Peasants' Feast

Everybody knows that Mark hates to shop. Roger hates to clean. Collins hates to cook. Angel hates to tell people they look nice when they don't. Maureen hates to dress up. Joanne hates to venture guesses as to how formal an occasion may be. Mimi hates to skip work. And of course, Benny hates to make pathetic attempts to collect the rent from his "favorite" tenants. Yet in honor of Thanksgiving (or in Benny's case, in spite of thanksgiving), they are all doing these things, and are not particularly thankful for these abilities. In fact, were it not Thanksgiving, one might even say that they were… complaining. But of course, they would never complain on Thanksgiving.

---

"Roger!" Mark shrieks. It sounds as though he is in some sort of desperate situation. Roger, busily folding Mimi's laundry and taking extra time on the panties, wonders if he should get up. After all, it's great to make Mark sweat, especially when Roger has his fingers in Mimi's underwear. But it's Thanksgiving, Roger reminds himself. He reluctantly gets to his feet and enters the kitchen.

"Yeah?" Roger asks boredly.

Mark is upset. "You – should – be – cleaning!" he admonishes Roger, and gestures to the many plastic bags in his own hands. "See this? This is what I spent seven hours on! What did you do today?"

Ignoring Mark's question, Roger tilts his head to the side. "You spent seven hours on plastic bags?" he asks skeptically. "I dunno, Mark, I think that's a little much…"

"Asshole," Mark grumbles, but without conviction. "There's stuff in the plastic bags. Like our dinner, maybe?"

"Isn't Collins cooking?"

Mark shrugs. "I don't know. Better safe than sorry." He hoists an enormous turkey out of a bag and smiles somewhat wickedly as it bangs onto the table. "See this? This is Fred. He's our dinner."

Roger wrinkles his nose. "Not Fred," he says pleadingly. "I knew a Fred in high school. Not a nice kid, believe me. Let's name it – wait, is it a guy or a girl?" In a motion of horrifying idiocy, Roger tilts the turkey to inspect its crotch. "Okay, it has neither, so let's call it Angel."

Mark begins to choke on what may have been a half-laugh, or an expression of pure I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that. When he finishes making whatever squawking sound he is making, he says to Roger, with a finger pointed at the guitarist's chest, "You say that in front of Collins and you'll be the next Fred."

Roger would shoot Mark an evil glance, but he is distracted as Mark places a broom in his hand. "Sweep," Mark orders, and Roger doesn't even know where the broom came from, he just wants to get out of sweeping. But with Mark brandishing plastic cutlery at him, Roger is willing to admit that an escape isn't likely to happen, so he begins to form a pile of the loft's immeasurable dust.

---

Since she was born, Joanne Jefferson has been celebrating Thanksgiving at her own house. Her father and his siblings would handle the cookng, while her mother and her family would shop and clean. Joanne grew up in a very sexist family, obviously, so it hardly came as a surprise to her when she discovered at the age of fourteen that she was attracted to her best friend – Natalie. Similarly, this curiousity and loathing for all things sexist carries into her adult life as Joanne searches for a tie. After all, she thinks, who goes to Thanksgiving dinner without a tie?

"JoANNE!" Maureen howls from the bedroom. Joanne sighs in exasperation. This is so typical. She wonders if she'll enter the room and find a string of ties knotted together, tying some strange girl to the bed, and then she'll have to untie her. God, not again, she thinks to herself, because the last time that happened, Maureen had suggested a threesome and Joanne's knuckles were sore after she had to kick that other girl out. She cautiously enters the bedroom.

Maureen is sitting cross-legged on the floor, dressed only in bra and underwear. Surrounding her well may be the entire content of her closet, and Joanne may have to hire a cleaning woman tomorrow, because Maureen has a big closet, and sure enough, it's all empty now with all the clothes thrown on the floor. She knows for sure that Maureen won't be the one to clean them up, and even more unappealing is the thought of having to do it herself.

