I
am not sure why, but my favourite character from "Rent" is Mark,
so writing a story from his perspective seemed like a good idea.
Then I thought I could make it a bit interesting by doing a gender
switch – what if the filmmaker/narrator had been born a girl
instead? How would the events of the play be different? How would
the future for our characters be different? So here is Marcella
Cohen's story. Please enjoy. Standard disclaimer applies. Wren
Chapter 1: "Somewhere Else..Not Here."
We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Marcella, and my roommate, Roger. We live in an
industrial loft on the corner of 11th Street and Avenue B, the top floor of what was once a
music publishing factory. Old rock and roll posters hang on the walls. They have Roger's
picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the Pyramid Club. We have an illegal wood
burning stove; its exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of our electrical appliances
are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes its way out a window. Outside, a
small tent city has sprung up in the lot next to our building. Inside, we are freezing
because we have no heat.
She turned the camera on Roger "Smile!"
He looked up. God, he was one of the most photogenic people she knew, just plain
attractive. She could appreciate that objectively with what her Mom had
always called "the artist's eye." Truth be told, the contours of
his face, his green eyes, the way his blond hair fell across his forehead, by now were as
familiar to her as her own reflection. She knew how people noticed his looks, especially
when she - gangly, thick glasses, freckles, carrot red braids that hadn't ever changed
much-was beside him.
That was because she could barely remember not being beside him. After all, the had met
on the first day of the First Grade at Robert Kennedy Elementary in Scarsdale. She'd
fought off the bullies, when he was smaller than she was. He'd been her voice and her
buffer when she had grown terribly shy in their teenage years. And when they had
graduated, when Roger had gone off touring with his band and Marcella had moved into
the city to go to NYU for her degree in film they'd seen each other whenever they had the
chance, just the same. And they kept in touch, writing long letters when they didn't have
the money for the long distance calls.
And even when Roger had met Maureen-at a summer fringe festival upstate- and her then
boyfriend, Benny and even when Marcella had becomes friends with her TA in the "New
Technology in Film" course, Tom Collins, even when they had all become a unit of sorts,
it was always Roger and Marcella. And they were the only ones who were left, now.
Benny had broken up with Maureen, married Allison and become a totally different
person.
Then Collins had been offered a position at MIT and had moved to Boston, leaving them
the apartment-which had been his to begin with. Maureen was the last to go, when she'd
happened to be in the same office building elevator as a lawyer named Joanne Jefferson .
So Marcella, Roger and more often than not April had been on their own.
Their friendship had come full circle again and Marcella for the last year had been the
one taking care of Roger. Or she'd tried her best, anyway. That is how
it is with substance abuse...no one else can bring about the change to get you to stop, and
you come to the point where you don't care about anything. So she hadn't been able to do
much. But she had made sure that Roger and April had a safe place to crash and food at
least.
And she'd hoped for a turning point. It came eventually but not in a way anyone would
expect, that evening she'd come to meet Roger at April's apartment-well to be precise, it
was owned by her parents, and she was never there much- to the flashing of
emergency lights outside the front door telegraphing that something was really wrong.
What she found when she went inside still haunted her, probably always would. But
she'd held him through that first night after April died and listened with relief as he
finally said he was ready to get off the stuff. She'd looked in the phone book for rehab
clinics the very next morning and found one with a space available. She'd visited him
there every chance she could. And when his program was finished,
she'd taken him home, made sure he took his meds, handled the necessary things that
seemed to not register on his radar these days.
So that was it really, the history of a relationship of twenty years.
Sometimes, when she felt weaker, when she was in her analytical mood, she wondered if
they were as screwed up the proverbial case of the blind leading the blind and as
unhealthy as a pair of chronic enablers. But mostly, now, she was beginning to think that
it would be all right. That they would muddle through together, as long as she didn't
think too much about the horrible awful year they had just lived or think too much about
what was to come with Roger's illness.
She'd almost lost him, nearly, but not quite. That was over and done
now, and things were getting better. This year coming up would be better.
She already felt reassured just seeing Roger pick up his guitar, and to film him - it felt
right, and she was sure that the new direction she was taking in her work would prove
productive.
