I saw Rent for the third time on Friday night.  Between watching the show, listening to the CD, putting the Rent logo on my computer wallpaper (thus immersing myself in my favorite play), I was inspired to write another chapter for my story.  Add the fact that the semester just started (no heavy work yet), and I had the perfect excuse to sit down at my computer and write.

Copyright:  Like I said, if you don't recognize a character from when you saw the show, then they're probably mine.  Otherwise, they belong to the late great Jonathan Larson.

March 17, 1997.  5:15 pm.

            Mimi set the bowl on the counter and looked down at the little boy tugging on her skirt.  "Hey, Roger," she greeted him.  "What can I do you for?"

            "Can I have a cookie?"

            "We're gonna have dinner real soon, honey."  She dried another bowl and stacked it above the first.

            "But I'm hungry!" Roger, Jr. complained.

            "If you have a cookie now, you won't be able to eat your dinner," Mimi told the boy.  The way he's scrunching up his face, I could swear I'm trying to reason with his father.             

            Realizing he wasn't getting anywhere with Mimi, the five-year-old child turned his attention towards the man playing guitar on the table.  "Can I have a cookie, Daddy?"

            Roger shook his head.  "Not before dinner, Roger, buddy," he said, using his pet name for his son.

            Roger, Jr. stomped his foot on the floor.  "Pleeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaassssssse!" he begged.  "Mommy always lets me have a cookie," he added, hoping that would do the trick.

            "Mommy's not here right now," Roger replied.  "You're following my rules, and one of them is 'no cookies before dinner.'"

            The child planted himself on the kitchen floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. 

            "Sulking isn't going to get you anywhere," Roger reminded him.

            Mimi placed the pile of bowls in the cabinet and approached Roger, Jr.  She knelt down until she and the boy were at eye level.  "Do you like to play pretend?" she asked.  He nodded.  "What's your favorite kind of cookie?"

            "Chocolate chocolate chip!" he replied.

            Mimi continued.  "I want you to close your eyes and pretend you're eating that chocolate chocolate chip cookie," she instructed.  He closed his eyes.  "Can you taste it?"  Another nod.  "Doesn't it taste yummy?"

            He opened his eyes.  "Now can I have a real cookie?" he asked. 

            "Tell you what," Mimi said.  "If you eat your dinner, maybe we'll see about having Carvel ice cream for dessert."

            After Roger, Jr. retreated to his bedroom (or what once was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall guest room), Roger turned to his girlfriend.  "Do we even have Carvel ice cream?" he inquired, setting his guitar next to him on the table.

            "Collins brought some Flying Saucers over this morning," Mimi answered, joining Roger at the table.  "What?" she asked, noticing Roger's cocky grin.

            "Nothing … nothing," he replied.  "You're pretty good with the kid."

            Mimi kissed him on the cheek.  "That's what comes from being the oldest of eight siblings."

            Roger glanced over at the slightly ajar door, where a curly, towheaded boy was playing with a plastic dinosaur.  "I don't know how you do it," he said.  "I don't know shit when it comes to kids."   And here I am, twenty-three-years-old, with a five-year-old in the other room, and another one on the way.  The results for his paternity test were due tomorrow, but there was no denying it.  Roger, Jr. was 100% Roger Davis's son.  He had Roger's cocky grin, curly blond hair, and his temper.  Even Mimi's mother referred to the boy as Little Roger.  If it weren't for Josefina Marquez, Roger would be at a total loss.

            Mimi tapped the musician on the shoulder, bringing him out of his reverie.  "I'm taking some of my brothers and sisters to the Central Park Zoo tomorrow afternoon," she said.  "You and Roge are more than welcome to join us."

            "Which ones?"  He'd met several of them when he helped Mimi, but he could never keep track of who was who.

            "Marcello, Lucia, Eva, Bernardo, and Juana."  Marcello was thirteen, Lucia was twelve, Eva was nine, and Bernardo was eight.  Juana, who was only an infant when their father was murdered at the family sewing and tailor shop, was five.  Juana and Roger, Jr. were the same age and often played together. 

