A/N/Di: I could be like that one random lady who stepped forward a couple of years ago and claimed to be instrumental in the creation of RENT, but I'm simply not that pathetic. I updated this because I was looking over my material the other day and I realized that it all sucked quite badly.

--streambed

      fin 8/11/2k2 ed 5/25/2k3

It was like watching a stream flow around a rock, for the most part, though at the moment he stood alone, like a stone cast from the bed to land amidst the trees.

I stopped reluctantly, absently shifting my coat and briefcase from arm to arm. The crowd departing from Starbucks surged around me. Realizing that I had stopped in front of the doorway, I pushed forward again, weaving in and out of the passerby to finally end up on the sidewalk; washed ashore. A cold sliver of winter sliced across my nose and cheeks, causing the snug, coffee house feeling to dissipate rapidly. Setting my briefcase on my toe and leaning it against my leg, I reach up to turn my collar up against the wind. I didn't take my eyes from him.

Battery Park in late December is muddy and uninspiring. Few of us, save perhaps a tourist or two, bother taking the time to trek through it, let alone stop for any sort of sightseeing. He hadn't moved, though –a patchwork fixture of red and black and muted greens, unremarkable in a crowd but painfully conspicuous against the bleak winter backdrop. A flock of pigeons strutted in front of him, barely a meter from the path. As I watched, a hand removed itself from a checkered pocket long enough to flick itself toward them. The pigeons parted like the Red Sea, coming back down to the ground in waves of grey and white. He shifted his weight, and I could catch a glimpse of something silver –a camera—swinging from its strap around his wrist of his other arm, until it once again fell to his side, out of my sight.

I'm not sure what she saw in him, to be honest. The Maureen I know --the wild, impulsive diva, the renowned mutineer from the East Village, the revolutionary who, according to local legend, has managed to seduce both the mayor and his wife, and in the same evening-- would have never even spared a glance toward him. It may have been the camera, or the blatant devotion, or…? 

A quick beep interrupted my train of thought. I glanced at my wrist resignedly. Picking up the pace would be paramount if I wanted to get back before six-thirty. Tardiness would prompt her to attempt to make the dinner, and when it came down to the complete list of talents God gave her, cooking was scribbled out from day one. I picked up my briefcase again, intent on hurrying forward to catch the bus. Accustomed to obeying orders, my feet dutifully moved forward a few steps. Then they rebelled, and countershuffled, turning me left against my will. "Darn," I said, and I spent a few minutes wondering if that was the word I really wanted.

I had barely gotten more than a few meters onto the path when his head snapped around. His eyes instantly grew narrow. Though my many years in the court of law kept my own impassive, I couldn't help being taken aback by the cagey expression. An instant later, his camera flew up to adhere itself to his face, and he turned an abrupt 180, studiously filming the now disinterested-looking flock of pigeons. Surprising myself by having to fight back a smile, I continued up the walkway until I was beside him. His eye flicked from the lens briefly; when he spoke, his tone was cautious. "Hey, Joanne."

"Mark," I responded neutrally. "How are you?"

He shifted his weight, crunching crystals beneath his heel. "It's damn cold out here," he said. "You'd think I'd learn to buy gloves with fingers. You?"

I studied the flush beginning to creep up his neck and shook my head. A parry to the feint, then. "What are you filming?"

"Birds."

"Oh?" My fingers tingled; I gently set my briefcase down, slapping my hands together as much to simply create noise as to restore the circulation. I shot him a sideways glance. "Do you like the way they strut? Or is this a rare breed of pigeon?"

There was a pause, and a very subtle release of tension about his shoulders. "Oh, it's definitely all about the strut," he murmured, and thumbed the camera's 'off' button, lowering it slowly. "You'll notice they're all girls. No female pigeon can resist me. They'd poop on me before any statue, any day.  Besides, I feed them first."

I nodded approvingly. Prise de Fer. "You know it. Ladies first, no matter what the species."

"Yeah, well, it gets hard to tell sometimes."

"The gender?"

He flicked a crumb off his sleeve. "The species."

I let that go. "I think it has to do with the aura. Some people just give off feminine vibes. It's the reason you can usually tell the female in a couple."

"Oh, I dunno… you'd be surprised how easily things can throw you off. Like feathers. Beaded wigs. Cargo pants. Business suits."

Froissement. Ouch. I inclined my head slightly, allowing my gaze to linger on the sky before returning it to him casually. "I don't know about business suits, but I've seen plenty men and women wearing cargo pants. A surprising number of them were old and bald or balding."

Something suspicious tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And you?"

I smiled. "I carry a pair around in my briefcase, just in case there's a bomb threat on my apartment and I need to quickly pack away all my household appliances."

Mark blinked at the ground, then nodded once, smiling ruefully. "Coupe."

