Title: Metronome (Chapter 7/?)
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.
DECEMBER 19TH, 1995, 10:37 AM, EST. Benjamin Coffin III.
I watch Benny struggling with the duct tape, kneeling on the floor with the last big batch of boxes. The tape is mine, and some part of me wants to explain to him that it'd be faster to cut it than try to rip it, but I don't. I just lean back into the couch and run my fingers through Maureen's hair. She's pretending to read a book, but I can feel her body so rigid with rage that I know the charade won't last for long. Benny has moved on to attempting to rip the tape with his teeth. I feel like he's a poster child for those of us—rare though they may be—who leave the squalor of an artist's life behind. Then again, maybe that works both ways: careful, boho boys and girls; if you don't know how to properly operate duct tape, you too may end up as a loser sell-out who abandons his friends. But even as I think that, even as I try to massage a little of the tension out of Maureen's neck, I don't quite agree.
"Benny," I finally say, quietly, wondering if my voice sounds as tired to everyone else as it does to me. "There." And I point to the table behind him, where I'd left the scissors for him earlier. Benny grabs them and beams at me, like by showing him where the goddamn scissors are, I've granted some sort of approval about this whole enterprise. I can hear Maureen's exaggerated exhale, and she gets up and stalks to the bathroom. The door slams behind her; I don't even pretend to act surprised.
I try to remember when life started, well, if not falling apart, at least leaking at the seams. We'd all known that Benny was taking business classes at Lehman. He'd said they'd help him get a job for a real production studio, so he could quit the gophering and the catering jobs we all knew he hated so much. It was pretty funny to come home at night after a long day of filming and see him hunched over at our shitty kitchen table, struggling with a math problem. Sometimes he followed Collins around with random abstract ethics questions. It was odd, and it probably annoyed the shit out of Collins, but then he'd always had extra patience for Benny. He once told me that Benny was still looking for himself. We're all still looking for ourselves, I'd responded. Yeah, Collins had replied, nodding, but at least we have a pretty good idea where to look.
At any rate, pretty soon Benny had landed himself a new job—short term, project-oriented only stuff, but it was for a tiny independent recording label in Harlem. I've never seen him so excited. And soon after, he'd even gotten himself a day job with some real estate manager. We didn't see him as much after that, but when we did, he was always exhausted and smiling. And, of course, we were glad to have someone around who was making some steady flow. My project du jour was going well and pennilessly, as was Maureen's, neither of which surprised anyone, and we'd all been screening messages from some dude at Columbia who sounded progressively pissier. We weren't sure Collins would be employed much longer. And then, of course, there was Roger. Roger whose band was finally landing gigs, Roger who had started bringing home a skinny little thing with red hair named April on quite a regular basis, Roger who started acting spacey and was always telling us he was broke. Nobody gave Benny as much shit about his constant studying, not even Maureen, who told him that if he went to work for The Establishment, she'd never forgive him. No, Roger's needling was always a little lower-key. A comment, a dry bark of a laugh before he swigged a beer and swaggered away. Somehow, those comments sounded a little edged, a little cruel, and I think they cut a little deeper than my girlfriend's rants ever did.
That swagger makes an appearance now, or it would, if Roger could figure out the Earth's proper equilibrium. He sways in the doorway, rubs his eyes and clearly tries to make sense out of the boxes and random articles of clothing laying about.
"You're up early," I say, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. Roger, never an early riser, has recently taken to sleeping until three or four in the afternoon. Then again, I've heard him come in at five in the morning, so I suppose that makes sense. And I have to admit to myself that these past few weeks, it's been easier that way. That way we only see each other a few hours a day. Another recent Roger development: he's stopped being nearly so pleasant when he's awake.
"Wanted to see me off, right, dude?" Benny asks, with a cheery tone. I think he wants to leave us all on good terms, and I admire that. Benny may be a dipshit at times, but he's as good natured as a Labrador, and at times, just as persistent in his mission to make you like him.
Roger just rubs his eyes. "It's fucking cold in here." Benny looks a little confused, because it's certainly been a lot colder recently than it is today. I look at Roger more closely, shivering in his tee shirt and jeans. Must have crashed still clothed.
"Go put on a sweatshirt," I say quietly, and he stares at me for a minute before wordlessly returning to his room. Maureen emerges from the bathroom and plunks back down next to me on the couch. She glares for a minute at Benny, who obviously waited until the last minute to back those beloved business textbooks of his. He's trying to fit them into one of the smaller boxes. He's moving into his girlfriend's house—although he'd called it her "place" when he first told us. It wasn't until he mentioned Connecticut that we started to wonder what the fuck was going on, exactly. I could only remember meeting Alison once, when Benny brought her to one of Roger's shows with the Well Hungarians. She looked like the girls I'd grown up with. No, not even—she was too W.A.S.P. for that. White bread, Maureen had whispered, and I think she was seeing ghosts of the past too. Roger, when he'd finally found us in the crowd, was plastered. When introduced, he'd said, "Nice to meet you, Muffy," and that was Alison's new name, like it or not. I think the only one to be truly kind to her was Collins, who made small talk with her all throughout the show, through which she fidgeted and grimaced. Apparently, not her kind of music.
