A/N: Well, it's me again! Long time no see! My computer's been acting up lately, so if you didn't get a reply to your wonderful review, know that it wasn't on purpose! (Fufuluff, I'm going to reply to your PM, I swear!) Anyway, the winner of the poll was Mimi! So, here you go: Mimi's day as Roger!
Mimi POV
The sunlight streamed through the uncovered windows, practically blinding me. I groaned, using an arm to shield my eyes. Our new lack of bedroom curtains was pretty annoying, but I could hardly blame Angel - the dress she'd made out of them was hot. I rubbed at my eyes, making a mental note to steal Mark's bedroom curtains when he wasn't looking.
I stretched, yawned and smiled down at my sleeping boyfriend. He was sucking his thumb and making a soft little mewing sound. I grinned at the thought of my friend's faces if they found out the twenty two-year-old ex-junkie turned rocker still sucked his thumb. Or that he still carried around a small piece of his old security blanket, Noo noo. But I'd never tell them that. Telling your boyfriend's deepest, darkest, most embarrassing secrets to his close friends is not an effective way of getting him into bed. Trust me; been there, done that.
At this, Roger let out a huge groan and pulled a pillow over his head. I giggled, he was always ridiculously confused in the mornings until he had consumed a sufficient amount of coffee/alcohol.
After a few seconds, Roger rolled over to face me. His eyes widened slightly but then he smirked.
"Hi there." Oh, so it was one of those mornings.
"Hello, Mimi," I said pointedly. It was my turn to be the lazy, sex-addict today, after all.
His face fell and he groaned. "I am not looking forward to this."
I flashed him a smile. "Really? I am - I really need a day off." Let him see what it's like to be the underage stripper of the group.
I picked up a discarded magazine from the floor and began to read (well, I was really just looking, seeing as it was one of Roger's badly hidden playboys).
Roger got up and stretched before turning to me. "Meems? You gonna make breakfast?"
I grinned. Here comes the fun. I looked up at Roger, affronted. "Mimi, why would I make breakfast? That's what I've got you for." I flicked a page of the magazine, fighting the urge to laugh as I heard Roger stomp off to the kitchen.
I flipped through the playboy before throwing it away in boredom. After all, I saw plenty of naked women every evening at work.
I flopped down onto the bed once more, listening in on Roger's conversation with Angel. Or did I have to call her Mark? This was already so confusing.
"I'm a junkie and I'm too stupid to give up drugs!" Roger shouted in my direction. I grunted and curled up into a ball. So far, being Roger was pretty good.
I squeezed my eyes shut as Roger re-entered the room and set a plate of soggy toast down beside me.
"Hey...Roger, I brought breakfast." he said uncertainly. I didn't respond.
He tried again. "Mi - uh - Roger, wake up!"
"Leave me alone, Mimi," I groaned, poking my head out from under the blankets. "I'm too busy being my conceited self to acknowledge you. Go light a candle, or something." With that, I threw the duvet over my head, my entire body shaking with silent laughter.
I smiled even wider as I heard Roger mumbling about my conceit and where I could put it, before he engaged in what sounded like a battle of epic proportions with the wardrobe. The wardrobe won, sending Roger flying backwards into the bedpost.
"What the - OW!" he moaned, rubbing his head.
"Mimi!" I exclaimed, appraising his outfit - an extra large Yankees shirt...and nothing else. I felt an evil plan forming in my mind, one that involved my charming boyfriend wearing girls' underwear. "Can't you just leave me alone for one day? And what are you doing trying on my clothes? It's just plain weird! Go put on your own!"
"Oh, er, yeah. Okay." Roger shuffled out of the bedroom. I smiled wickedly and settled back against the pillows, thoroughly pleased with myself. The last thing I heard before I fell asleep was Roger's horrified yelp as he realised what he'd be wearing today.
--
I was woken up two hours later by my growling stomach. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, pulled myself out of bed, and Roger-shuffled to the kitchen.
I chewed thoughtfully on my Captain Crunch as I surveyed the empty loft. Now what? I wracked my brains. I mean, what did Roger do all day? Sit around in his underwear reading playboys? I moaned - there's only so many naked women a (straight) girl can take.
I shook my head, ridding myself of the bad images. Surely there was something more fun and less life-scarring to do around here. I wiped my mouth on my pyjama sleeve and shuffled back to the bedroom, determined to find something mildly entertaining to do.
--
One hour, 23 minutes, and 47.34 seconds later, I was sprawled on the cheap, termite-infested couch, bored out of my mind.
I had washed my hair, blow-dried it twice, eaten a bagel with some questionable strawberry jelly, tried on all the plaid pants in Roger's possession (14 pairs), thrown Collins's dying marijuana plant (which didn't really match the bathroom's decor) out the window, rated the hotness of the girl's in Roger's playboys on a scale of 1 to 10, and thrown stale cupcakes at the ceiling. I had, officially, run out of things to do. And it was only 10:48 am. Who knew being Roger was so boring?
I glanced around the loft, searching for some source of inspiration. And then I saw it. It was like one of those moments in movies where the light hits the object just right and you hear angels singing in the background. Propped up against the sofa cushions, glinting in the sunlight, was Roger's fender guitar.