Of course, Roger wasn't so happy about her idea, but he put up with it-probably no one
else would-and grumbled that the guitar wouldn't tune. And-probably no one else would-
she teased him that that is a risk you take when you don't touch your instrument for a
year. Then she took a deep breath.
Here goes...
"Tell the folks at home what you're doing, Roger."
"I'm writing one great song.."
The ringing of the phone interrupted what he was saying. He actually did smile, relieved.
"Saved by the bell."
Marcella grinned wickedly "Hold that thought. Remember, we screen. Zoom in on the
answering machine."
Their outgoing message came on, the two of them, their voices low and goofy.
"Speeeaak!" (She really thought they should change that but had never gotten around to
it) and then the beep.
It was her mother. Marcella's stomach tightened. "Marcie," Roger had said once, "I love
your family, really I do, they are practically my own family. But they're nuts." Well, to
put it diplomatically, they were all strong personalities. Probably why she had turned out
so reserved.
And her mother was...well...typically, traditionally smothering. It didn't mean that she
didn't enjoy going to visit - especially to see her older sister Cindy's kids Kayleigh and
Matthew-but it was just that you needed to steel yourself before hand. These past six
months hadn't been the time. Her mother rang off and Roger smirked. She glared back,
then pointed the camera in his direction again "You're not off the hook you know. Now
where were we?"
"I'm writing one great song..."
But the phone rang again.
The deep rich voice they both knew instantly came over the machine, singing "The
Christmas Song." Roger hurried to pick up.
"Collins! Hey!"
Marcella felt her spirits lift even more. They hadn't seen Collins in a long
time. She always worried that something would happen with him so far away, and let out
a breath each night when the call bringing bad news didn't come. As unconventional as
he was, he did take care of himself and was so far healthy. He'd been the first person
she'd known with HIV, her first encounter with the disease beyond a lesson in Health
Class.
"Yes it's me." Roger was saying "Yeah yeah I know red letter day, Roger actually
answering the phone, hahaha."
She retrieved her keys and tossed them down to Collins who was right below at the phone
booth on the corner, then turned back to make sure their place was at least something
approaching presentable.
"Detained?" Roger repeated, confused. "What does he mean detained?"
The phone rang again.
"What do you mean detained? Oh, hi Benny sorry thought it was someone else"
Marcella swore under her breath. Benny had his good points-he hadn't lost his charm or
his dreams, nor had he kicked them out when he bought the building. In fact he'd
guaranteed that they would never be charged to live here, which was a big worry off
their minds.
But with Maureen's show coming up-considering the tension that she would cause over
the future of Benny's plans for their area- Marcella had a feeling that he wasn't the
person they wanted to speak to just now. She sat beside Roger and tilted her head toward
his so she could hear what they were saying
"I'm on my way, to collect the rent I need."
"What?"
"Hey, I've let last year slide completely"
"Benny, you promised you wouldn't charge us rent. Before you moved out. Remember?"
"Oh I would never forget those times, no. You guys, me, Collins, Maureen... How is the
Drama Queen?"
Marcella answered cautiously, "She's fine as far as I know. Getting ready to perform
tonight."
"I know," Benny replied ruefully.
Roger glanced at her. Aha. So it was as they had thought. Benny's father-in-law was the
major investor for his Cyberarts project. Mr Grey-of -the-Westport-Greys had probably
heard about Maureen's performance and gotten nervous, sent Benny to law down the law
somehow with her friends. She could hear that Benny felt uncomfortable actually and
she sympathized with him, well, just a little.
"You still working with her, Marcie?"
"Not since last week, no. We had a bit of a fight and she fired me." she admitted. She
didn't want to bring it up again because the argument had been about Roger - that
Marcella cared more about him than Maureen and wasn't really giving all she could to
Maureen's art.
But her roommate wasn't hurt. Roger's eyes glinted with mischief in fact. "Plus, besides
that she's in love."
"Ah yeah, that's typical of Maureen, new man every ten seconds"
"Well, not anymore."
"Oh come on you two, don't play with me, what's his name?"
"Joanne," They chorused.
There was a long minute of dead silence on the other end of the line. Marcella tried to
hold back her laughter, half of her feeling a bit bad for Benny again.