            "What about your other brothers?" Roger asked, placing his arm around Mimi.

            "Rodolfo's working and Camilo has a paper to write."  Rodolfo was nineteen, a year younger than Mimi, and Camilo was two years younger than that.  In fact, when Roger had first seen Mimi and Rodolfo together, he had mistakenly assumed she was cheating on him.  Now, whenever Mimi's brothers visited, they would stop by the loft to talk to Roger.

            "I'd better get dinner started," Roger decided.  He slipped off the table and walked to the refrigerator.  "Does macaroni sound good?"

            Mimi wrinkled her nose.  "Last time I ate that stuff, I got nauseous," she reminded him.  "Use less cheese for Roger.  He hates it when it's too cheesy."

* * *

March 25, 1997.  3:39 pm.

 "I want to sue my neighbors."

Joanne looked up from the paperwork she had been consumed with over the past hour.  "You want to – what, Mark?" she asked the bespectacled, unshaven man hovering over her desk.

"Sue my neighbors," he repeated.  "For violation of the noise ordinance."

Joanne shook her head and gave him a funny look  "Mark, you don't have any neighbors.  Your loft is the only apartment on the third floor."

She doesn't want to face them, does she? …I'm the only one who's brave enough.  "You haven't been in the loft in awhile, have you?" Mark told the lawyer.  "They argue constantly.  I've had furniture thrown against the wall.  The paint's starting to peel in my room from the weight of the things they throw during their fights."

She shuffled through some paperwork.  "Mark, I repeat – you can't sue your neighbors."

He leaned toward her, gripping her eyes with his own.  "I've lost sleep because of them," he explained.  "I want to sue them, and if you don't do it, I'll find someone else."  She can't talk me out of this.  My mind's made up to sue them, and I'm going to sue them.

Joanne rubbed her eyes, as she mulled over some half-decent responses in her head.  He's adamant about these nonexistent neighbors, she reminded herself.  I've dealt with people in his situation before.  Just go along with him.  Finally, she spoke.  "Why don't I talk to Roger and Mimi and see if your neighbors' – fights – have been bothering them also," she suggested.  And to see if they've noticed your erratic behavior.

* * *

April 8, 1997.  11:53 am.

            "A dog … a spaceship … a water gun … a tarantula … a fire truck … Play Station …"  Mimi recited the list she had inscribed for her soon-to-be stepson. 

            "Anything on that thing we can actually get?" Roger wondered.  He took the piece of paper from his girlfriend's hands.  "We could probably get him a fire truck at Goodwill's."

            Mimi pushed an unruly curl off of her cheek.  "He wants a real fire truck," she explained.  "One with bells and ladders  … the works."  She smiled at her boyfriend.  "But I told him, 'If we put a fire truck inside the building, Daddy would have to sleep on the roof.'  He'll settle for a toy truck."

            Roger shook his head.  "He'd better!" 

            It had been barely a month since Roger Davis, Jr. had been left at the loft on 11th Street and Avenue B.  In two weeks, he was celebrating his sixth birthday.  Since his birthday fell on Earth Day, Maureen had wanted to do an environmental theme.  The drama queen's suggestion was nixed immediately. Instead, Roger and Mimi were taking Roger, Jr. and his friends to an arcade.  Joanne, Maureen, and Benny were tagging along as chaperones.

            Roger straddled the chair, his eyes falling upon Mimi's swelled belly.  "When do you see your doctor?"  he asked.

            "Next Tuesday," she answered.  She blinked, trying to force herself to stay awake.  Morning sickness had woken her up at 5 am, and she hadn't been able to fall back asleep since.

            "Maybe you should take a nap," Roger suggested.

            Mimi shook her head.  "I have a psychology class at 2:15," she said.  "If I lie down now, I'll sleep for hours.  That's not …" She was cut off by the ringing phone.  "Who's calling, please? … Oh, hi, Kim … No, not much, you?"  She pressed her palm on the receiver and turned to Roger.  "Kim's home with the flu," she whispered.  "Can you take Derek home?"

