Only Pieces of Wood
Author's Notes:
04-23-02. This is my first Rentfic. I've been reading them for awhile now but was reluctant to attempt my own. Most of you are very talented and I figured I'd probably suck. ;) I wrote this in a dream last night, and had to write it up immediately or I would forget it. Personally, I prefer dreams involving Adam Pascal in a white tank top, playing his guitar for me. (Yes, I've really dreamt that! Aren't I lucky?! :P) But this certainly provided inspiration, for which I'm thankful. This follows the established story of Rent, until Roger returns from Santa Fe, which is where this begins. After that, as you will see, I take liberties and change everything. ;)
As this is my first, feedback is greatly appreciated. (Ack, I'm already becoming one of those desperate review-aholics that I can't help but adore so much! :)
Disclaimer: (Is this truly necessary, by the way? LOL.) These characters are the work of Jonathan Larson. They are not mine. If you sue me, you'll have to sue dozens of other Rentfic writers too, so it's not worth it. :P
And just so you know... I am a very big fan of misery and angst. ;) Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The guitar he could not find a purpose for
'Only pieces of wood,' he muttered
Break it up and float it to a distant shore
To pursue his own good
--Daphne Rubin-Vega; "90 Miles"
1.
The sun shone off the back of my guitar as its end stuck up in the back seat, continually blocking my rear view. It didn't matter, though. It wouldn't have mattered if it blocked every single window and I ended up crashing the car and reducing my number of possessions from two to one. As long as I had my guitar. And this time I wouldn't let it go.
My song had come to me after I'd sold it. I had nothing to play it on, nothing to sound it out on... nothing except in my own head. I could hear it on my guitar, even with that one twangy, rebellious string that was forever off-key. Every night, it played over and over in my head, and I was furious I didn't even have a photo of her with me. In movies, the guy who loses his love to the curse of distance always has a photo.
But I soon realized, or resigned myself to the fact, that I didn't need a picture. I could close my eyes and shut out the rest of the world and there she was. Those shimmering chocolate-colored eyes, the ever-present glitter-- moonlight, I called it--in her hair... and on our clothes, and in the bed, and everywhere else. That precious dimpled smile that stole my heart away the first time she flashed it at me...
It was ironic, really. Well, maybe not so much ironic as simply stupid on my part. She was my inspiration. My song. And my guitar was the median between us. Even in times without her, after a fight, or when she was working and I would simply sit on the floor in her apartment and take in the fresh scent of shampoo from the bathroom. I would sit and play my guitar, then, and feel as close to her as I ever had.
Then I sold the guitar, and I left her. Redundant, really. I could have done either one of those things, and the pain of both would have ensued.
I couldn't forget the afternoon I walked into the pawn shop, clutching my guitar protectively, wondering how I was supposed to let it go. But when I left the shop and saw that wad of money clenched in my fist, like a foreign object... I convinced myself it didn't matter. It was only a guitar, after all. Only pieces of wood.
That would be my life. A metaphorical guitar. Here one day, gone the next. Shattered into a thousand pieces with a few select words and decisions. That's all anyone's life is, really. A few choices that can make you or break you.
And then there was him.
His words echoed in my head on my entire drive to Santa Fe. Not even echoed. Not like the obnoxious, over-dramatic reverb Maureen was so fond of. It was a scream, and at the same time a soft, beseeching plea. I couldn't pass an intersection or swerve onto an exit without hearing it. *For somebody who's always been let down,* he told me.
I should have told him the truth then. I shouldn't have let him get away with that statement. It wasn't entirely accurate, after all. *He* had never let me down. Not once.
I'd left him too.
It was the first thing I noticed away from home. How astonishingly bored I would get without him to talk to. No one to yell at for acting like my mother, or for shoving a camera in my face all the time. No one to eat Captain Crunch with in the mornings, even if we had no milk to go along with it. And--a lump formed in my throat, and stayed there--no calls to screen.
When I found myself with some loose change, which was not very often, I would call our loft. It was one of the first and last times I ever laughed while I was in Santa Fe--the first time I tried to call home, and realized I'd forgotten our phone number. Who ever calls themself?! I demanded, assuming that would excuse my stupidity, trying not to laugh at myself as I paged through a phone book, an hour later, of the greater New York area, which, in Santa Fe is not the easiest thing to find.