Taken by surprise, I was unable to suppress a chuckle.  Mark finally looked up at me, his smile becoming faintly quizzical. "Something I said?"

 "Nothing in particular." Now that the ice was broken, I took the opportunity to examine him more closely. Though a glint of good-humor was in his eyes, the lines tugging at the sides spoke volumes. Looking back on it, it wasn't the exhaustion that had bothered me, but more the resignation on his face; beyond weary of being put-upon.

Noticing the scrutiny, Mark looked away, expression hardening. "What are you doing here, Joanne?"

I shrugged, fastening the top button on my coat. It didn't actually need fastening, but I thought it important to do something with my thumbs that didn't involve twiddling them. "I felt like walking. Enjoying the sights."

He absolutely wasn't fooled. "The park looks like shit."

"But air pollution is down this week. It makes one want to be outside. Besides, you're filming it, are you not?"

"That's different. I do it for a living. Some guys shoot shot, some guys shoot shit. Yes, that was a joke, you don't have to pretend you didn't hear me. You, don't you have a case? Meetings? It's around five, five-fifteenish, isn't it? Shouldn't you be home enjoying Maureen's coffee? She makes one hell of a good pot of French Roast." There was a moment where his agitated expression shifted with alarming swiftness and melted into one of sheer, unadulterated bliss. "And, if you're lucky and you got the holiday right, you can work it so you can taste it again, and again, all through the night, especially when—"

"Closer to six," I said, keenly aware of the possible outcomes of that particular branch of the conversation, "and yes, she does, but I don't always feel like rushing home after work. If I'm bothering you, though…"

He shook his head, and the weariness suddenly returned, pulling his shoulders forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I wasn't trying to chase you out or anything, I just… I didn't think…"

I watched him. It fascinated me, the way his hands could take on a life of their own when he spoke, so unconsciously expressive; an artist's hands.

I had had a client like him, once. Even when he had arrived at the stand, quaking with nervousness and fear, his hand still curled reflexively around that invisible pencil, unaware of the confident motions he made above the wood surface even as he withered under the prosecutor's onslaught. I shied away from the memory quickly, unwilling to taste the bitterness that accompanied it. It had been my first real loss, and though not my last, certainly the most memorable; it had been the first time I was utterly convinced my client was innocent.

A flash of silver in front of me brought me back to attention. Mark lowered his camera again, looking disappointed. "Damn… another second and I would've had that expression."

I sighed, looking around for inspiration. Things were going nowhere in record time. "Listen, Mark… how would you feel about getting a hotdog? I could really use one about now." I patted my stomach. My increasingly ample stomach, I noted; I needed to diet. Later. "Starbucks has great coffee, but their pastries are notoriously… insubstantial."

He hesitated. "Hotdogs, huh? Didn't think you were the type."

"I'm a woman with many surprising traits."

His eyes grew round. Scarlet began blossoming under the flush of winter. "Maureen's waiting for you," he said, "isn't she?"

I studied the way he tugged at his pockets and felt a sudden surge of empathy. "She needs to get used to the fact I'm not always going to be there to jump when she tells me how high. You shouldn't turn me down, you know, it's my treat. You offend the woman in me."

There was a visible release of tension. Mark rubbed the back of his neck with nervous fingers, then nodded, slowly exhaling. "If you've got the time, sure, I'd like to," he said quietly. He suddenly looked wry. "Wasn't like I was going to win that argument, anyway."

"That's right."  I picked up my briefcase and took his arm. "Come on. I saw a vendor just down the street a ways. You know, double chile cheese dogs used to be my favorite, until I realized they're one of the worst possible things you can get before a court case. Let me tell you. And onions, don't get me started on onions.  I hate to think that the outcome of a case is going to be determined by the degree of freshness in my breath."

He went along willingly, though I could feel the limb tense. "Thought you were on your way home."

"After you've had the mishaps I've had, you learn to avoid them all together on general principle. Here we go." We got in line behind a cranky looking mother of two and a hobo, both of them arguing with the vendor. Mark's camera went up immediately, and I grabbed the opportunity to glance into my wallet. I tended not to carry a lot of cash with me, as it's all too easy to lose it here, but I doubted he would take a credit card. I needed to be able to pull out of this with some dignity intact, if necessary.

"Man don't charge no money for mustard. Them condiments, they come for free. I want mustard, I don't gotta pay no extra for it."

"Would you just hurry up and give it to him? You already charge too much for them, anyway, so it should be included in the price."

I thumbed through some receipts and finally came upon a ten –my last. That would be enough to get us both hotdogs and me a ride back home via subway. Relieved, I extracted the bill and looked back up.

Mark's camera was still focused on the action. "They're getting pretty mad," he murmured to me out of the corner of his mouth. Derision danced behind his visible eye. "Won't be long now…"

I glanced at my watch. 6:15. So much for speedy detours. Sighing, I pushed my way up through the line. The vendor and the hobo looked at me in surprise as I thunked my palms down on the counter, glaring at them over my glasses. "How much extra are you charging?"