"Maureen – honeybear – exactly what is this?" Joanne asks, gesturing to the compilation of clothing. "Baby, you know we're going to Mark and Roger's. Not a – a strip club. You're going to have to pick out something nice." She helplessly lifts up several unrecognizable articles of cloting in search of something tolerable, and finds a beige cashmere sweater purchased by Joanne in honor of Maureen's twenty-fourth birthday. Trying to contain her irritation at finding the four-hundred-dollar sweater on the ground, Joanne sweetly suggests, "Maureen, why don't you wear this?" She holds up the sweater in question and is driven to pure frustration at Maureen's response.

"Joanne," Maureen says impatiently, her voice consdescending. "Please. I would wear that to your mother's house. I would wear that to my mother's house. But the day I wear that to a bohemian Thanksgiving dinner – kill me."

Joanne does her best to control her exasperation, but in the face of Maureen Johnson, it is more challenging than managing an all-nighter the day before one's high school graduation (a feat, in fact, pulled off by both Joanne and Maureen wtihout a hitch, and probably most of the other bohemians as well). "Maureen, listen to me," Joanne says, and cups a hand around her girlfriend's shoulder. "Darling. You know you look beautiful in everything. But please. Do not start this tonight."

"You say that every night!" Maureen cackles. "Joanne, have you ever been to Thanksgiving at Mark and Roger's? Believe me, it's not formal at all. Come on – remember Christmas and New Year's?"

Joanne shudders at the thought of having to go through another pair of winter holidays with Maureen being so difficult. Thanksgiving alone, a big (albeit oft-unmentioned) holiday among the bohemians, is enough to make her wonder vaguely where the Tylenol is. Of course, she regrets it immediately afterwards, because she has always had the sneaking suspicion that Maureen can read minds. To distract herself (and Maureen), she replies, "Maureen, I don't care how informal these things are, I am asking if you could just please do this for me. I happen to be of the opinion that we may decide to stop at my office party later this evening, and for that reason, could you just – "

"No!" Maureen shrieks. "Oh my god, no! I am not going to your office party! No! We did that on some guy's birthday, remember? That was awful."

"Maureen, that some guy was my boss, and we went so I wouldn't get fired. Now, please just put on the sweater, or something else that's nice. Okay? Okay, honeybear?"

Maureen has tried snapping at her girlfriend, has tried reasoning, and has tried throwing a minor temper tantrum. Seduction is always a popular tactic, so she smiles wickedly as an idea forms. "Well, baby, I guess I won't wear this, then," she says, and slowly pulls her bra over her head…

–––

Collins has an enormous smile on his face as he bangs the door open to Mark and Roger's loft. Because it has become a tradition, he yells, "Happy Thanksgiving, bitches!" Swiftly he throws the key to Roger, never a particularly good catcher but able to grab it in mid-air all the same. "Where's everyone else? Don't tell me I'm the first one here."

Roger cracks a smile; Collins is never early. "Yeah, you're the first," he admits. "Hey, better early than fourteen hours late."

Collins ruffles Roger's hair and casually snatches a pack of cigarettes off the counter. "Where's Mark?" he asks, not looking up from his current task of actually lighting a cigarette.

"Out buying turkey," Roger replies. "The other one he got wasn't big enough, I guess."

Collins's jaw drops. "He's what?" he half-yells. "Oh, this is ridiculous."

"What?"

"Duh, Roger," Collins snaps. "There are some vegetarians who must be accounted for. Such as myself and Maureen."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Well, Collins, there are more meat-eaters coming than there are vegetarians." Realizing that that probably wasn't what Collins wanted to hear, he adds, "And besides, don't you know? Rule Number One of Picky Eaters: If you want vegetarian turkey, you're going to have to cook it yourself."

