by Sparrow
AN: another fic that's been rotting on my hard drive since the dawn of time. This is the one and only song fic I have ever attempted, and I intend for it to stay that way now that I've gotten it out of my system. It was one of those ideas that you realized halfway through really, really sucked, but you just couldn't let it go.
I'm starting to realize the immense uses of being an insomniac. Few more weeks of this and I won't have anything left to work on...
Song is Broadway by the Goo Goo Dolls.
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Broadway is dark tonight
Mark slowly made his way down the street, hands stuffed in pockets of the overlarge wool coat his mother had sent him for his birthday, idly kicking at street trash along the way. It was late, it was cold, it was dark, he didn't care. He cared about very few things at the moment. He didn't even realize he was on Broadway until he happened to glance at a street sign. Amazing. This was the first time he'd ever been down this particular street and not been ambushed by crowds for one show or another, either entering or departing the theatres. Must be later than I thought>, he idly mused, stepping off the sidewalk and continuing his aimless walk.
A little bit weaker that you used to be
Things at home were steadily going from bad to worse. First Benny and Alison's wedding, then Collins' leaving for MIT, then April's death and Roger's subsequent hermitage. And now this. Maureen. He didn't know who to kill first, himself, Maureen, or the woman she'd left him for. Not that he actually would kill anyone, he reflected. No, he was too much of a chicken-shit to do that. Instead, he would also retreat to reclusiveness, hide behind his camera and pretend that he wasn't bitter about how his life had taken a spiraling plunge past Hades. Better to just do nothing. He kept walking, until he noticed a flickering neon green light on the pavement below his feet. He looked up at the sign, smiled grimly, and walked in. He had a little money to waste, and all night too. Maybe even forever.
Broadway is dark tonight
See the young man sitting
In the old man's bar
Oddly, the bar was quiet, and near empty. Very late, he decided. But the barkeep welcomed him in and served up drink after drink. Maybe they were just having bad business that night. Whatever, Mark didn't care, as long as the alcohol kept coming. He'd never really been one to get drunk, but he wasn't really thinking, just working on automatic. This was how people dealt with pain, right? Normal reaction. So, he got drunk.
Waiting for his turn to die
How many drinks 'till it kills me? > he wondered, sipping at his third. Funny,> he thought, giving another grim grin, if the alcohol didn't kill him tonight, he'd probly outlive everyone he cared about. Collins, Roger, Maureen. Everyone who mattered. Collins had been HIV positive for over a year, Roger for almost five months, and April dead just as long. And who knew what would happen to Maureen. Knowing her, anything was possible, but she too would probably die young. Leaving poor Mark alone. He drained the glass and called for another.
The cowboy kills the rock star
And Friday night's gone too far
Mark blinked at his watch. It wouldn't come into focus, but he was certain it was Saturday by now. The sun would be rising soon. A long time since he'd seen a decent sunrise. A long time since he'd cared to see one. Since he'd even thought about it, for that matter. Too much to do, taking care of Roger, trying to work things out with Maureen, trying to find Collins, trying to tie up April's loose ends. Too much trying and not enough results. It made him feel sick. It might have been the alcohol.
The dim light hides the years
On all the faded girls
Blearily, he looked around the little bar, wondering where everyone was and why he and the barkeep were the only people in the joint. The pool tables were untouched, their balls still neatly arranged, the ques still lined up against the walls. Not even a hint of a curl of smoke. The place was completely spotless. And yet... for some reason, it reminded him of the club where they'd all met, almost three years ago. Benny had dragged him away from his studies to go to some new club that had opened up, only to find out that Benny's childhood friends, Maureen and April, were rooming with one of his own childhood friends, Collins, at the loft flat downtown that was now his and Roger's home. And Roger's new band had been playing the set that night. Their manager, Alison (then unknown to be a Grey and simply trying to get away from the stifling life he father forced on her), had been smitten with Benny from the beginning of the evening, and by the end, everyone but Collins had been paired off. He should have known better, Mark mused. His first introduction to Maureen was April laughing and pointing to a slim, wild-haired girl sidling up to several random people and trying to get them to dance. April's words still rang in his mind as clearly as if she'd only just said them, "There goes Maureen again; trying to out flirt Benny as usual!" And then she too had been off, the oggle the band and try and get the handsome singer's attention.
Forgotten but not gone
You drink it off your mind
That had turned out to be one of the best nights of his life, and the following year had been almost bliss, despite the crowding of the loft just a few weeks later, the great lack of money, and every other difficulty that came their way. Then the drugs, the reasons behind Alison's never telling exactly where she lived, the fights, the changes, the passage into adulthood that Mark had been painfully forced through and had finally come through to be here, in this eerily quiet, empty bar. He took another long swig of his drink, called for another. Five.