The glint in the vendor's eyes dulled a little. "Dollar."

The hobo spat out a curse. "You don't charge extra for mustard!"

I looked back toward the vendor. He was wearing an expression that held entirely too much patience. "Look," I said. I leaned in to get his attention.  "Make it thirty cents, or you'll lose your crowd."

He was unimpressed. "Ain't lowering any prices. A dollar for mustard."

The hobo stomped a foot.  "Rip-off! A goddamn rip-off!"

I slammed my palms down again to silence him. "Listen," I said, very softly. "I have to be home in less than a half-an hour. It's cold, I'm hungry, and I want to get a hotdog sometime before this planet is overtaken by the sun. Either you lower your price so this man can get his hotdog, or I yell 'it's moving', and you can see just what kind of business you won't get."

The vendor drew back, eyes darting over the passersby.

I folded my arms.

His gaze finally returned to me, accusatory. "Fifty," he muttered, then repeated, louder, "Fifty cents. Better be happy about that, old man, 'cause it ain't getting lower."

The hobo grumbled, but paid up, snatching away his hotdog disgustedly. "Man shouldn't have t'pay for no mustard," he told us again, and moved off, gripping the packet possessively. Satisfied, I moved back behind the woman and her children, who gave me solemn, wide-eyed looks. I smiled at them reassuringly. They giggled to each other and faced forward again.

Mark lowered his camera, whistling. "That was impressive."

My smile dropped. "That was stupid," I replied crossly. Mentally I replayed the scene, examining each bit critically. "I should've been able to get him down to twenty-five."

To my surprise, he burst out laughing. "You're unbelievable. It's no wonder she likes you."

The woman moved away, somehow managing to check through her wallet and hold onto both children at the same time. Ignoring the vendor's scowl, we ordered two and located a vacant bench on the outskirts of Battery. Mark dug into his enthusiastically, and for the first time I found myself wondering just how tight it was for him. "So, where are you staying now that Benny has locked you out?" I inquired, taking a bite of my own. The discount I received on the mustard, relish, and pickle made it all the more delicious.

He swallowed. "Oh, here and there. Around? Let's say around. I figure as long as I've got a toothbrush I'm good to go. It's been an adventure, at any rate."

"I don't know him well," I said, "but it seems like a very underhanded way of going about things. Do you have some kind of history with him?"

Mark shrugged, though his brow furrowed slightly. "We were roommates for a while, him and Roger and me, but then he got married and he moved out... look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Benny's not a bad guy, not really. He has his faults, but he's good in here, you know?" He thumped his chest lightly with his fist, then gestured aimlessly with his hotdog. "Whatever. I think we're mostly just jealous, and we work off that resentment by calling him a sell-out. He did what he wanted to without caring about what we thought –and I have to admit, he's got the logic on his side. We shouldn't be exempt from paying rent just because we're his friends."

"You're sticking up an awful lot for someone who just dumped you out on your ass."

"Yeah, well. The hotdog's put me in the Christmas spirit."

A pigeon warbled by my foot. Against my better judgement I tore off a tiny piece of bread and let it fall to the ground. "But you have been finding places to stay," I said.

"For the most part. Actually, it's Roger who's been bailing me out. Me and Mimi. You won't believe all the contacts he has."

The crumb instantly disappeared; where there was one pigeon there were now three. "Oh? From what I could tell, he seemed to be somewhat of a loner. Are you sure you don't want any ketchup?"

Mark shook his head, presumably to both the comment and the inquiry. "He wasn't always," he said, and took another bite, chewing slowly. His expression grew pensive. "In fact, a year or so ago, you couldn't get him to stay in the loft more than a few hours before he went back out again. He couldn't stand to be in any place quiet."

His voice lowered and became absent, giving me the feeling he was mostly talking to himself. "Then everything changed. Roger got sick, and April…"

I waited for him to continue. His eyes flickered toward the pigeons congregating at my feet. Slender fingers broke off a portion of the bun and worried it into smaller pieces; he tossed one over his shoulder. Three grew to five, and they squabbled among themselves like children. "Things change," he said quietly.

Something in his expression told me not to press, though I made a mental note to bring up the subject with Maureen later. Seeing the slump of his shoulders and the way his toe drew patterns in the slush at our feet, despondent, prompted me to change the subject. "Well, at any rate, I'm glad you decided to join me. It's good to have a dose of normality before trying to take Maureen on."

"Jesus." He tossed another piece of bread over his shoulder, further this time. Five to nine; they descended like hungry wolves. "Jesus Christ. She wears on you that much?"

 "I don't think fatigue an uncommon symptom for those who deal with her on a day to day basis."

