Kissing a Fool
Two: Leave Your Pride at the Door
1995
"You do know that those things will kill you, right?"
Chandler turned toward the chipped metal door and smiled, as Monica stepped through the doorway and onto the gravel-covered roof. A sharp wind kicked up, and she wrapped her arms around her tiny frame, while simultaneously shaking her hair out of her face.
"Yes, they will kill me, but they are the only vice I have left these days," Chandler sighed, and took a long drag off of his cigarette, before flicking it carelessly over the side of the roof.
"You've had a lot of vices then, I take it?"
Chandler sighed heavily, and turned his head away from Monica, his eyes searching the sprawling cityscape that shimmered before him.
"I had a few, I guess," he finally replied, his voice suddenly raspy and worn. He turned back to Monica, and she noticed that his eyes suddenly seemed to mirror his tone—no longer a bright, dancing sea of blue, the color had somehow dimmed to a dull slate, the sparkle that lit them vanished.
"We don't have to talk about your vices," she whispered reverently, and smiled warmly.
His eyes softened, and his easy grin returned, and Monica felt herself involuntarily relax. How was it that this man that she had only really met two weeks ago could have such an affect on her?
"I guess…I don't really like revisiting that part of my life," Chandler said softly, his eyes once more reverting to the sea of stars below them, "I don't like the person I used to be.
"Maybe that's why I like talking to you so much—I don't have to live up to those expectations with you, Mon—I don't have to worry that you are projecting Johnny onto me."
Monica flushed, and felt her stomach roil nervously—she couldn't tell him the truth, so now she had to play along—it was all or nothing. Swallowing hard, she tilted her head to the side and furrowed her brow.
"Who's Johnny?"
"Oh, sorry—um, Johnny is the name of the character I played on Family Style. He was this wholesome, goody-two-shoes genius kid, who was witty and charming and who everyone loved. Basically, he was everything I wasn't. He was everything I could never be, and I resented him for it.
"He had a perfect family, and a perfect life in a perfect house, and all of his problems were solved in under thirty minutes. I never had that—I never had a family at all, and I—God, you probably don't want to hear my lame-ass sob story," Chandler laughed bitterly, and pulled out another cigarette.
Monica pulled the cigarette from his mouth before he could fish out his lighter. She tossed it over the side of the roof, and tentatively took his hand.
"But I do want to hear it, Chandler. And when you're done, I can tell you all of the reasons why real, non-TV families are not always the greatest thing to have."
Chandler chuckled, and squeezed her hand, before leading her across the roof, and into the warmth of the apartment building.
"Well, my story is a long one, so we'd better get you some coffee."
1988
Chandler pulled the slip of paper from his pocket with a pale shaky hand, and struggled to gain control of his tremors as he read the address that he had scrawled on it hours earlier. He pulled his thin jacket around his emaciated frame tightly, and sniffled, the tip of his nose rosy and drippy. Why the hell was it so cold? It was never supposed to be this cold in LA. He took a deep breath, and blinked several times, trying to focus his eyes on the paper. Concentrating with all of his will, he read the numbers out loud, and then looked up at the numbers on the building that stood in front of him. The painted brown wood was chipped, and the sidewalk in front of the building was cracked and lined with weeds, but it was a hell of a lot nicer than the places he'd been staying in lately.
He slowly climbed the steps to the second floor, and scanned the faded brass numbers on each of the weatherworn doors. He spotted apartment number 20, and rapped on the door loudly.
There was a grunt, and the sound of something shifting, and he could hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door. He held his breath, and forced himself not to run. The door swung open, and a thin, tired-looking man looked down at him warily.
"Whadduyawant?" the man slurred angrily.
"K-Kip? I-it's me, Chandler."
"Bing? Whatthefuck 're you doinghere?"
"I…I was wondering if I could borrow your couch…you know, just for a few days, until I can get back on my feet?" Chandler said quickly, his eyes on Kip's bare feet.
"Idunno…I guess…hey, doyougotanypot?"
