This is not at ALL very good, but it was fun to write, and it amused me, so I put it up. Plus, it was new. I don't write in first person very often and I NEVER use Benny in any of my stories. But I was watching "La Vie Boheme" and I thought, "God, that must have REALLY pissed him off." This is my take on what was going through his head! (Plus plus also and, I do not own RENT.)
"Why did Muffy—"
"Allison," I correct Roger. The others snickered. Whatever. I don't even get it.
"Miss the show?" Roger finishes.
"There, uh, there was a death in the family," I say. Ha. That should shut him up.
"Who died?" says that perky drag queen that I think they called Angel.
"Our Akita."
There's a tense moment. Then Mark and Roger look at each other and in unison say, "Evita!" The other's hold back laughter and Angel has a guilty look on her face. She killed my dog. Son of a bitch. I walk to the other side of the table.
"You make fun, yet I'm the one, attempting to do some good. Or do you really want a neighborhood where people piss on your stoop every night?" I ask. "Bohemia, bohemia's a fallacy in your head. This is Calcutta. Bohemia is dead." I pat Mark on the shoulder and sit back down at my table with Allison's dad. Mark stands up and walks to the head of the table. Shit.
"Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes…" Mark begins. Is he creating a mock memorial? "Here she lies no one knew her worth." They're carrying him across the table. What the hell? "The late, great daughter of Mother Earth. On these nights when we celebrate the birth…In that little town of Bethlehem, we raise our glass…" Shitballs, Maureen is on the table. "You bet your ass to…" Son of a bitch. Maureen Johnson just flashed her ass at us. "La vie boheme!" Mark finishes. Maureen gets down off the table. The others begin a chant of, "La vie boheme," while Mark starts fresh. This could be a disaster.
"To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing, the need to express, to communicate." Mark is singing and dancing on the goddamn table. Was I really ever friends with these people? Now that's humiliating.
"To going against the grain, going insane, going mad!" They definitely like to go against the grain, God. And they're totally nuts. This isn't good. I look at Mr. Grey. He has no emotion other than shock on his face. Shit.
"To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension, to starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretention. Not to mention, of course, hating dear old Mom and Dad!" He really does hate his parents. I don't know why. Based on their voicemail messages, they seem nice enough. They must really be starving for attention if they're getting up on a table in the middle of a café and singing and dancing. Shitballs, this is oh so very bad for me.
"To riding your bike midday past the three piece suits, to fruits, to no absolutes. To Absolut, to choice, to The Village Voice, to any passing fad! To being an us for once, instead of a them! La vie boheme!" Fine, y'all want to be individuals, be that way. But don't embarrass me in front of Allison's father! He already thinks less of me just because I know you guys.
Holy shit. Maureen is grabbing…what's her name? Joanne! Maureen is grabbing Joanne's ass. Mr. Grey clears his throat. Come on, Maureen, cut me a break.
"Hey, mister," she says, "she's my sister." She pretends to hump Joanne. Son of a bitch. Come on, Maureen!
The waiter comes and takes their order. "So that's five miso soups, four seaweed salads, three soy burger dinners, two tofu dog platters, and one pasta with meatless balls."
Roger's face scrunches up. "Ew!"
"It tastes the same," Collins says defensively.
"If you close your eyes," Mimi jokes.
"And the thirteen orders of fries," says the waiter again. "Is that it here?"
"WINE AND BEER!" they all shout. Mimi and Angel get up on the table. This really sucks for me. I'm sure they're all laughing their asses off.
"To handcrafted beers made in local breweries, to yoga, to yogurt, to rice and beans and cheese." So far so okay. "To leather, to dildos…" Spoke too soon. "To curry Vindaloo. To huevos rancheros and Maya Angelo!"
Maureen and Collins start to sing. "Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion. Creation, vacation—"
"Mucho masturbation," says Mark. Holy. Mother of. A chocolate covered. Jesus. I can't help it. I smirk and just shake my head. It's so obscene, there's just nothing else I can do.
"Compassion, to fashion, to passion when it's new. To Sontag, to Sondheim, to anything taboo." Nice little sex train right there, Maureen.
"Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham, and Cage!"
"Lenny Bruce!" says Collins.
"Langston Hughes!" Roger says.
"To the stage!" yells Maureen.
"To Uta!"
"To Buddha!"
"Pablo Neruda, too!"
Mark and Mimi looked at each other. "Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow to blow off Auntie Em! La vie boheme!"
Oh, good Lord. I watch in horror as Maureen and Joanne fall down on the table, making out.
"Sisters?" says an appalled Mr. Grey.
"We're close," Joanne and Maureen say in unison. Collins and Angel are on top of each other kissing too.
"BROTHERS!" they yell. This is ridiculous.
"Bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men, Pee-Wee Herman!" I don't even know who the majority of the people they're talking about are.
"German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein, Antonioni, Bertolucci, Kurosawa, Carmina Burana!" Again, who the hell are these people?
"To apathy, to entropy, to empathy, ecstasy!"
"Vaclav Havel! The Sex Pistols, 8BC! To no shame never playin' the fame game!"
Collins takes a long drag off his joint. "TO MARIJANA!" he cries.
I watch in horror as Collins and Angel act out the next few lines. "To sodomy—" Mr. Grey begins to walk out. "—It's between God and me. To S&M!"
"Waiter, waiter, waiter!" I cry out. These bohemians chased away my investors! Damn it!
"La vie boheme!"
What was the point of this song other than irritate the crap outta me? I guess that's enough for them. I storm out of the restaurant, not waiting around to see what kind of nonsense they do next.
Though I have to admit, I sort of wish I had the courage to just jump up on a table in the middle of a highly populated café and dance and sing about things that are not exactly acceptable in society.
As much as I hate to admit it, those guys have balls.