Collins grumbles something unintelligible and takes a drag on his cigarette before offering it to Roger. Roger shakes his head. "Nah," he says, but doesn't give an explanation why. Collins suspects that it may have something to do with his trying to quit. Angel just managed to kick the habit, and while Roger will fervently deny to the ends of the earth that he would never even try to quit something ever again, what with withdrawal having been what it was for him, Collins secretly thinks that Roger wants to be as healthy as he can in his last few months or years or whatever he has left.

But Roger surprises him.

"You know, it's Thanksgiving," Roger points out. Before Collins can make a sarcastic remark, he adds, "Maybe you should stick to, um, legal substances you're thankful for?" It sounds horribly prudish to his own ears, even sitting amidst beer bottles and the old heroin track marks on his arms that, and let's face it, are never going to fade. "I mean, isn't the point of Thanksgiving that you're thankful for what you have? Like… oh, fuck it."

"No," Collins says, "I get it. Really." He does not, however, extinguish the cigarette. His reasoning for that, however, has naught to do with Roger's own. It is that as he has always said: "Just say yes. Don't give in to peer pressure telling you to just say no." In a nutshell, there lie Collins's feelings on high school anti-drug programs. He has never appreciated being the object of anyone's preaching, and even as a child would deliberately not do things he wanted to do just because he was told to do them. It applies here as well, and now of course it will be forever until Collins actually puts out the cigarette. It is natural instinct to him, waiting before obliging, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I for one," Collins proclaims, "would be especially thankful for vegetarian turkey."

The door of the loft swings open and Mark pokes his head inside, laden with grocery bags; upon his hearing of Collins's proclamation, he smacks himself in the head, drops the bags on the floor, and marches back down the steps to return to the supermarket.

"Thanks, Mark!" Collins calls through the door.

In response, Mark yells, "Fuck you!"

–––

Mimi and Angel are thankful for nail polish. They are thankful for loving boyfriends and naturally gorgeous hair. (Angel neglects to remember that her own hair is, in fact, scarcely existent, and what she parades atop her head is a wig.) They are thankful for their jobs – well, Mimi is not thankful for the fact that she has skipped work today in favor of preparing for Thanksgiving. However, she will admit that there is much preparation to be done. The occasion: the bohemians' signature annual Thanksgiving Peasants' Feast, initially inspired by a friend of their's named Jonathan and continued on as a routine.

Angel and Mimi (looking, as Angel says, "fabulous") stilletto-dance down the stairs leading to the street from Angel's third-floor apartment. They could almost be sisters in their identical walks, swaying their rear ends delicately from side to side, and matching steps – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Not to mention, of course, their matching makeup and similar outfits. The skirt Mimi is wearing, in fact, was a gift from Angel two years ago, and Angel's current fishnets were Mimi's until they were too stretched out in the thighs for her to dance in them anymore.

Upon the girls' arrival at Mark and Roger's building, they hesitate. After all, Mark did all the shopping and Roger the cleaning; Joanne and Maureen made an effort to look very nice and bring a bottle of expensive wine; Collins, well, he cooked. Of course, "cooking" is for Collins a very rare and difficult task, and yes, the product of his hard work happened to be a measley piece of chicken that he charitably gave to a homeless man on his way to Mark and Roger's. (None of the bohemians are entirely certain why they continue to give to homeless people when they're in the same boat themselves, but they can't help but feel financially secure when a quarter or two is jingling in their pockets. Oftentimes by the time they get home from their outings of the day, said quarters will instead be in the styrofoam cups of the world's favorite scapegoats.)

And so, with their lack of progress in mind, Mimi and Angel resolve to come up with some sort of act of kindness that would make them shine in the eyes of their friends and boyfriends. Angel first suggests that they set the Buzzline office building on fire, but then Mark (and thus Roger as well) would have no source of income and therefore no money for rent. Mimi's next proposal involves the purchase of a plastic water gun and some Stoli, and while it excites Angel in that it will probably excite Collins, the plan is eventually vetoed in favor of something more universally appropriate. Because Joanne, for example, is unlikely to appreciate a Stoli-filled water gun.

