Set in 1980s. Major AU and product of my extreme joblessness.
I
Chandler M. Bing. The name spoke for itself.
Chandler m. (CHAND-lər). Historically taken from an occupational surname which meant "candle seller" in Middle English, ultimately from Old French. Often held responsible for his lack of charisma while interacting with women.
M. Stood for Muriel. Medieval English form of a Celtic name which was probably related to the Irish name Muirgel. The Normans brought it to England from Brittany. In the modern era it was popularized by a character from Dinah Craik's novel 'John Halifax, Gentleman' (1856). A middle name intended to be kept as a secret to the grave.
Bing. Of uncertain derivation; probably a topographic name for someone living near a bing, a northern dialect word recorded with the senses 'heap', 'bin', 'receptacle' (probably from Old Norse bingr 'stall'). In his own words, it was Gaelic for "Thy turkey's done."
He happened to be just this regular guy amongst other regular guys (and sometimes girls), typing away, sitting in a claustrophobic cubicle amidst the noise of furious typewriters, surviving on gallons of decaffeinated coffee and dry humour.
The work was despicable; he had been living in the east of Manhattan at a shared ground-floor apartment – a typical bin of a place – that rumbled whenever the subway passed from underneath. He survived by his wit, he would've succeeded at his office but he declined promotions after promotions just so he could maintain a detachment from his workplace. His colleagues often glanced in and smiled for a 'hello' but he was certain no one even knew his first name.
"You need some lovin'," Joey would say, "and a better job. And a sandwich," as he'd throw a cold packed one at him, while chomping down on his own, never minding the big splotch of marinara sauce that had fallen on his shirt. All of this while Chandler had grumbled and crumpled up on the tattered couch, his hat on his face, saving him from the hot glow of the bulb.
Joseph 'Joey' Tribbiani was one of his roommates, a frankly good-looking Hispanic trying to make it big in the Broadway. He had a big heart and appetite (that mysteriously didn't affect his physique) and seven Catholic sisters scattered all around in the city. He tended to bring a lot of women home, and thereby the walls often rumbled without a subway passing, much to Chandler's and the other roommate's annoyance.
To evade the embarrassing noises during the shifts of Joey's lovemaking, it was best to just roam around the city streets for some fresh air. New York was beautiful at night. Especially when it rains, he loved walking on the pavement against the office crowd, listening to the hardly-audible jazzy romantic tunes from the roadside cafés. The bridge lights falling on the wet glassy road, and the swarm of headlights zooming in and out of his line of sight, made it look like an acid trip. The restless water below was interesting too; once a while he got this strange urge to climb his way up the railing and jump. Just for the fun of it.
It was one such night of Joey love, walking alone in the rain by the flash of headlights, when his eyes met a stranger's.
She immediately looked away, and continued with what she was doing; she had a foot on the bar and her fingers clasping the mesh of the railing, gazing down into the water. Chandler jogged towards her; it didn't take him much time to realise what was on her mind.
"Don't do it," he whispered, looking around for any signs of eavesdropping.
She was taken aback. She stared at him again; her big blue eyes wide, watering at the go, her wingtip liner half melted into the rain. "I'm not doing anything."
"I've been there. I know what you're trying to do. Don't jump."
She didn't reply, went back to gazing into the water. "Go away."
"I'm telling ya, in 1981 jumping off the Manhattan Bridge isn't a good idea. There are probably lifeguards at the banks and police officers in civil clothes overhearing every word of our conversation."
"It doesn't matter," she sobbed, something triggering a fresh onslaught of tears, "I'm still gonna jump."
"You're not."
"Why not!?" it was a frustrated cry, even as he backed off a step at such fierceness.
"Because you're so pretty."
It was a damned stupid thing to say, and despite the rain he sensed heat pooling at his neck. Embarrassed, he gave her a ghost of a goofy smile. Surprisingly, it worked. She seemed on fence whether to smile or not, but inched towards the former. "What did you say?"
"I said you're pretty," he repeated innocuously, and cleared his throat, "and – and also, also – ahh well, this fence is too high to jump over. Before you make it, someone will catch you and pull you down by the leg – and then, beat me into pulp because I stood right beside and egged you on." At that point, he noticed two old men suspiciously eyeing them, so he put on a loud boisterous act, "Oh Viola, didn't I say you can catch the dolphins in the river only at daytime!"
She caught on the hint and put her foot down, and let go of the railing. "Viola?"
"It'll be a nice coincidence if that actually is your name."
She laughed this time. "You're funny."
"Funny is all I have, ma'am. Although usually it's people laughing at me than with me."
She grinned through her tears, "Okay."
"Guess the suicide's off for today, then?"
He realised he touched a raw nerve, but words had left his mouth and the damage was done. She winced and began to walk furiously through the crowd, her arms wrapped around herself. Cursing his big mouth, he ran after her, tried to slow her down with a tap on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. Maybe we can talk?"
She paused and stared up again, her eyes still brimming with tears. His insides knotted into a guilty twist. She pulled her hair behind her ears, jet black and dishevelled in the rain. She was shivering. "About what?"
"You're cold," he said, as he pulled off his overcoat and handed it over, "It's kind of soggy on the outside but warm enough." She hesitated, but then she was too cold to really decline.
"Thanks."