So I called the number. For some reason, it surprised me that it was really ours. You don't usually page through a phone book and locate a number, only to hear your own voice on the answering machine. I heard us unenthusiastically recite, "SPEEEEEAK." I heard the beep. I hung up.
I hung up the next time, too.
I never once left a message. Not on our machine, or Mimi's, or anyone else's.
It didn't matter now, I told myself firmly as I felt my heartbeat beginning to rise. This was *us*, after all. Our gang. Our family. Six months without speaking wasn't going to change things as much as I was afraid it would. Of course, there was always the sickening fear in the back of my mind that... no.
No.
She was fine. Collins was fine. They were alive when I left, and they would be alive now. And I fixated on this belief, clung to it with my life, because I knew that's what I would lose if the belief weren't true.
This family wouldn't die. This time I wouldn't let it.
The streets of Manhattan were sunny and bustling and unusually welcoming. It didn't feel half as strange as I feared it would. But that was me, always expecting the worst. And usually with good reason. It didn't matter that we didn't have any heat or electricity. I didn't even care if all the glass in the windows was gone, or if there weren't any windows at all. I was less than three miles from home.
I didn't have the sensation I longed for, of "pulling onto a familiar street". After all, I'd never driven this car around town, or driven much anywhere, for that matter, and this wasn't usually the direction I came home, and... well, I never much left the house anyway.
But that, like so many other things, didn't matter. I slid the car into a parked position, and stepped out. I probably spent two full minutes simply staring up at the building. I don't know what I was expecting. Someone to pop their head out the window and invite me up, so I wouldn't have to do it myself?
I eyed the payphone twenty feet away. I should call first.
No. I couldn't.
The first flight of stairs led to a landing, giving me only enough time to decide which apartment I should go to first. Hers was closer, but the loft was my home.
I stepped onto her welcome mat, then stepped away. I could already smell her shampoo and laundry detergent and the faint aroma of nail polish and...
Oh, God. I was really back. She was here. She was only a door away from me.
I knocked.
The door swung open slowly, groggily, much resembling the person who stood behind it--hair sticking up every which way, wearing nothing but a faded pair of blue jeans that were too big for him, and rubbing his eyes.
"Mark..."
Author's Notes:
04-23-02. This is my first Rentfic. I've been reading them for awhile now but was reluctant to attempt my own. Most of you are very talented and I figured I'd probably suck. ;) I wrote this in a dream last night, and had to write it up immediately or I would forget it. Personally, I prefer dreams involving Adam Pascal in a white tank top, playing his guitar for me. (Yes, I've really dreamt that! Aren't I lucky?! :P) But this certainly provided inspiration, for which I'm thankful. This follows the established story of Rent, until Roger returns from Santa Fe, which is where this begins. After that, as you will see, I take liberties and change everything. ;)
As this is my first, feedback is greatly appreciated. (Ack, I'm already becoming one of those desperate review-aholics that I can't help but adore so much! :)
Disclaimer: (Is this truly necessary, by the way? LOL.) These characters are the work of Jonathan Larson. They are not mine. If you sue me, you'll have to sue dozens of other Rentfic writers too, so it's not worth it. :P
And just so you know... I am a very big fan of misery and angst. ;) Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The guitar he could not find a purpose for
'Only pieces of wood,' he muttered
Break it up and float it to a distant shore
To pursue his own good
--Daphne Rubin-Vega; "90 Miles"
1.
The sun shone off the back of my guitar as its end stuck up in the back seat, continually blocking my rear view. It didn't matter, though. It wouldn't have mattered if it blocked every single window and I ended up crashing the car and reducing my number of possessions from two to one. As long as I had my guitar. And this time I wouldn't let it go.
My song had come to me after I'd sold it. I had nothing to play it on, nothing to sound it out on... nothing except in my own head. I could hear it on my guitar, even with that one twangy, rebellious string that was forever off-key. Every night, it played over and over in my head, and I was furious I didn't even have a photo of her with me. In movies, the guy who loses his love to the curse of distance always has a photo.
But I soon realized, or resigned myself to the fact, that I didn't need a picture. I could close my eyes and shut out the rest of the world and there she was. Those shimmering chocolate-colored eyes, the ever-present glitter-- moonlight, I called it--in her hair... and on our clothes, and in the bed, and everywhere else. That precious dimpled smile that stole my heart away the first time she flashed it at me...
