AN: Many thanks to Michelle (Daydreamer731) for beta-ing. Chapter 6 is already partially written, so hopefully there won't be as much of a delay.
"We just had to go to the Thai place, just because it was named 'Bennie's'."
"Aw, quit whining, Mark. It wasn't that bad. You had a good time."
"Hey, all I'm saying is that the word 'mild' obviously has a very different meaning in the world of Thai cuisine than the one I'm used to."
Roger rolled his eyes and sat down on the least disgusting part of the couch he could find. Mark poured himself a glass of water from the sink, exaggerating a sigh of relief.
"So, what are you doing today, Roger?"
"Oh, um, nothing. Band practice later this afternoon." Roger decided not to tell Mark about his new job as a bartender. He wanted to surprise him, just for fun. "What about you?"
Mark shrugged and walked into their room, returning with a pen and a legal pad.
"I'm probably going to work on my screenplay until Benny and Collins get back, I guess."
"Screenplay? You write?"
"Sort of. I've finished a few, but they're all pretty lousy. What I really want to do is direct, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"
"That rocks. Do you ever actually film them, or do you just write them and send them off somewhere?"
"I usually film them, if they're even remotely decent. I've got this theatre friend who does all this off-off-Broadway stuff. He helps me find actors. It's pretty cool. There's this one girl who does some stuff with his group—her name's Maureen Jones or Jackson or something—anyway, I really want her for the one I'm writing now. She's got this…charisma."
"You should ask her out," remarked Roger with a devilish grin as he watched Mark's double take.
"What! Are you kidding? She'd never go out with me! She's the kind of woman who probably gets asked out by complete strangers five times a day! She'd never want to go out with me."
Laughing, Roger gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder.
"Whoa, do I sense some confidence issues here or what? It won't kill you just to ask. Besides, if she's worth your time, she'll say 'yes'. Girls like pale, scrawny guys."
Mark shot a mock glare at Roger and made a sad, pathetic sound.
"I don't know…"
Roger let out an exasperated sigh.
"Mark, what's your middle name?"
"Huh? It's Jeremiah."
"Mark isn't short for anything, is it?"
"No, why?"
"I need it to sound intimidating."
"What?"
"Mark Jeremiah Cohen! Quit your whimpering and promise me that you will ask that girl out next time you see her."
"Roger—"
"I'm serious! Promise me, or I'll drive you crazy bugging you about it."
"All right, all right!" Mark laughed, trying, and failing, to look angry. "God, don't you have band practice or something?"
"Not for a couple more hours."
"It's going to be a long afternoon."
"Oh, come on. How did you survive the boredom when Collins and Benny were working before I moved in?"
"Well, I was actually able to work on my screenplays, for one thing."
"Yeah, yeah, I can take a hint. Hey, where are some of your others? I want to read them."
"No, you don't. They're really bad."
"You're exaggerating. Let me read them, I'm really bored."
"All right, they're— Oh, never mind, I'll just go get them."
Mark soon returned with a stack of paper rivaling the Leaning Tower of Pisa in size and potential for collapse.
"Enjoy. Scoff. Try not to become physically ill."
Roger laughed, picked up one of the scripts, and began to read as Mark worked on his latest project.
An hour or so later, Roger was no longer laughing.
"Wow, Mark, this is pretty… bad."
"I know. I just can't put my finger on the problem."
"Well, I'd say that the fact that the plot's cheesier than a bag of Cheetos is probably a major factor. I mean, the characters are good. You can tell that you're one of those quiet kids who sit around and watch everyone else. But all the action is fake. Nothing real happens."
"'Cheesier than a bag of Cheetos'? Thank you, Roger Ebert," chuckled Mark. "I thought songwriters were supposed to be eloquent."
Roger laughed.
"Fine. Have it your way. Ignore my thoughtful insight and waste the talent you obviously possess deep down in your soul. See if I care."
"No, I think you're right. Stupid plots. Who needs 'em?"
"Maybe you don't need one. Write what you know."
"Well, I guess that rules out 'boy meets girl'."
"Hey, I haven't given up on you and Maureen yet!"
"I guess. Write what I know? I don't think photography and sound equipment would make for terribly gripping central themes."
"Ooh, photography. Yet another clue to the mystery of Mark Cohen is brought out."
"Well, it kind of goes along with filmmaking."
"Oh, yeah, I guess so. Hey, you could take the pictures of the band sometime! We could make posters! That'd be really cool."
"Yeah, it would. I'll bring a camera to your next show. But I'd better wrestle with this screenplay right now, if I ever want a career in film."
"All right, I'll leave you alone now. You'll think of something."
Roger retrieved his guitar, sat down on the table, and began to tune. After a while, music began to float along between the grimy, water stained walls. Listening, Mark leaned back, his pen between his teeth. He smiled at the ceiling, as much as anyone can smile with a writing utensil in their mouth.