"Never mention it. I'm Chandler."
"That's – that's an unusual name."
"Really, then you should hear my telephone number."
She smiled. "So where d'you live?"
"Oh you know – just a taxi ride away."
"You just can't stop hitting on me, can you?" It sounded like a joke. He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, "Well, you know..."
He trailed off as she wasn't listening; instead she was staring into space. They were almost at the end of the bridge. She grabbed the overcoat tighter to herself, as she hauled off to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab. "It's late," she mumbled, "I should be heading home."
"Are you alright?" he asked sincerely.
"I'm better now. Thanks anyway," she said, as an oncoming taxi halted right in front of them. He helped her in.
"Oh – um, your overcoat?"
"You keep it, you need it more."
"No, I certainly can't –"
"I'm telling you."
"Are you sure?"
"You need it documented?"
He guessed that was the last laugh they'd share this lifetime. He peered into the taxi for the final time before the engine kick-started and it readied to depart, "And hey, what is your name?"
"Monica."
It was 12:30 at night when he pushed open the door and was welcomed by a coincidental five-minute rumble of the subway. Joey was on the couch, trying to make some sense out of the fat old box they called their TV, and the other roommate – Phoebe – was on the mat, her back against the couch, strumming her guitar.
Joey called out to him as soon as he entered, "You look like you got mugged," he tried to deduce, "but you're smiling like you got laid."
"Somewhere in between," Chandler walked across the space and slumped on the sofa.
"So, what happened?" teased Phoebe, "Met a girl?"
"Yeah, kind of."
"Kind of?" Joey snickered, "What does 'kind of' mean?"
Chandler wasn't sure if he wanted to explain, but he nevertheless went into a trance. It all came back to him in glowing images; she was beautiful, so beautiful – her wet ruffled black hair that came to her shoulders, and the drenched red dress dripping water, that stuck to her petite figure as she clasped onto the railing, the smudged liner that brought pathos to her big blue eyes – he hadn't realised he had observed her this minutely until now.
"Nah," he shrugged, "it wasn't anything romantic."
"I would've believed you if you weren't practically lovesick right now."
"I'm not – will you two get off my back?" With it, he crumbled into a ball and dug deeper into the couch, his back to the TV. "I'm not getting into this affair business again," came a muffled afterword.
"Give it a rest, Chandler," said Joey, "Don't tell me you're still mournin' after the Kathy girl."
"Or Janice," hummed Phoebe, which earned her a deadpan glare.
Reminders of his romantic failures were not what he needed right then. He didn't know how on earth he ended up dating this woman – Janice – thrice, given everytime he ran away for the sake of his surviving brain cells, and might've needed a hearing aid had he stayed for a day or two more, given her obnoxious laughter. She had been nothing new; over the years the more rejection he faced, the more cynical and superficial he became. There was always a reason: big nostrils, big gums, didn't laugh at his jokes, Ringo being their favourite Beatle... and the list didn't end.
Kathy was, however, different. Exceptionally pretty and way out of his league, she was this young actress Joey had met in an acting workshop. Whilst seeing Joey, she had fallen for Chandler – and caused quite a hissy fit between the friends – but soon the drama passed and Chandler had begun to believe that she was the one. That was, until she slept with another actor she had been simulating sex on stage and Chandler was left to collect the remainder of the ragged-edged pieces of his broken heart.
"Look," he raised his hands in surrender, "I don't even know her full name. I don't know anything about her. In a city this big, how can I know we'll bump into each other again? And she was really upset; I don't think she even considered me that way..."
Phoebe began on cue, strumming her guitar to an off-tune version of Strangers in the Night, even as Chandler sighed in exasperation. "Yes," he said dryly, "Let me call up Frank Sinatra and ask him what to do. Could you pass me the number please?"
She giggled, but didn't budge. "Up to the moment when we said our first hello little did we know, love was just a glance away," even as the melody got Joey snoozing at the other end of the couch, she grinned up at the TV no one cared about, "You know what, I already like her!"
"Phoebe," he chastised her, "You don't even know her name."
"You won't understand, I'm sensing this strong vibe from your aura..."
Even though she was a masseuse at a small-scale massage parlour uptown, she was more popular around the area as the edgy psychic. Chandler never believed in stuff like these, but her optimism sometimes made him genuinely want to believe her. Having previously lived on the streets, with her mother dying young and a step-brother living somewhere far in the city, he wondered where all the hope came from.
"It turned out so right for strangers in the night... "
Monica. It was a wonder how a conversation with a stranger could be oddly life-affirming. He was good too; he was funny, didn't scare her off (well, he kind of did, but he managed it with some damage control); they connected well. He wondered what had upset her so much that she wanted to kill herself. He wished they could've talked more. In any case, Monica didn't seem like the person going off his mind anytime soon.
It was a strange, peaceful quiet of the night. Phoebe was lazily plucking the strings of the guitar, Joey was snoring, and something was running on the TV. Chandler reached out and nudged her.
"You really think I'll see her again?"
Phoebe looked at him, as if she had exhausted all her wise words, but then put her guitar aside and grinned. "When it's meant to be, it's meant to be."
Well, well. I don't know why I'm writing this, but I promise I'll keep this on the lighter romantic-comedy side. So, what d'you think? :]