You talk about the world
Like it's someplace that you've been
"Okay honey," the bartender said. Mark blinked at him, his brain felt fuzzy, he barely processed that the other man was continuing. "I really think that's enough."
Mark shook his head. No, no, not enough. But he couldn't seem to find the words, or remember how to make his mouth work.
"Fine, but don't blame me when you die of alcohol poisoning. No skin off my nose, and I'm makin' some good money from this." But he shook his head sadly. "Shame though, for someone cute as you to waste his life like that."
The only thing that really registered was how horribly ironic it was for someone else to be telling him that for a change.
"D'you maybe want to talk about what's sending you this way? I mean, you don't strike me as a serious drinker type, even though you've just downed four drinks--" the bartender continued, and Mark just ended up tuning him out. But he didn't drink any more of the amber liquid before him, instead just studied his blurred reflection and wished that he could think properly, or even remember why he was there.
"That's better," the barkeep said, sliding over another mug, this one white china instead of clear glass, filled with steamy black liquid instead of freezy amber. "Probly won't help much, but it's better than sending you home completely drunk." The man gave a cheerful grin. Mark wished his companion wouldn't be so bright and cheery. It was ruining his bitter mood. But he took a long swig of the black coffee, grimaced, and started to feel better. Not even bothering to wonder where the coffee'd come from.
You see you'd love to run home
But you know you ain't got one
He paid for the drinks, and staggered away, hoping he would be able to stay conscious until he was at least at home. He hoped Roger was asleep. He hoped Maureen hadn't decided to come back while he'd been out. He really didn't want anyone he knew to see him like this. But what was the point in going home, he wondered, when all he had to greet him was an empty bed and the ever silent, grief-ridden, withdrawal sickened shell of his best friend.
And you're livin' in a world
That you're best forgotten around here
A world best forgotten. What would it matter if Mark just suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth? Maureen wouldn't miss him, cozily settled in with her lawyer girlfriend. Roger probly wouldn't even notice, too busy sitting on the couch, staring, catatonic, at the wall. He wouldn't go in his room since April had died. He wouldn't explain why either, but Mark suspected it was because of the empty bed that had been April's first. Everything in their house, from the illegal wood burning stove to Roger's Fender, had belonged to someone else before, very often two or three someones. His parents wouldn't notice that he was gone, he'd stopped returning phone calls long ago. Collins was the only person likely to notice, and who knew when that would be. No one had heard from Collins since he'd left for MIT. No one would care if Mark suddenly disappeared.
You choke down all your anger
Forget your only son
You pray to statues when you sober up for fun
He felt like screaming suddenly, overwhelmed by an urge to fall to his knees and scream up at the sky, ask the gods why fate had been so cruel to pick him out of the crowd of faceless people and make his life miserable. An urge to break something made his fingers twitch, his hands curl into fists repetively as he wandered drunkenly around the eerily empty city. Mark finally collapsed in front of a statue in Central Park. Funny, he didn't remember heading this way. He was a long way from home, a reasonable voice in the back of his head commented. That knowledge didn't help much though.
Instead though, he simply folded in on himself, sitting down at the base of the statue and feeling tears trickling freely down his cheeks. I should just give up > he thought gloomily. He took a deep, sharply hitched breath and looked around, wondering where the homeless were. When had New York become a ghost-town?!! There were always people everywhere, but on tonight of all nights, it seemed the entire city had gotten a message Mark hadn't and vacated post haste. He laughed bitterly and slapped a fist against the base of the statue. It continued to just stare down on him impassively.
Your anger don't impress me
The world slapped in your face
It always rains like hell on the losers day parade
Mark noticed suddenly that it was beginning to lighten. He looked around, craning his neck and ignoring his now throbbing head, watching for some sign of sunrise, perhaps some sign that life still existed in the city. Just as he caught a glimpse of the rising sun, the sky opened, rain began to fall. He looked up. Huge, grey, angry clouds roiled overhead. He sighed, rolling his eyes. It figured. It just figured.
He stumbled to his feet and began the long trek home, hoping that he would at least run into someone, as long as it wasn't someone he knew, on the way home. God his head hurt...
You see you'd love to go home
But you know you ain't got one
'Cause you're livin' in a world that you're best forgotten
And when you're thinkin' you're a joke
And nobody's gonna listen
To the one small point
I know they been missin' round here
Broadway is dark tonight
A little bit weaker that you used to be
Broadway is dark tonight
See the young man sitting
In the old man's bar
Waiting for his turn to die
End.
review?