Now, when I first started dating Roger, I realised that there are 3 unspoken rules you have to follow if you want the relationship to work:
1. No leaving dirty towels on the bathroom floor.
2. No mention whatsoever of the word 'April', whether it be the month, Roger's dead heroin-addicted girlfriend, or April Fresh fabric softener.
And number 3. Never, ever, under any circumstances, touch Roger's guitar.
I stared at the guitar, sitting innocently against the ragged cushions. So what if I touched his guitar? It wasn't like he was going to find out, I reasoned. With this thought in mind, I reached out and plucked one of the strings. I half expected sirens to go off and for Mark to drop down from the ceiling wearing a SWAT uniform. But nothing happened. Grinning to myself, I pulled the guitar into my lap.
Okay, so I was breaking golden rule number 3 of Roger code, but it wasn't like my dear, sweet boyfriend was going to die if he found out someone else had touched his precious guitar (maybe I was the teeniest bit jealous of his guitar obsession, but hey, he didn't hold me the way he held his guitar, that was for sure).
I wasn't exactly musically gifted, so I just strummed the guitar randomly, singing (in my best 'Roger' voice), "I'm writing one great song before I - oh, crap!" I let out a little wail - my perfectly manicured nails had sliced right through the guitar strings with a loud twang. "Crap, crap, crap!" I danced around the guitar, trying desperately not to panic.
Okay, Mimi, so you just broke your boyfriend's most prized possession, no big deal.
"He's gonna kill me!" I shrieked, wringing my hands.
I knew that Roger probably wouldn't shriek if he broke his guitar, but I was kind of past rational thinking right now. I remembered that one time Angel had touched Roger's guitar - he went crazy. He probably would've killed her too, but he didn't - we've all seen what Angel can do with those stilettos of hers.
I took a deep, calming breath. Alright, everything would be okay, I told myself. All I had to do was find a way of repairing the guitar strings. Suddenly, I had an idea. "Duct tape!" I exclaimed, thrilled at my own genius. I could use the duct tape to stick the strings back together, and by the time Roger noticed, I could blame a drunken Collins. Now, where did we keep the duct tape? I rushed over to the kitchen and began searching the kitchen drawers. No success.
Then, I had an idea. I vaulted the couch and sprinted into Mark's bedroom. Feeling embarrassed, I dug through his underwear drawer (occupied mostly by tidy whities and Yoda boxers) until I located a dusty roll of duct tape. I congratulated myself on remembering where it was kept - Roger had said it was one of Mark's and Maureen's favourite - ahem - "diversions". I shuddered. Ew.
When I had finally gotten the images of Mark, Maureen, and large quantities of duct tape out of my mind, I hurried back to the mutilated guitar and began applying copious amounts of duct tape to it.
It was only after the 16th layer that I began to realise that it wasn't working as well as I'd hoped. Frustrated, I tugged at the tape...but it didn't come off. Panicking slightly, I pulled harder, but karma seemed to be out to get me today, and the duct tape remained stuck to the guitar.
"¡Ay! ¡Hijo de puta!" I shrieked, attacking the guitar in my frustration, which only resulted in ruining both the guitar and my French manicure further. I groaned as I looked at my chipped nails and then back at the scratched, duct-tape coated guitar. What now?
I felt the lightbulb turn on inside my head. Roger always visited that weird-smelling music store over by Bryant Park. Maybe they could help me fix his guitar! Thrilled with my own genius, I grabbed Roger's jacket and the (slightly sticky) guitar, and hurried out of the loft.
--
I pushed into the musty shop, clutching the guitar to my chest (I had been almost-mugged twice on the way over here, though why anyone would want this guitar, I had no idea).
"Hey," I said, remembering to use my 'Roger' voice just in time. "I'm having a little...uh, issue with my guitar."
The little old man at the counter peered over his glasses at me. "Let me see it." he tapped the counter impatiently. I rolled my eyes. I mean, it wasn't like he had anything better to do.
I placed the guitar gingerly onto the counter. The man's eyes widened. "I - ahem - had a bit of an accident. Can you fix it?" I bit my lip.
The guy looked at me like I was crazy. "What have you done to her?" he hissed.
"Um, her?" I asked.
The man nodded. "You can always tell with guitars. I'd say this one would be called...hmm...Cassie." And I was the crazy one?
"Well, I was playing it...Cassie, and I broke the strings, so I tried to fix them with duct tape, and then that got stuck..." I trailed off, shrugging.
The man tutted, stroking the guitar sadly (what is it with guys stroking guitars like that? It's creepy). "I don't think there's much hope for her, she's too far gone."
Wait, so now the guitar was pregnant?! Music was beyond me. "Can you replace it, um, her?" I pressed.
The guy stared down at the guitar and then let out a low whistle. "Where did you get this guitar?"
"It's my boyf - uh, it's mine!" I said hastily. "Why?"
The old guy looked at me like I was insane. "Ma'am -"
"Ahem, sir." I corrected.