Roger's door re-opens, and April slips out, wrapped in his nasty blue blanket. She just stands next to the couch for a moment, vacantly, before she sits abruptly. I can feel Maureen watching her, as Roger emerges as well, with that same vacant expression. I wish he'd lay off the fucking drugs for a while. What was it last night, buddy, I ask him in my head. Blow again, with pot-and-beer chasers? Ecstasy and tequila? I'm not the tight-ass he makes me out to be, but I do enjoy a few chemical-free days here and there. Call me old fashioned.
Maureen shifts her weight ever so slightly into me. I wonder if she's being cuddly or just trying to watch our intrepid stoned duo more closely. I don't know exactly what Maureen has against April, but something in her seems tenser whenever the two of them are together—especially in post-drug-haze moments such as this one. Maybe it's a female thing, because the rest of us have tried to make April as comfortable as possible with our company. Still, I look at April's vacuous gaze and have to suppress a shudder. Something is wrong here. I think maybe what we've been telling each other and ourselves—about Roger's increasing absence, and his constantly hung-over behavior, and his sudden partiality to mood swings that are way more severe than his normally manic personality provides—maybe that's horse crap. Maybe he and I need to talk.
There's a key in the door and Collins comes in, looking a little weary as he unwraps his scarf. He does, however, grin when he holds up the white paper bag.
"Bagels!" he announces, smiling at us all, but especially at Benny. "A farewell breakfast for our friend." And when I rise and dig out the cream cheese I have carefully hidden in the refrigerator, the wattage of Benny's smile could power Brooklyn. Maureen also stands and goes to place a kiss on Collins' cheek; he brings out something tender in her, at least when they're not off destroying property.
"I'll make some tea. Who wants?" she asks, addressing us all, which I think is her way of reaching out to us. That's my girl. She could be a good Jewish wife yet, if it weren't for the shiksa thing—when in doubt, when in trouble, when feeling disconnected or worried or helpless: feed. I raise my hand enthusiastically, and she wraps her arms around me from behind before putting the kettle on. I twist in her grasp to plant a kiss on her cheek. I think she's more upset than she lets on about Benny moving out; I think she feels a little unstable these days. I know I should be more attentive. It's just been hard, because I've been more worried about Roger and Collins and even about the sell-out himself. Here he is, folks: Mark Cohen, mother hen. I kiss Maureen again, on the lips this time. She smiles at me and turns her attention to setting up mugs. Benny's digging though the bagel bag like a kid on Christmas, and Collins is standing next to Maureen, searching for clean plates. It is almost the picture of a happy family, the happy family we've been. But we're missing something...
Roger. Who has finally figured out that couches are for sitting, and is next to April, not really sitting together, just sitting side-by-side. My hands itch for my camera, and I know I could loop a minute or so clip of them and call it "The Bus Stop" and it would be brilliant. The smell of fresh bagels—"Holy shit, they're still warm!" laughs Benny, slapping Collins on the arm—is enticing, but Roger and April don't seem much to notice. Finally, he takes her hand in his, and for a moment, they are the happy couple they were months ago, when Roger first introduced us, his chest a little puffed up with happiness and pride. Then April leans over and whispers something in his ear. Roger's eyes seem to gleam dully and then he's pushed off the sofa and grabbed his leather jacket from the peg by the door. "I'll be back in a few," he mutters to me as he passes by me on the way to the door. "I'm gone by noon, so make sure you're here to say goodbye!" calls Benny, but I'm not even sure Roger heard. I sigh. A filmmaker lives for moments, encapsulations, and when they're gone or missing, he'll feel...off. Believe me.
Suddenly, there's a plate in my hand with a bagel on it—salt, my favorite—and Benny grins at me, and I will myself to forget Roger's strange behavior and just enjoy a good nosh with my friends. Who knows when next we'll all eat together like this, family-style around our crowded and cluttered kitchen table. I fetch my camera from my room and film the scene in front of me for a moment: Collins mock-seriously asking Benny if they have bagels in Connecticut, Maureen, steaming tea in hand, almost tripping over an unmarked box, and screeching as she punches Benny in the arm for leaving his shit all over, Benny laughing and trying to answer the two of them at once, April furrowing her brow as she concentrates on making the cream cheese go from knife to bagel. Roger's absence is palpable, but I refuse to pay it any mind. There will be, I'm afraid, plenty of time and opportunities. Right now, eating with my soon-to-be spread out family will be enough.