It was ironic, really. Well, maybe not so much ironic as simply stupid on my part. She was my inspiration. My song. And my guitar was the median between us. Even in times without her, after a fight, or when she was working and I would simply sit on the floor in her apartment and take in the fresh scent of shampoo from the bathroom. I would sit and play my guitar, then, and feel as close to her as I ever had.
Then I sold the guitar, and I left her. Redundant, really. I could have done either one of those things, and the pain of both would have ensued.
I couldn't forget the afternoon I walked into the pawn shop, clutching my guitar protectively, wondering how I was supposed to let it go. But when I left the shop and saw that wad of money clenched in my fist, like a foreign object... I convinced myself it didn't matter. It was only a guitar, after all. Only pieces of wood.
That would be my life. A metaphorical guitar. Here one day, gone the next. Shattered into a thousand pieces with a few select words and decisions. That's all anyone's life is, really. A few choices that can make you or break you.
And then there was him.
His words echoed in my head on my entire drive to Santa Fe. Not even echoed. Not like the obnoxious, over-dramatic reverb Maureen was so fond of. It was a scream, and at the same time a soft, beseeching plea. I couldn't pass an intersection or swerve onto an exit without hearing it. *For somebody who's always been let down,* he told me.
I should have told him the truth then. I shouldn't have let him get away with that statement. It wasn't entirely accurate, after all. *He* had never let me down. Not once.
I'd left him too.
It was the first thing I noticed away from home. How astonishingly bored I would get without him to talk to. No one to yell at for acting like my mother, or for shoving a camera in my face all the time. No one to eat Captain Crunch with in the mornings, even if we had no milk to go along with it. And--a lump formed in my throat, and stayed there--no calls to screen.
When I found myself with some loose change, which was not very often, I would call our loft. It was one of the first and last times I ever laughed while I was in Santa Fe--the first time I tried to call home, and realized I'd forgotten our phone number. Who ever calls themself?! I demanded, assuming that would excuse my stupidity, trying not to laugh at myself as I paged through a phone book, an hour later, of the greater New York area, which, in Santa Fe is not the easiest thing to find.
So I called the number. For some reason, it surprised me that it was really ours. You don't usually page through a phone book and locate a number, only to hear your own voice on the answering machine. I heard us unenthusiastically recite, "SPEEEEEAK." I heard the beep. I hung up.
I hung up the next time, too.
I never once left a message. Not on our machine, or Mimi's, or anyone else's.
It didn't matter now, I told myself firmly as I felt my heartbeat beginning to rise. This was *us*, after all. Our gang. Our family. Six months without speaking wasn't going to change things as much as I was afraid it would. Of course, there was always the sickening fear in the back of my mind that... no.
No.
She was fine. Collins was fine. They were alive when I left, and they would be alive now. And I fixated on this belief, clung to it with my life, because I knew that's what I would lose if the belief weren't true.
This family wouldn't die. This time I wouldn't let it.
The streets of Manhattan were sunny and bustling and unusually welcoming. It didn't feel half as strange as I feared it would. But that was me, always expecting the worst. And usually with good reason. It didn't matter that we didn't have any heat or electricity. I didn't even care if all the glass in the windows was gone, or if there weren't any windows at all. I was less than three miles from home.
I didn't have the sensation I longed for, of "pulling onto a familiar street". After all, I'd never driven this car around town, or driven much anywhere, for that matter, and this wasn't usually the direction I came home, and... well, I never much left the house anyway.
But that, like so many other things, didn't matter. I slid the car into a parked position, and stepped out. I probably spent two full minutes simply staring up at the building. I don't know what I was expecting. Someone to pop their head out the window and invite me up, so I wouldn't have to do it myself?
I eyed the payphone twenty feet away. I should call first.
No. I couldn't.
The first flight of stairs led to a landing, giving me only enough time to decide which apartment I should go to first. Hers was closer, but the loft was my home.
I stepped onto her welcome mat, then stepped away. I could already smell her shampoo and laundry detergent and the faint aroma of nail polish and...
Oh, God. I was really back. She was here. She was only a door away from me.
I knocked.
The door swung open slowly, groggily, much resembling the person who stood behind it--hair sticking up every which way, wearing nothing but a faded pair of blue jeans that were too big for him, and rubbing his eyes.
"Mark..."