Okay, now he definitely thought I was crazy. "Sir, this is a J Larson original guitar. There are only five in existence. It would take weeks to attempt to track another one of there babies down, and then there's no guarantee the owner would sell it to you."
Are. You. Kidding. Me. I had to take several deep breaths before I could speak again. "Can you find one that looks like it then?"
The old man grabbed a guitar almost identical to Roger's off of the wall. "This is the latest Adam Pascal design, ain't he a beauty?"
"Who? The guitar or - wait, never mind. How much for the guitar?"
The man twanged one of the guitar strings. "Well, seeing as you look pretty desperate, I'll only charge you twenty five."
"Twenty five dollars?" I asked breathlessly, digging around in my (Roger's) pockets. It was almost too good to be true.
The man threw back his head and laughed. "Are you serious? For this guitar? I'm talking twenty five hundred dollars."
"WHAT?!" I yelled. "HOW THE HECK AM I SUPPOSED TO GET TWENTY FREAKIN' FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!?" Okay. Perhaps I was overreacting just a tad, but Roger was going to kill me when he found out about this.
The old guy rubbed his temples. "Okay, fifteen hundred dollars, but that's my limit."
I glared at him for a second before snatching up the guitar. "Well then, screw you!" Very Roger, I complimented myself. "Now, Cassie and I are leaving!"
I turned on my heel and stomped dramatically out of the shop. Surely there was another music store that could fix my guitar.
--
As it turned out, there wasn't a single music store in the whole city that could fix and/or replace the guitar. Did the universe go out of its way to try and get me killed by my obsessive rare-guitar-owning boyfriend?
"Dumb New York." I grumbled, dragging my feet on the way back to the loft. "Can't even do one freaking thing -"
I trudged across the street without waiting for the traffic light to change. A driver had to swerve to avoid me and he honked his horn angrily.
"Oh, go to hell!" I shouted back at him. I didn't really like what being Roger was doing to my temper. But maybe I was just stressed out from the whole you-broke-Roger's-favourite-thing-in-the-whole-world-and-he's-going-to-kill-you issue.
At last I reached the loft and pulled the door open. Angel (looking pretty hilarious wearing Mark's seriously unattractive clothes - and he wondered why he didn't get girls, he could start by buying a normal pair of pants! But I digress,) was sitting on the couch, muttering to herself about 'soul sucking corporate organisations' and fiddling with Mark's camera.
"Hey Mark." I sighed.
Angel glanced up, squinting through Mark's glasses at me. "Hey man. Rough day?"
"You have no idea. Cassie died." I patted the unfortunate guitar.
Angel's eyes widened. "Man, I'm so sorry to hea - wait, who's Cassie?"
"Never mind. I'm going to bed." I groaned, dragging my feet into the bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed, wondering if this day could possibly get any worse.
--
I awoke to the sounds of Roger and Angel talking about...eyebrows? Wait, whatever was wrong with Roger's eyebrows wasn't my problem, I needed to get him out of the house before he had a freak-out over his guitar.
"Hey Mimi!" I called. "Aren't you supposed to be working?" I felt bad about playing the strip club card, but I wanted to live another day.
"Uh...it's my day off today!" Roger yelled back.
"Actually, Mimi," came Angel's voice, and I was so relieved I felt like kissing her. "They left a message for you - someone didn't show up for work and they need you for the 8 o'clock shift."
I heard Roger shuffle to the door once again and slam it shut behind him.
I stuck my head out the bedroom door to grin at Angel. "I owe you one." I said breathlessly.
"You owe me several." Angel said matter-of-factly. "Now, you go have your nap. I'll see you when you're Mimi again." Angel winked. I smiled back at her and closed the door.
Suddenly feeling exhausted, I curled up on the bed, relaxing into oblivion.
--
Ring, ring!
I rolled over sleepily, letting the call go to voicemail.
Sppppeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkk.
"Um hi. Mi - uh - Rog - uh - Mimi...whatever. Listen, it's Scarlett from the Cat Scratch. Your boy...girlfriend hit his head on a pole, and he...she's going a little coo-coo, talking about AIDS and some guy named Collins...it's a little weird. Are you even there? Am I just talking to your answering machine? Wait, I'm still talking to your answering machine...meet me at the hospital, we think he...she...has a concussion. Um, bye."
I groaned and heaved myself out of bed. Only Roger would manage to hit his head off a pole while he was dancing. I rushed out of the apartment and down the street - after all, it was only a matter of time before one of the sluts I worked with made her move on Roger. And the last thing I needed was my boyfriend sleeping with someone while he had a concussion - what if he got amnesia and forgot about his incredibly gorgeous girlfriend?
Well, on the bright side, he'd be too confused for me to tell him about his guitar. At this thought, I grinned and began skipping down the street.
Whoever invented poles for boyfriends to hit their heads off of must've been a genius.
A/N: Well, there you go! What did you think? Please review – you will be showered in virtual baked goods! Oh, and keep voting in the poll for who you want to see next…I think Collins and Joanne are tying right now. Also, I have some other RENT fics desperately in need of YOUR reviews XD!
Thanks,
-Ellie :D