            "No can do," he said.  "I've got band practice.  I scheduled practice around Kim's schedule!" he shouted in response to Mimi's glare.

            "I'll take the boys home," Mimi replied.  "If you want, Derek can spend the night here."  She ignored Roger's silent protests.  Kim Watson had been Mimi's closest friend during their days at the Cat Scratch Club.  Her son Derek was in Roger, Jr.'s kindergarten class.  Mimi replaced the phone onto the wall and turned towards the glaring musician.

            "Did you have to volunteer our apartment like that?" Roger asked.

            She crossed her arms over her chest.  "If it was the other way around, Kim would take Roger in a heartbeat."

            "Well, you could have asked me first!" Roger pressed.  "I can't cancel practice … I've already rescheduled twice."  He gestured to Mimi's protruding stomach.  "And what if you start to feel sick?"  He was genuinely worried about his girlfriend.  Even though she was carrying a high-risk infant, and the fact that she was losing weight and vomiting every other hour, Mimi was adamant about keeping her child.  Roger had never realized how perseverant the ex-dancer could be until he witnessed her struggle to quit heroin and return back to college.  Some of their friends had tried to convince her that the pregnancy could be dangerous (and would put a damper in her education), but she had ignored them.  Not even Collins, who was the most empathetic of the group, could even begin to fathom how long it took to make that tough decision.

            "I'll call Maureen."  She sank back down in her chair, and picked up Roger, Jr.'s birthday list.  "You don't have to worry about me, you know."

            Roger huffed.  "I'll end practice early," he told her through gritted teeth.

            Mimi's warm brown eyes grew large.  "You don't have to end practice!"

            "I'm sure as hell not gonna leave you alone with those runts!" he retorted.

            Mimi opened her mouth to shoot back a reply.  Instead, she reached across the table and gently squeezed her boyfriend's hand.  "Thanks, baby," she said quietly.

* * *

May 10, 1997.  5:27 pm.

Mark flung the bag of groceries onto the kitchen floor.  "Lucy, I'm home!" he shouted in his best Ricky Ricardo voice. 

Roger and Roger, Jr. looked up from the couch.  "Aww, man!" Roger groaned.  "We were starting to enjoy the peace and quiet."

 Mark ignored his roommate's banter; his attention was focused on the glass of lemonade sitting next to his beloved camera.   Mark rushed over to the table and grabbed his camera.  The kid's trying to play a trick on me.  He poured lemonade onto my camera.  He felt the camera – it was sticky.  He planted himself in front of the TV and waved the camera in front of their faces.

"Did you spill lemonade on my camera?" he interrogated Roger, Jr.  

The boy shook his head.  "I don't drink lemonade," he said, leaning toward the left in order to see Scooby-Doo and Shaggy.

Mark knelt down in front of him.  "Well, someone has a sick sense of humor," he told the boy.  "Do you know what happens to people who mess around with my stuff?" he snarled.  The kid buried himself into Roger's chest.  "They get hurt – bad."

"Leave him alone, Mark," Roger ordered.  "It's my lemonade, and no one spilled anything on your camera."

"Oh yeah?!" he retorted, and shoved the camera into his face.  "Feel it, why don't you!  It's sticky."

Roger placed his a hand on the camera, then handed it back to the filmmaker.  "It's fine," he said.  "I didn't notice any sticky spots."

"You don't work with this camera day in and day out like I do," Mark explained.  "I should know when it feels sticky or not."  He ignored Roger's protests.  How the hell would he know, anyways?  Nobody takes me seriously anymore.  Everyone's so wrapped up in their own lives.  Why should anyone care about me?  He picked up the glass of lemonade and pitched it to the wall next to the couch.  "Anyone who tries to mess with my camera – that'll be your head!" he screamed before storming up to his room.