Mimi's next idea, however, is pure genius. "Okay, Angel, you know how Maureen has liked… that guy forever?" she asks excitedly. She is not, however, too excited to blurt out the name of Maureen's secret admiree –- that man is and has always been a secret from all but Maureen, the man himself, Angel, Mimi, and Mark. "Well, anyways, we could invite him for Thanksgiving dinner, right, and we could get him and Joanne and Maureen to get a threesome! And that would solve all their problems!"

Mimi beams with the prospect of having the world's best plan. Angel is not at all skeptical as the others might be. In fact, her smile is nearly as huge as Mimi's, and the two hurriedly make their way into a restaurant to request the use of a phone book. Mimi is fairly certain she knows the phone number of the man in question, but she wants to be sure and she wants to make this plan as devious and multi-stepped as possible.

Phone book in hand, Mimi and Angel flip through the pages in search of a very particular number of a person.

–––

Collins, Mark and Roger have had Thanksgiving dinners before. They have been the sole hosts of countless Peasants' Feasts, with Maureen and Benny in on a few years as well. Never, however, have Mark and Roger done this on their own, with their friends present but not really hosting. So it is with a new and fresh viewpoint that Mark peers out the window in search of the familiar faces that will be attending his and Roger's dinner. His and Roger's. Mark draws his knees up to his chest as he watches busy people bustle through the streets, on their way to who-knows-what.

"Hey, Col, where's Angel?" Mark hears Roger ask. He perks up to hear the answer.

"She'n Mimi wanted to get ready together – Angel!"

The door is pushed open, and two familiar young women enter. Roger and Collins immediately cross to the front of the room and embrace their respective girlfriends. Mark can tell that relationships are and will always be high on the list of things that people are thankful for. Mark, who has never been in a relationship during Thanksgiving, or really in any time of year except for, well, twice, wonders if perhaps having someone with whom to share the holiday somehow increases one's enjoyment. He cannot for the life of him, however, determine why. He has always felt that sharing the holiday with Roger and Collins could not be exceeded in enjoyment by spending it with anyone else – Thanksgiving dinner with Maureen is always a struggle, and even Roger and Mimi seem to have trouble getting through anything beyond the first five minutes without arguing.

"Roger, baby, I know you took my shoes, now all you have to do is just tell me where they are, because you know, I do know where you keep your supply of – "

But exactly what and where Roger's supply is, Mark and Collins and Angel will never know; at that very moment, the (illegal) oven makes a groaning noise that is unfamiliar, to say the least, and Mark springs to his feet to remove whatever is behind oven door number one, and look at that, it's a very burnt turkey that probably shouldn't have been in the oven for seven and a half hours anyway. Mark's fault.

Roger opens his mouth to vocalize that very sentiment ("Mark's fault") when Angel steps in front of Mark and points out, surprisingly sincerely, that it is in fact the fault of "whatever genius bought that piece of crap oven over there." Several unforgiving glares turn towards Collins, who merely shrugs and tries to distract everyone from their faux-hatred of him by pointing out the window to two young women, one recognizable by her afro and the other by her long, glossy dark curls.

Sure enough, Maureen and Joanne make their way up the stairs and join the undeveloped party. Upon her entrance, Maureen calmly sets a stereo atop the kitchen counter and gestures for Collins to figure out how it works. The very next thing Mareen does is that, now that her hands are free, she shrugs out of her (well, Joanne's, to be exact) Ann Taylor jacket and drapes it dangerously over the side of the window. Roger opens his mouth to warn her of its precarious position, but Maureen kicks him hard in the shin and all is forgotten, except perhaps for the fact that Roger is in serious pain and Mimi isn't quit sure what is going on, except that Maureen won't be so tense in twenty minutes, goddamnit.