"Um, no…but I know a guy…"
"Yeah, alright comeoninthen," Kip slurred, "Been a while since I lived with a movie star!" Kip laughed maliciously, and Chandler winced at the insult.
"Yeah, I guess," he muttered, and shuffled into his apartment.
"Leave your pride at the door, Bing, leave your pride-at-the-door!"
Little did Kip know, Chandler had left his pride somewhere else a long time ago.
1984
"Duuuuuuuude, come on in! Welcome to Casa de ME!" Sean, a fellow actor, and Chandler's best 'friend' grinned, as he swung a half-empty beer can around, "the drinks and the ladies are by the pool—hey, who's your friend?"
"Uh, this is my friend Kip," Chandler smiled, "he's crashing at my pad for a few days…you know, until he can get back on his feet," Chandler added patronizingly, and slapped Kip on the shoulder.
"Well, come on in Kip!" Sean yelled, and pulled the two men into the house.
The crossed two ridiculously decorated rooms—black leather furniture and neon signs being the theme of both—and walked onto a large cement-and brick patio.
"Wow," Kip muttered under his breath, as he scanned the backyard enviously. The sprawling yard was filled with bikini-clad women and beer-drinking actors—most of them much older than either Sean or Chandler. Behind the yard was a breathtaking view of Los Angeles.
How a kid his age could afford a place like this—was beyond Kip, who had yet to get a 'big break', and had been living in the Valley his entire life.
"C'mon Kip, I wanna introduce you to some friends," Chandler smiled, as they began crossing the lawn.
"I-Is that Molly Ringwald?" Kip pointed to a waify redhead several yards away.
Chandler grabbed Kip's arm, and yanked it down, before pulling him toward him angrily.
"Dude, do not point, okay?" Chandler hissed, and let go of his jacket angrily.
"Sorry," Kip muttered, and followed Chandler across the yard like a lost puppy.
"Chandler," a pretty, stick-thin blonde cooed as they approached the pool's diving board, "who is your cute little friend?"
Chandler shot Kip a glare, and smiled viciously.
"Him? He's nobody."
1996
His hands were shaking, as he used the butt of his old Marlboro to light his new one.
He'd never felt so angry…so hurt…so stupid in his entire life.
He had trusted her…really trusted her, with all of his being—and all of it—every single thing she'd said, was a lie.
He pounded his fist onto the wall of the faded off-white hallway, and growled angrily, stubbornly refusing to let his tears fall.
She wasn't worth it.
Deep down, he knew he didn't believe that—he loved her, he loved her like he had never loved anyone—even himself—and that scared him to death.
But all of that love was shadowed by the betrayal, the anger, and the lies that had taken over several hours ago, and now what he really needed, was a release.
He put the vodka bottle to his lips, and sucked down half of its contents, before pounding on the apartment door.
The door swung open, and the woman on the other side looked up at him sadly, and shook her head sympathetically.
He lurched inside, and slumped onto her worn brown sofa, the vodka bottle slipping from his shaking fingers.
"I thought she was the one, Kath, I really did," he sighed, and rolled his head onto the back of the sofa.
"I know, sweetie, I'm so sorry," Kathy sat down next to her old friend, and ran her hands through his matted brown hair softly.
"I hate her…and I hate me…I started drinking again," he sighed with a slight slur, and pointed at the vodka-covered carpet.
"I know, baby," Kathy sighed.
"I hate her," he muttered again, pulling Kathy toward him roughly.
"I know," she sighed sadly, and straddled his lap.
It was his ritual; it was his way. He would come to her when he was at his lowest, and she would make him feel better, the only way she knew how. She would let him have his way with her, because she loved him unconditionally, and he knew it.
She had followed him to New York, when he had abandoned LA, and all of its hollow promises. She had been there since the beginning, and wanted nothing more than for him to love her back.
But he never did.
He pushed her onto the sofa, and cried out someone else's name that night. She lay under him, silent and unmoving, as he cried himself to sleep.
And then she did the same.
AN: Man, Chandler is a bastard in this one, isn't he? *laughs maniacally* What do you think? Do you like it? Hate it? Tell me! Thanks!
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