a dance class for kindergarteners."
"Mmm," Roger said, kissing her. "My Mimi, a teacher." All said with a flawless Austalian accent.
"Only I got fired because they found a stash in my pocket." Roger and Mark laughed.
"Well, it is against the law…" Joanne said, trying to contain her laughter.
"Ha!" Maureen whirled around. "I got you!"
"What?" Joanne said, bewildered.
"You said 'law'!" Maureen said triumphantly.
"So she did." Mark said, smiling and starting his second crane.
"You—you—you set that up!" Joanne stuttered to Mimi. "You wanted to get me out!"
"I did not!" Mimi said, pretending to be affronted. Maybe, she added in her head. Quizás.
"You were the one who suggested this topic of conversation." Roger added, not a hint of American in his voice.
"I cannot believe this!" Joanne fumed. "I am the first one out!"
"Don't feel bad," Mark said, working on his third napkin.
"If Benny were here, he would have been out long ago. He sucked at this." Collins said. Maureen nodded, agreeing.
"If Benny was here," Mimi said, latching her arms around Roger, "I would have walked out."
"If Benny were here," Roger added, in a low Australian grumble, "I would punch him."
"You wish you could punch him." Maureen laughed. "Even Mimi is stronger than you!"
Roger made a gesture which, if the server had been around, probably would have gotten them kicked out.
"You're such a dunce. Mark, quit hogging all the napkins and give me one." Maureen said. The table was stony silent. "What?"
"You didn't say 'please.'" Mark said, starting to laugh.
"So?" Maureen said.
"You didn't ask." Mimi added, giggling.
"Who cares?" Maureen said, oblivious to what had just happened.
"And what do we call it when you do that?" Joanne said, in perfect imitation of a preschool teacher.
"Oo! Crikey, I know! Call on me, mate!" Roger said, jumping up and down, his hand raised like a second grader, his voice overflowing with Aussieness.
"Let's say it together, class!" Joanne said. "It's called—"
"Bossing around!" the rest of the table supplied.
"Oh, come on!" Maureen scoffed, beginning to register what she had done.
"And here, ladies and gentlemen, is our second loser!" Collins said, imitating a gameshow host and miming a microphone in his left hand, which he shoved at Maureen. "Tell me, young lady, how does it feel?"
"It feels like I should punch you."
"Violent, are we?" Maureen bared her teeth and growled.
"Oh, come on. Evita could look more threatening than you!" Collins grinned.
"And she's been dead for two years!" added Mimi, laughing.
Maureen attempted to punch Collins, but missed and hit his Coke. The glass teetered before toppling over and covering Collins' white pants.
"Aw, man…" Collins whined, standing up to examine the damage.
"Crikey, that looks like a big stain…" Roger whistled.
"Yeah… you might actually have to go to the cleaners or something," Joanne said.
"That pretty much ruins your appearance…" Mimi trailed off.
"So he's not, you know, decent anymore?" Maureen grinned.
"No, I'd say not…" Mimi said, condemning Collins without realizing it.
"Haha! Yes!" Maureen called, jumping up and down. She pulled out the imaginary microphone again and directed it at Collins. "Any comments for our viewers?"
"This is your fault!" Collins said angrily.
"I was aiming for you. It's not my fault I missed!"
"No, but it's your fault you have such bad aim!"
"It's not like I practice regularly."
"You should!" Collins said. "Then you wouldn't have missed and I would still be in the game, maybe!"
A freckly waiter had emerged shortly after the spill, his beady eyes darting around the table, finally resting on Collins' drenched pants.
"Um," he stuttered, "maybe I should… you know… come back… later…"
Mimi snorted and tried to hide it. The waiter flushed bright red.
"I think we're ready," said Joanne, taking control of the situation. "Tofu dog."
The waiter nodded and tried to retain some dignity. "And a drink?"
"Water's fine, thanks. Mark?"
"Um," Mark said, fumbling for the menu from where his hands were cuddling with his scarf underneath the table, "Pasta. I think."
"Sauce?" asked the waiter.
"Yeah. I think."
This was just making the waiter more confused. "So do you want sauce or not?"
"Yes. Maybe." Mark said.
"He does, actually." Maureen said, reaching over and patting Mark's arm, "He's just having some mental problems."
"Gee, thanks, Maureen." Mark said, readjusting his glasses.
"It's called 'Post-Scarf Stress Withdrawal.' " Maureen added. The waiter looked like he might run away. It was obvious that the table was freaking him out. And that he was very, very confused.
"I hafta say he's doing very well." Mimi added, giggling.
"Yeah," Collins said, "Maybe you should give him a sticker."
"Um," the waiter said, trying not to look as scared as felt (which was not working), "okay. Next order?"
"Um, yeah, I have a question." Roger called, maintaining the accent so flawlessly the waiter couldn't help but stare. "The tofu dog—is it cooked on the barbie?"
"What?" the waiter said, bewildered. Mimi, Maureen and Joanne started laughing.
"You know, mate, some dogs are cooked on the barbie and others are just cooked in a pot." He added under his breath (but loud enough for everyone to hear): "Crikey. It's not like I'm asking you what the new prime minister's name is."
"John… Major?" he said nervously.
Roger laughed. "No, mate! It's Paul Keating!"
"Riiight… what will you have?" the waiter said, pointing at Maureen.
"A cheeseburger." Maureen said. More than one person rolled their eyes.
"I'll double that." Mimi said. "Dos hamburguesas con queso." Immediately she realized what she had done. "Damn."
"Excuse me?" The waiter said.
"I'm out." Mimi said.
