Chapter Three: Only in the Movies

Notes and Disclaimer: Welcome to Chapter Three, which is finally from Mark's point of view. Again, thank you to all of you who review and make my day. Updates might be a bit fewer and further between right now, because my spring break ends today, which means I've actually got to devote some time to schoolwork, but I promise that I'll keep this going until things resolve.

I don't own anyone or anything, but you know this by now.


Mark

I sometimes think that, instead of trying to write a screenplay, I should just tape a few days of my life and try to get it sold as an indie documentary. Sure, action sequences would be unlikely, and I've yet to witness a shooting or a gang war, and there would definitely not be any sex sequences. Not starring me, anyway. Still, I think a day in my life would make a great comedy of errors.

My day is looking more and more like some cruel joke. I am Alexander, and some sadistic, other-worldly power is enjoying making my evening terrible, horrible, no-good, and just generally very bad.

See, things back at home were tolerable. Sure, Roger was being Roger in his teasing and sarcasm, and the outcry over dressing up wasn't exactly what I was looking for while trying to work up the courage to find that girl again, but I guess I've gotten used to it, having lived with this sort of thing since I left Brown a few months ago. It was after all of that when things started to go downhill.

EXT EAST VILLAGE- EVENING.. The sky, smoggy as it is with darkening clouds and traffic pollution, is illuminated by the setting February sun, which casts ribbons of orange and purple light through the grey bands of smog. MARK COHEN, our young protagonist, hurries up Avenue B, handheld 16 millimeter Bolex in hand, regretting leaving his coat at home as the unforgiving late-winter air assaults his skin. A DEALER handles a JUNKIE on the corner, and MARK averts his eyes, hurries on, past the HOMELESS MEN on the steps and the literal examples of STARVING ARTISTS. For once, he is too occupied to turn his camera on. He worries hit lower lip enough to make it bleed in the cold. He is anxious. He is nervous. He is scared out of his mind.

If I wrote a screenplay for today, that's how it would start. There would be a series of flashbacks, of course, while the screen Mark made his way through the village: a bored-looking Mark sitting with Benny at the bar, a slow, panning shot of the beautiful woman as he first lays eyes on her. Pining. Fretting. Being ordered to do something about it by a certain friend. Silent, at first, then gradually increasing in volume until the protagonist's inner turmoil manifests as screams, accompanied by rapid frames from the bar, from the loft, etc. The flashbacks end with a wailing car horn as the on-screen Mark, so deep in his thoughts, nearly walks into the path of a speeding vehicle and gets splashed as the old Mustang screeches to a halt in a deepening puddle.

All of that really happened, honestly. The flashbacks were just me doing some thinking. A lot of thinking. So much thinking that, yes, I almost got hit by a car and yes, it started to rain without me noticing. It started to pour.

I should have taken that as a sign and turned and run for home, but I just cradled my camera between my arms to protect it from the rain and hurried on towards the bar.

As I stand here now, in front of the building I first entered with Benny a full week ago, I get the sinking feeling that I should have turned home. There's a guy at the door I didn't notice last time, either because he wasn't there or because I was too busy talking to Benny, and he's giving me this look like I'm going to try to rush past him and cause a riot in the bar within.

I would never push past this guy. Not in a million years, even for this beautiful woman; he's probably even taller than Roger, who has at least half a foot on me, and easily weighs twice what I do. He could be a typical biker with his mullet and moustache and his scowl and his chain, but he's not; he's a bouncer, the kind of guy that feeds on the fear of the meek and the timid.

I am both meek and timid, and I am, once again, scared to death as this guy stares me down.

"You want in, kid?"

"Yes. Yes, sir." Actually, I could just leave. I'll probably be safer just walking away. Running away.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty one." I'm not, but the lie's become the truth now, when it comes to getting into bars and clubs and parties. I've never been questioned after that. Looked at funny, sure, but not questioned or second-guessed. Then again, I've never had to get in anywhere like this without Roger or Collins or Benny.

"I.D." He thrusts his hand at me just as he steps aside to let two couples pass him.

"I..." I don't have any I.D. save my card for the library on campus -which I can't use, because my birthday will give me away,- but I fish through my pockets anyway, trying to save at least a little bit of face. "My coat... I left my wallet in my coat pocket."

"Well, you should go get your coat then, shouldn't you?" Even behind that goofy moustache, I can see his fat lips curl into a smirk. "Your mommy wouldn't want you out in the cold and wet without a coat, would she?"

Not like I don't get that every other day from Roger.

Shooting the bouncer an irritated glance, I reluctantly turn and shuffle away, slowly dying inside at the realization that if I can't get back in, I'll probably never see this girl again. I'll never know her name. I'll be like the prince in Cinderella, infatuated with a beautiful, mysterious woman, but doomed to live without her in solitude and misery. Except I don't even get a glass slipper. Or a phone number.

"Hey, you."

I turn back around at the sound of a new voice, feminine, but not April's. "Me?" I'm the only guy pathetic enough to be standing out in the rain, so I guess it has to be me.

For a minute, I think that the gel running into my eyes is playing games with my vision, which is bad enough without the sting of hair gel. It seems, for that minute, that I've come face to face with the object of my sighing and smiling, but it can't be her. She wouldn't talk to me, remember?

"Hey?"

But it is her. It is her. Even after I brush my sopping wet hair back and blink the gel out of my eyes, even after I discreetly pinch my leg and mentally scream at myself to wake up, there she is, standing two feet in front of me, her hip popped and her arms crossed over her chest, her made-up lips curved into an amused sort of smile.

"You okay there, cutie?"

No way. No chance. This isn't happening. This can't be happening, but I nod anyway, playing along until I wake up alone in my bed.

"So... Are you going to stand out in the rain all night, or are you going inside?" She smirks at me, nodding her head of dark curls towards the door to that bar, and I think I'm going to pass out. Or wake up.

"I-uh.. I don't.. I can't find my-"

"I.D.? Oh, don't worry about that. I can get you in without it. Easy."

Not seeming to mind that I'm soaked and dripping, the gorgeous woman glides up next to me and slips her hand into the back pocket of my jeans, adjusts my arm so that it rests over her shoulders, which might even be a little higher than my own. Leading us back to the door, she flashes a grin at my good friend the bouncer, who is still eyeing me suspiciously, following her arm into my pocket and making me squirm closer to her.

And you know what? She doesn't seem to mind. When we cross the threshold, I untangle myself from her and shove the hand that isn't clutching my camera into my pocket. My eyes turn down towards my squeaking sneakers as I feel my face getting hot, earning a giggle from this beautiful girl.

"Aw, that suits you!" she laughs, lifting my chin with her index finger and winking towards me, setting my heart racing and the blood rushing to my face. Only to my face, thank you very much. "You're even cuter when you're blushing."

And this has got to be a dream. This has to be me dreaming up a fantasy, subconsciously longing for what I can't have, because things like this only happen to guys like me in movies.

So... maybe I can change my plans a little, while I wait and see if I wake up from this dream.

Maybe, instead of a documentary, I can shoot for a romantic comedy.


Notes: Wow. My Mark slipped really badly there. Sappy, love struck Mark isn't as easy for me to write as angsty, wounded Mark. Oh, well.

I think we go back to Roger next chapter, but, like with all things, we'll see when we get there.

Shameless plug: For that angsty, wounded Mark I was just talking about, see my other story, But He Won't Let Me. Gratzi.