Twenty minutes pass by awfully fast, and there is a ringing doorbell that sounds timid even to the ears of those on the other side of the door. Angel and Mimi spring to their feet, and that one motion is enough to pique Collins's interest. "Angel, what did you do?" he murmurs to himself, shaking his head. In truth, he is interested – and so is Mark, obviously, because there he is with his camera staring at the door.

The door opens, and Maureen abruptly looks up. Joanne follows her girlfriend's gaze and meets the eyes of Benjamin Coffin, Maureen's long-time fantasy-slash-crush and the nemesis of so many other people in this room (Maureen included).

"Ladies," Angel declares loudly, "and gentlemen. Presenting the final – as far as I know – addition to our 1990 Peasants' Feast, Benny Coffin."

"'S'not fair," Maureen mumbles. "Nobody gave me an introduction."

"And," Mimi adds, having heard that last remark, "Maureen Johnson. In fact, you two are the guests of honor."

Mark and Roger raise their eyebrows, masking minor offense at not being the guests of honor at what is after all their Peasants' Feast. They hide this by covering it up with shock, or in Mark's case, his camera, which does a fair job of concealing any and all emotions he may have by simply taking up the majority of his face . "Why are they the guests of honor?" Roger whines.

"Because," Mimi tells him patiently, "I said so. And because, uh, it's Benny's birthday."

"Wait," Mark says slowly. "I don't think I invited him. Benny, did anyone invite you?"

"No," Benny replies honestly. "It's not my birthday, and no. Mimi and Angel just called me up and said I should come…"

Roger laughs. "That's what is commonly known as an invitation, Benny-boy," he informs his ex-roommate. "But that's okay, yuppies don't need to know what invitations are."

"And why's that?" Benny asks, closing his eyes in preparation for what is bound to be a dreadful punchline.

Roger merely hesitates. He glances around the room helplessly and finally admits, "Sorry, I didn't have anything in mind. Thought – I thought someone else would say something. I thought, yeah, I thought someone'd say something."

An enormous roar of laughter meets Roger's words, and he abashedly looks at his shoes as guffaws, snickers, giggles and cackles resound throughout the room.

"Roger," Benny says sternly, laying a hand on his maybe-friend's shoulder. "Let me teach you something about life. Ready?"

"Uh-huh," Roger replies, and wonders if he should start running now. Benny's "life tips" have in the past been known to include a wide range of activities and remarks, covering everything from sarcasm to violence to the occasional flung banana peel.

Benny takes a deep breath, and finally says, "You never tell half a joke when you don't know the second half."

Maureen nods solemnly. "Just like you never get into a relationship if you don't have a good break-up line in mind," she chirps.

Benny offers Maureen a shy smile in response to this remark. Everyone in the room – except perhaps Roger – catches sight of this, and Joanne places a strong hand on Maureen's shoulder as though suspecting that her girlfriend might spring up out of her seat, leap across the room, and pounce on top of Benny.

Yes, Joanne, Maureen thinks cynically to herself, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

"Um," Mark tentatively begins, gesturing to the destroyed turkey, "do you guys maybe want to start eating? I mean, it can't get worse, can it?"

A small fire erupts in the pit of the sink, where exactly seventeen minutes ago Roger dropped a still-burning cigarette that he mistakenly assumed would put itself out upon landing in the sink. Apparantly not, however. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that also in the sink is a strainer filled with pasta, which was made because it happens to be easier to cook than mashed potatoes, and hey, at least they're both starches.

"Yeah," Collins agreed once the fire has been safely extinguished by Angel, who is really the superhero of the day. "Why don't we, uh, we eat now, so nothing else bad can happen?" He leans in closer and whispers to Mark, "By the way, Marky-boy, Thanksgiving dinner etiquitte usually calls for dinner to be prepared and set out by the time people arrive."