"Out of… what? Do you need more napkins?"
Collins snorted. "Don't worry about her. I want a pasta with--"
Maureen interjected, laughing. "Meatless balls."
Mark started laughing uncontrollably.
"Sauce?" the waiter asked; learning it was better not to ask.
Mark fell off his chair from laughing so hard.
Mimi danced down the street, drunk and happy.
"Meems, don't walk so fast!" called Roger, who had maintained his accent through the whole evening and was still talking with it.
"I'm not walking," she called, dancing into Roger's arms, "I'm flying!"
"So romantic, isn't it?" whispered Maureen to Joanne.
"Getting so drunk you can't walk straight? Of course. It's the most romantic thing ever." Joanne whispered back, voice full of sarcasm.
From behind them, Collins snorted.
"Lighten up, honeybear." Maureen said hugging Joanne.
"Can we stop for a second? I need to catch my breath." Mark called. He was a good half-block away from Collins, the next up.
They all collected at a bench about three blocks away from the loft. Collins resumed his gameshow-host-act, standing up on the bench and holding the "microphone" to Roger and Mark.
"And how does it feel to be the first double winners of a dare contest ever?" he asked.
"Wait!" Maureen called, excited. "I have an ingenious idea!" Before Mark could stop her, she lunged for his camera bag, which was discarded on the end of the bench.
"What the—" she said, pulling out his scarf. "You cheater! You had your scarf the whole time!"
"Oops." Mark said, drunk and not a very good liar, even when he was sober. "How—how did that get in there…"
"I'm going to kill you, Mark Cohen!" Maureen said fiercely.
"Yeah," Collins laughed. "Remember: she knows where you live."
Joanne hit his arm. "I propose," she said, stressing the word, "that we confiscate his camera for two weeks."
"And his scarf!" Mimi called, supporting herself on the edge of the bench. Collins, Maureen and Mark nodded.
Mark groaned.
Two weeks later a postman made his first trip into Alphabet City, carrying the square package. He tried to imagine what it held in it? A care package? No-- it was postmarked central Manhattan. Who sends a package halfway across a city?
He arrived at the address and- to his distress- found no doorbells. A young man sitting on a balcony called, "Who're you looking for?"
"Um," he fumbled with the package, "A Mr. Cohen?"
The man snorted. "I'll get him."
A minute later, Mark appeared at the door with Roger behind him.
"A package? Who's it from?"
"I know…" Roger said, his American accent returned.
"But then again, you're not going to tell me, are you?" Mark retorted.
"Exactly."
Mark sighed. Though he was annoyed with Roger, he ended the conversation A) because he'd had basically nothing to do in the past two weeks (in fact, he had composed a song called "A Ode To Scarfy, but it had mysteriously disappeared), and B) because Roger wasn't feeling well and Mark had to feel sorry for him. It was probably nothing, but Mark didn't want anything on his conscience.
"Right. Thanks." Mark said, signing the slip.
As they walked upstairs, Roger said, "I think you were supposed to tip him."
"Too bad. I'm broke anyway." Mark said, shaking the box. A muffled sound came.
"You don't wanna do that. You might break it." Roger said, swinging the door open.
"You mean—" Mark said, glancing at Roger.
"Yup." He smiled.
"But—whose address is that?" Mark asked.
"That's Joanne's office."
Mark set the box on the table and started to examine it. "How do I get it open?"
"Here." Roger tossed his key to Mark. Mark fumbled and caught it, and Roger laughed. Mark shot a look at him and opened the box.
He grabbed the scarf and put it around his neck before picking up the camera and directing it towards Roger. "Roger, looking smug after his accomplishment."
"It isn't recording." Roger said.
"That's weird. I had a new tape in here."
"Even though you said it was almost out."
Mark gave Roger a look. "You know I was lying."
"Hook it up," Roger suggested, gesturing towards the projecting equipment.
"Okay…"
As the screen came into focus, it was clear that it wasn't his own footage: Mimi dancing at the CatScratch Club with his scarf; Roger practicing with his band, scarf tight around his neck; his scarf on a statue in Central Park, birds flapping all around it; Collins teaching a class with the scarf loose, explaining some concept Mark couldn't understand; Maureen printing posters for her next performance, the scarf bundled up on the edge of her table; Joanne lawyering in a sparkling courtroom, then another clip of her celebrating with other lawyers.
Mark tightened his grip on his scarf. His scarf helped her win her case.
The film continued: Maureen walking through Alphabet City, wearing the scarf as a belt; Roger playing guitar on the roof, wearing the scarf like a tie; Joanne posing with it in front of the Empire State Building like a tourist; and Roger reading something off a piece of paper that Mark couldn't hear, and finally holding it up to the camera.
Mark saw the heading and groaned. "An Ode To Scarfy" was being read out loud.
"You know," Roger said, "That really was kinda pathetic."
"I am deleting all this. All of it!" Mark said, not taking his eyes off the screen, which had started playing from the beginning again.
"Please don't. We all worked so hard on it!"
"By the way," asked Mark, "Who shot that? If it wasn't so mean, cruel, pitiless and spiteful I would have said it was pretty good."
"We all did. I shot Mimi, Joanne shot Collins, Maureen shot Joanne, Mimi shot me and Joanne shot Maureen."
"And the statue?" asked Mark.
"Me. Well, it was a group effort."
"Of course. What doesn't take a group effort?"
"What indeed."
This was my attempt at humor. I don't know how funny it was, so R&R.
-Yaz
PS: Paul Keating was the Australian Prime Minister in December 1991 (a year after RENT ends in the movie) and John Major was the British.