Title: Metronome (Chapter 6/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

JULY 16TH, 1995, 4:02 PM, EST. Mimi Marquez.

The first thing that surprised her about the whole thing was that the coffee was actually pretty good. You'd think that would break some sort of cardinal rule of support groups, but she knew good coffee—or at least not-crap coffee—when she tasted it.

At least, she decided, she would have something to focus on if this whole thing turned out to be as boring and pointless as she expected. This wasn't really her scene, but Annie had suggested—strongly—that she go, and Annie had the distinct advantages that went along with being a state-appointed case worker: for the five weeks and four days, until the big one-eight, she could withhold services. Like AZT, and the doughnuts she always snuck into her office when Mimi came for her nine o'clock appointment. As she put it Mimi, "Look, hon, I'll be honest with you: things can be hard or they can be harder." And, at least for the month and a half until she was legally old enough to get the fuck of Social Services, she'd opted for coffee and doughnuts over none.

And now that there was something edible in her hand and the crap fan in the corner was finally kicking in, she found that she could concentrate enough to really look around. Some people were talking softly to each other from their separate hard plastic chairs, and some, like her, were just sitting. Waiting for this to begin and perhaps, like her, waiting for it to end. Directly across from her, the dress that that—boy?—was wearing was gorgeous. Fucking hot, and red was the perfect color for him. When he stood to greet someone who had just come in, she could tell that he could have filled out the back a bit more. He didn't have too much of an ass. Not a boriqua baby like her, she thought, almost smugly.

And now, as if by unspoken signal, everyone was gathering in their seats. The man in the blue shirt introduced himself as Paul, and then they went around in the circle, saying their names. Mimi tried to concentrate, but she found herself wondering if these people were giving their real names. If she had to give her real name. And even as she could feel herself mentally drifting away, she wondered about her name, and about death certificates, and obituaries, and whether they were forced to print your formal name. Because that would really suck. There might be a piece of paper somewhere in her mother's apartment that remembered how Maria Josefina Esperanza Marquez had been born almost eighteen years ago, but she had been Mimi since before her first full day alive. They should let you put whatever the fuck you want on the shit that follows you after death. But then again, that could get complicated, seeing as how you were dead and couldn't really choose...

"Mimi," she said suddenly, realizing it was her turn. "I'm Mimi."

And as she dove back into her coffee cup, she caught the cute boy in the dress—she was sure now, as she caught sight of an adam's apple—smiling at her. Not the sleazy smile she was used to catching from men as they stared, but then again, Mimi was willing to guess that she wasn't his type. She could feel herself smiling back, just a little bit.

And now Paul was signaling them to begin. Begin what? Until—shit, that was creepy—almost everyone was chanting together softly. Something about the "now", and forgetting regret. This was fucking cheesy. Annie better be serving up double doughnuts when next they met. Although, if she thought about it, this could be worse. They could be moaning and wailing about the fucking tragedy of their situation. Mimi had no patience for that bullshit. Get a clue, people: life's going to find every possible way of fucking you over, so deal with it and move on. Or, as Paul and his legion of chanters were saying, life's yours to miss. Okay, she sighed. This was okay.

She couldn't bring herself to focus too much while people spoke—she heard snatches of what they were saying, and she was aware of Paul's deep voice, which, she was willing to concede, might be comforting, if that's what you were looking for. When the meeting was ready to end, Paul signaled them to begin the sketchy chant thing again, and to her surprise, Mimi was able to follow a few of the verses. She hummed the parts she didn't know yet.

Okay, so most of this whole enforced-pseudo-group-therapy stuff was still a big pile of mierda, but since she had to go somewhere, it would have to do. Annie had made it very clear that the next try after this would be an in-hospital group at Mount Sinai, and Mimi had made it equally clear that she would disappear back into the barrio—or somewhere just as difficult to track her as Spanish Harlem was—in a heartbeat, rather than be forced to a hospital for any duration of time. So this place would have to do. For now, at least, Mimi reminded herself. Just for the next few weeks. Or maybe once in a while, you know, even after, once she was free of Annie and her sugary clutches, once she was free to be born to be bad again, once she was living on her own terms. Shit, at least it was a place to get some good coffee.