"I'll admit she's unpredictable," he agreed, and with a subtle shift was toneless once more, as if he were reciting times tables to an apathetic classroom, "but. She grows on you. Thing is, she's totally nuts. She used to keep me up all night, practicing her speeches. They were all so crazy… yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Then she'd ask me if I could make heads or tails of it, and of course I couldn't, but I'd tell her they were good anyway." He polished off his hotdog, licking the grease off his fingers, and half-turned to throw the last, and largest, bit of bread over his shoulder, hard. It landed by the hotdog stand; the vendor cursed as a sea of beaks and feathers descended upon his wares. "Oops," he said.

I smiled. "You're a bad boy."

"You're right." He settled back, wiped the crumbs off on his jeans. "Of course, then I'd make sure to tell her that her delivery was flawless, and she did it at exactly the right time of night, that she was beautiful. Especially about last one. She's pretty insecure about that."

I thought about Maureen, and envisioned the thick, curly dark hair falling about her shoulders, the flawless figure, the way her eyes could change from blue to green with a subtle shift of light, catlike. "Insecure?" I echoed cautiously.

"What, you seriously haven't noticed? Shit. All the time." He settled back down again. "You have to make sure you tell her often, or she gets depressed, and doesn't think she's good enough. You'd better eat that, or it's going to get cold."

"Hm? Oh." I looked down at my hotdog. Suddenly I didn't feel so hungry. "Does she get like that often?"

Mark shot me a glance. "She's moody a lot, if that's what you mean."

"No, I mean the… the depression." I gestured uselessly. "I see it sometimes, but it doesn't seem to be in her personality to…"

He shrugged.  Something in his expression bothered me. I had seen it back in the line, too, as he was filming; that same flash of condescension, like he was enjoying a joke that only he understood, and as disturbing as it was by itself, it was more so when it vanished again as abruptly as it came, like a grimace. He returned his attention to the sludge at our feet. "She isn't about most things," he muttered. "Like… like her art. She's pretty confident about that. She never doubts herself for a second, because she can't really afford to. But her looks… I mean, all girls are worried about that, right?"

I opened my mouth, and shut it. He barked out a laugh, then laughed again, as if the touch of hysteria in his own voice amused him. "She was anorexic for a while, you know."

"I suspected as much."

"Yeah, well." Mark straightened, reached up a gloved hand to rub the back of his head vigorously, sending the reddish-blonde wisps into casual disarray. "I never claimed to be anything but self-absorbed. We both were, I guess. But she… she needed me those times, you know? And who the hell knew where I was. Are you going to eat that?"

I handed over the rest of my hotdog. He devoured it in seconds. "Do you have a place to sleep tonight?" I asked.

He looked up at me, thumbing a smear of ketchup off his cheek. "Roger set me up with one of his old band buddies." He eyebrows quirked, however, and he gave me his odd half-smile. It was a look that was becoming increasingly familiar; the one that made me feel as though he could see right through me, piecing together different parts of me that, all together, made him know me better than I knew myself. "But thanks for offering," he said.

My watch beeped. I glanced at it. "Damn," I said.

"Uh oh. Gotta head home?"

"Mm." I stood, balling up the linoleum wrapping, and looked around for a trashcan. "Destiny awaits."

"With a pot of heaven in its hand, no doubt." He got to his feet slowly, weary, and slid the strap of his camera back around his elbow. "Hey, Joanne, thanks for the advice. Learned a lot today."

"What advice?"

"You know. How to tell which one's the woman in a couple. Where to pack my toaster in an emergency. How to bring down the cost of mustard." He shrugged, scratching the side of his head. "You take what you can get."

"Is that so." I reached up on impulse to ruffle the already tangled mess on his head. "You'll keep. And don't worry about that advice. I'm willing to give discounts on all of my sage expressions."

Mark colored slightly and took a deep breath. "Yeah, yeah, sure… good thing, I'm broke… Merry Christmas, okay?" A beat. "Enjoy your coffee."

"I'll think of you when I down it in two." I stooped to pick up my briefcase. "Say hello to Roger and Mimi for me."

"Sure."

I turned to leave, then turned back again. "Mark."

"Yeah?"

The jacket really was too big, I noted absently; it looked like it wanted to swallow him whole. "Listen," I said. "Even for me, Maureen's not always the focal point, all right?"

His expression was blank.

I fumbled, trying to figure out a way to phrase what I needed to say coherently. "I may treat her like she is, and she may work as hard as she can to be, but I still know that there are ultimately more important things to do out there then Doting On My Girlfriend."

He shifted, looking as if he didn't quite know whether or not to care. "Like what?"

The crowd trickled around us. Streambed, I thought, and smiled again. Rocks in a river a hundred times our size, just trying to find our way. Life was funny that way. "Figuring out a way to improve her aim."

He was still laughing when I walked down the steps to the subway.

(fin)