Mark glares at Collins. "Fuck you," he grumbles, and it happens to be the second time that day that he has said that very phrase to this very person, but it is often the best choice of words to use when speaking to a person who is flat-out impossible to deal with, and that is certainly who Collins is. Although it must be said that Mark appreciates his help; after all, it would be impossible to convene the bohemians without another's help, and everyone else seems so wrapped up in personal discussions that the only other possible option would be Joanne, and she doesn't seem happy right now.

Sure enough, Mark finds out why about three minutes into dinner, when Joanne loudly declares that she will be switching seats with Roger "right now, so get up, Roger, don't argue, please" and nobody would fare well to question her judgement. Mark quietly asks his ex-girlfriend's current girlfriend what the problem is, and instead of brushing it off as being nothing important, Joanne bursts out into a long stream of explanation.

When at last Joanne ends with "…and then she started flirting with him, which would be something entirely different if it wasn't so obvious and if he wasn't my friend, and if she didn't hate him…"

"Maureen doesn't hate Benny," Mimi pipes up from just next to Mark on the other side. She leans over and whispers to Joanne, in a voice that could more easily be compared to a shout than a whisper if one had to choose a side, "Maureen's liked him for years. Liked him. You know, attraction?"

"No, Mimi, I don't know," Joanne drawls sarcastically, and it takes a drunken Mimi several moments to identify the sarcasm of the lawyer's statement. Mimi's lips form an O, and she returns to her conversation with Angel as Joanne turns to face Mark once again, an expression on her face that seems to be a combination of fury and helplessness and pure frustration.

"Well," Mark says somewhat loudly, trying to recapture Joanne's attention, "Know how Maureen only forgets about things once she's done them? Like she went through this handcuffs phase once, she wanted to tie me up, and once she did it she completely lost interest. Even though it was fun."

Joanne looks very green as she nods, and when she does, it seems that she is only doing so to get Mark to stop before she vomits. Mark continues, "Well, I think this thing with Benny is probably the same kind of thing. If you tell Benny and Maureen to fuck each other's brains out, by tomorrow she'll be asking, 'Benny who?' And you'll just say, you know, 'So, honeybear, what are you thankful for?' and you can have all the post-Thanksgiving sex you want."

Now Mark is the one who looks green, and Joanne interrupts to say, "It'll never work."

"I," Mark says firmly, "think that it would. And I would so happen to be thankful for fifty bucks."

"That was very smooth," Joanne tells him, impressed. "Sure. Fifty bucks either way."

Mark nods. "But you have to do it tonight. Before you go home."

Joanne shakes her head in disapproval, but she and Mark both know that by the end of the evening, Benny Coffin and Maureen Johnson may well end up in one another's beds anyway – so of course, a sooner-rather-than-later tactic on Joanne's part would only be fair.

Drinking, however, proves to be a better strategy than biding one's time, and so several glasses of wine and champagne later, Maureen is standing atop the table and proposing that "Benny, Jo-ey, let's have a threesome!"

Joanne has a feeling that Mark was right all along, and she really doesn't want to give him fifty bucks, and Benny's kind of hot anyway, and maybe she's had one too many drinks. So she can't help but follow Maureen and Benny into the bedroom. Besides, she is comfortable in the knowledge that in the morning, all she will remember is a fifth glass of champagne and some sort of poorly-orchestrated arrangement with Mark.

Neither Mark nor Roger is particularly pleased when Maureen, Joanne and Benny disappear into their bedroom, but there is nothing to be done, and besides, it is a bohemian gathering, and what would bohemia be without impromptu sex in someone else's bedroom? So let them have their fun, Mark and Roger decide, a decision that is on Mark's part accompanied by fervent repetition of the fact that no, Joanne did not win the bet, and in fact neither did Mark, so no money will exchange hands whatsoever. That is perfectly fine on Mark's part, and he vaguely wonders if Mimi and Roger would be interested in a threesome as he downs another glass and decides that he is thankful for, above all, his friends and their insanity.