He recovered, and said, "Rent, my amigos, is due, or I will have to give you eviction
notices. See you soon." before hanging up.
Wordlessly they both went back to their work, simply because they didn't know what
else to do.
That lasted about a minute before the power blew.
"Great. Merry Christmas."
She sighed.
" Why do we do this to ourselves?" Roger wondered as he rummaged for a candle.
Marcella blew on her fingers and rubbed her hands together. She had on her old wool
coat and striped scarf over her black and maroon long sleeved tee shirt and her
long denim skirt with the patches, the thickest tights she owned and her black boots but
she was still cold.
"We're caught, is why." She answered. "We're dirt broke, hungry and frozen,
figuratively and literally. But we'd be really miserable if we had it any other way."
Roger laughed, but then went serious.
"You are right in a way. It's in our nature, our blood… I suppose eventually I can get the
music back."
"I'm sure you will. And I might give up on the documentary idea all together and just
shoot the wildest script I can come up with. Probably be more logical and believable
than real life."
She went over to the window. If she craned her neck she could just see the vacant lot
where the people in the tent city were bedding down for the night. There were so many
people out there worse off than she and Roger. And many who had not chosen their lot,
as they had. Maybe that was the why of it all...
Anxiously she looked for any sign of Collins. She began to feel slightly uneasy.
"Where he is anyway?"
Roger frowned
"I'm sure he'll be here in a minute. Hey, but you know what we could do before he
comes?"
She could barely see Roger start to pull his old posters down from the walls. She smiled,
and took the candle from the table, carefully went along to her room and picked up the
pile of old scripts, some she'd written, some she'd agreed to help film, all come to
nothing in the end. Except fuel for their stove. It did warm them up physically just a
little, but what was important was the symbolic act. Burning the past and lighting the path
ahead.
The phone rang again.
She answered hoping it was Collins.
"Marcie! Thank God."
She gritted her teeth, inwardly anyway.
"Hi Maureen, what's up?"
"I'm panicking! I hired Joanne as my Production Manager. But she's saying she doesn't
know what the hell she's doing . And that the digital delay is broken. Please, Marcie,
could you just go down to the performance space and have a look? You're great at that, better than anyone I know."
Somehow, it was hard to keep up resolve and be angry when Maureen pleaded.
"Ok, all right. No problem."
"Thanks Baby. You're the best."
Roger listened with a raised eyebrow.
"Marcella, Marcella. I thought that you had be a guy, and actually involved in a
relationship to qualify as whipped."
"Oh very funny, Rog."
"Seriously, though, after how she treated you…"
"I know.. A part of me wanted to say no ... but I didn't. I can't explain why."
Maybe you just can't leave the past behind as easily as all that...
She grabbed her satchel with her equipment in it, and rummaged through the drawer of
the dresser in the kitchen for her small tool kit, which she'd probably need to fix
Maureen's equipment.
"So what are we going to do about Benny?"
She glanced one more time outside. Dark, without promise - at least in their corner of the
world, the fabric was torn by pain, isolation, poverty, betrayal. Giving in to Benny would
be allowing that tear to grow.
They both knew without having to say it - They wouldn't pay Benny. They didn't have
the means to. And he knew that, anyway.
" Well I'll see you later. I'm worried about Collins, so I'm going to try to find him.
Probably I'll just hang out with him until..." Well, a good dose of nagging couldn't hurt.
"Unless, you join me. I...don't suppose that you'd like to see Maureen's show in the lot
tonight or come to dinner?"
He turned and pointed his back pocket at her camera.
"Zoom in on my empty wallet."
She grimaced. "Touché." She took the pills from their shelf in the kitchen, handed them
to him.
"Take your AZT."
Now here was the part where her idea of spontaneous, unscripted filming was hard. She'd
no idea how she could narrate this for the camera, April's bloody suicide, the note saying
"We've got AIDS..." But on the other hand, once she had told the story out loud, then it
would be neatly recorded on the tape, and not gnawing her from inside. So she
explained, quickly, clearly, brutally because that is the only way you can explain such a
thing.
Then she lowered her camera, said softly, "I'll check up on you later. Change your mind.
You need to get out of the house."
And then she left him alone, to think. Or maybe to find what he was looking for. His one
song. His legacy, and his redemption.