Author's Note: This is the first half of the Christmas Eve chapter. I considered doing it all as one, since every one of you knows what's going to happen, but it was just too darn long. The next chapter will be up tomorrow morning, so check back then. Yes, I know I changed a few things from the way they are in the show—call it artistic license. I don't think there's anything too big for you guys too accept. Also, because this is the first scene I've done that's also in the show, it's a weird blend of lyrics and my own dialogue. I hope you like it. For anyone who's been reading my screenplay, I want thought as to whether or not some of this should be kept for the finale scene.
Chapter 7--Christmas Eve
(Roger)
Mark has his camera out again. Before I left, he hadn't used it in months. And now, suddenly, he's decided that his film is finished. Just like that. Done.
"I want to capture things the way they were," he says. "The good times."
"So why are you filming now?" I ask, as he directs the lens at me and begins adjusting settings.
I go over to the sofa, sit down, and pick up my guitar. Mark follows me with his camera. His third eye, Maureen used to say.
"Because I need one more piece," says Mark distractedly. "The finale."
"And I'm your finale…why?" I start tuning the old red Fender.
"Because you are," says Mark. "In a way, it's all about you. I never would've started this monster of a project if it wasn't for you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I don't know why, but I'm not quite sure I want to be responsible for Mark's project. It means too much to him. I don't trust myself to be worth that much.
"When you decided you were going to get clean, to start over, I decided that I needed to start over too. I've never gotten anywhere before; I thought that maybe if I tried something completely different, maybe it would be better. And that's why you're the finale. Because things are getting better again. And it starts with you."
"How do I—"
"Just shut up," says Mark, and flips the record switch on.
I shut my mouth and go back to tuning the guitar.
"December 24, 10 PM, Eastern Standard Time," Mark narrates. "First shot Roger, with the Fender guitar he just got out of hock. When he sold the car which took him away and back."
Mark motions to me to say something.
"I found my song," I say lamely, not wanting to disappoint.
"Now if he could just find Mimi," says Mark, lowering his voice as though I'm not a few feet away.
"I tried!" I yell at the camera, getting angry despite myself. "You know I tried!"
Mark shrugs, then switches his camera off. He takes it over to the little projector he has set up against the back wall and plugs it in, playing back his most recent footage.
"Zoom in on Mark," he continues to narrate, almost out of habit, as an image of him filming himself in the mirror comes on. "Who's still in the dark."
"But he's got great footage!" I offer. I can't bear to see him looking so upset anymore. At least one of us needs to be happy. And that's not going to be me.
"Which he's cut together," says Mark. I cringe at the sound of him talking about himself in third person still. I'll never get used to it. "To screen tonight."
I laugh, get up, go to the kitchen in search of the bottle of Absolut Mark brought home the other day.
"In honor of Benny's wife. Pulling Benny out of the East Village location."
Mark chuckles.
"No Cyber Studio now."
"I'm crushed," I joke.
"Oh, I knew you were so looking forward to it," says Mark, adjusting some knobs on the projector. The image on the wall goes in and out of focus. Just then there's a loud popping noise, and the power goes out.
"Shit," says Mark. "Of course."
Just then there's a knock on the door. Mark goes to answer it.
"Collins!" I hear him say. There's a little bit of light coming in off the street. I start searching for a candle in the kitchen.
"I wonder how Alison found out about Mimi," I muse, trying to think of something to say to Collins. He must hate me now.
"Maybe a little bird told her," jokes Mark.
"Or an Angel," says Collins, in remarkably good spirits.
I find a couple of old tealights in the kitchen and light them. It's dim light, but it's something. There's light coming in from the buildings next door, too I notice suddenly. So it's just us losing power. Again. Of course. The power in our building just likes to spontaneously desert us.
"I bet they have power downstairs," says Mark, as though reading my mind.
"And Benny's not even the landlord anymore," says Collins, shaking his head. "I suppose some things never do change."
An awkward silence falls in which neither of us knows what to say to Collins, and I got back to searching for that damned bottle of Absolut.
"So," says Mark at last. "Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," says Collins. "You too. Oh, before I forget." He reaches into his jacket pockets and holds out wads of twenty dollar bills to me and Mark.
"Whoa," says Mark. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, where did this come from?"
"Just…a little…opportunity," says Collins nonchalantly.
"Tutoring again?" I ask.
"Negative," says Collins.
"Back at NYU?" Mark guesses.
Collins shakes his head. "No, no, no!" He leans forward and motions for me and Mark to come closer. As if there's anyone else around to hear. "I rewired the ATM at the Food Emporium to provide an honorarium to anyone with the code."
"The code?" asks Mark.
"A-N-G-E-L," says Collins softly. "But you know, I've been thinking that my days of Robin Hooding might soon be over. They're not making as much of an impact as I'd like."
Collins looks at me. I sigh. I know exactly where this is going. Collins' long-lived never-to-be-realized dream of opening a restaurant in Santa Fe to swindle the rich tourists out of their money.
"So, Roger," begins Collins. Predictable, I think to myself.
"Santa Fe never happened," I say before he can get any further. "And besides, you'd miss New York before you could unpack."
I look over at my
Guitar, thinking how glad I am that I got it back in time and don't have to only play my old acoustic anymore.
I look back up and suddenly realize that the others are staring at me. I open my mouth to say something but am cut off by the loud slamming of the stairwell door and what sounds like a woman screaming.
"Mark?" calls the voice, echoing in the sudden silence of the blackout. "Roger! Anyone, help!"
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Next chapter up tomorrow…