Bethesda
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent. Or American Pie. Or Brown-Eyed Girl. Or anything else you recognize.
i.
It's been a long October.
Leaves run through the streets like rivers. Mark keeps on saying that it's the most beautiful time of year. He says nothing in the world makes him happier than to film leaves falling in Central Park. But Roger can't always see the sun, and he spends most of his time wishing it were spring.
Mimi's favorite season is April. It's because of Easter, her voice says in his head. My mom used to dress me up in this ridiculous pink fluffy dress, until I was like ten. Then I grew boobs, and it didn't fit anymore. Sometimes, I wish I was ten and flat-chested, and I could find Easter eggs everywhere I looked.
Roger tunes his guitar to the sound of her voice and the idea of her in a pink fluffy dress. She started with ballet lessons and ended up stripping in a club in Manhattan. Everyone starts somewhere.
April was born in April and died in January. Angel was born in July and died in October, on Halloween. Roger was born in November and will probably end up dying in sometime in autumn (this year. next year. doesn't matter much). Mimi was born in March, and sometimes Roger likes to think that she will never die.
ii.
"Last night I was thinking of you," he says, sipping coffee he can't afford, looking her straight in the eye. "I was jerking off and thinking of you…"
"Well, I'm flattered," she deadpans.
"You should be. Anyway, when I came I thought about all the 'No day but today' crap from those life support meetings you drag me too…"
"It's not crap! Jesus, Roger…"
"Would you just hear me out? I was thinking 'What if this is my last orgasm? What if I don't wake up tomorrow morning and the last thing I did on Earth was touch myself and listen to Mark snore?' Well…"
"Don't be so morbid. You're not just going to drop dead."
"You almost did."
Silence.
Mimi picks at her piece of toast. Roger stole her smack money to buy her an omelet with the works because she's so thin. Sometimes he thinks he could cut her open with a pair of scissors. What would it feel like to hold her heart in his hands?
"Sorry." And he means it.
"It's… it's fine. What were you going to say?"
"Well, I've made a decision. I'm not going to masturbate anymore. My last orgasm will be during sex. With you."
She's trying to smile, but she's toeing the line between laughing hysterically and crying hysterically. She's so damn…he can't fill in the blank.
"I give you 72 hours. That's only because you seem determined," she says kind-of-confidently.
"You really have that little faith in me?"
"Face it, Roger. You're a man."
"We'll just have to have more sex then, won't we?"
She really smiles this time, Cheshire-cat-like and almost devious. This is the Mimi he knows. He wants to kiss her; he wants to taste her smile before it shatters into a million pieces.
"Ay, men and their libidos."
If he squints, he thinks he can see Mimi as a seventy-something year old woman with more grandchildren than fingers and toes. Here is the woman that can make the best huevos rancheros on the block, the woman who doesn't take shit from anyone, the woman who still has sex with her husband, the woman who prospers. The woman that could have been.
"The day is still young. Maybe we can chase pigeons in the park."
"Okay."
She gets up to leave. "Coming Roger?"
She's just twenty-one, and she's so damn…
Gorgeous. Passionate. Wild. Strong. Alive. Roger finds the words he's looking for.
iii.
Roger goes nowhere. He has nowhere to go.
He should get a job, save up some money for a new amp. He should borrow some of Collins's philosophy books and actually read them. He should find April's old rabbit's foot and hope it brings him the luck it didn't bring her. He should learn all the lyrics to American Pie. He should tell Mark to actually listen to his mother about the hot plate before the loft burns down. He should put on Brown-Eyed Girl, turn the volume all the way up, and dance with Mimi until dawn.
He pinches himself. It hurts.
iv.
They play a well-choreographed game of hide-and-seek.
He's gone; she's gone; they're gone, running and hiding and hoping that if they stand still long enough, they will lose themselves in the city. Roger even counts to ten before he looks for her.
But he looks in all the wrong places. He checks the city, but he forgets to check to calendar. Only when he hears weeping in their bathroom-turned-dark room does he realize what day it is. It's fucking sacred. He leaves Mark a note and bolts (déjà vu all over again).
She's waiting for him there, at the graveyard. At the grave of Angel Dumott Schunard.
"Trick or treat." Her voice is so bitter.
"Mimi…"
"Don't. I don't want to hear it."
"Where were you today?"
"Central fucking Park. Bethesda fucking fountain. An angel for an Angel, I guess. Ever heard the story of that angel? Had a fountain that healed people, but it only healed the first person that got there. I've always wondered what happened to the people who weren't fast enough. Guess I know now. Jesus. I just stared at her for while, thinking about Angel. She didn't save Angel, or Angel wasn't fast enough, and every minute of everyday that I live that Angel doesn't I feel guilty. And angry. I kicked the fucking fountain, but all it did was make my foot hurt."
When she cries, mascara runs down her face in little streams. It's Halloween, and tonight she has to don a black leather cat suit and give men boners and get paid. She's not high, but she wants to be. She wants to be the princess in her acid-trip kingdom if it will make her forget.
"Sorry. I'm just…"
"I know."
"I can see why you left. So you don't have to look at fucking statues of angels and remember."
"I did remember. It's not something I could run away from."
He remembered all the way to Santa Fe. He drove at night, chasing the new moon to the full moon and back again. All the way across America. There was a night when he saw so many stars that he had to contradict himself and believe in God. But then he remembered Angel was dead and the faith, like Mimi's candle, flickered and went out.
"It figures," she whispers.
"Look, do you want to blow off the Cat Scratch tonight? We can take the subway all the way uptown if you want."
"Can't. I need the money. Thanks anyway."
"Can I at least walk you home or something?"
"Okay."
He takes her hand and leads the way. Or maybe it's the other way around.
v.
Mimi likes making love with socks on.
Her excuse is that a person loses most of her body heat through her feet, and since the heat of the loft constantly fluctuates, body heat is a precious thing. And for early November, it's fucking cold.
Roger has to admit it's sexy. She's got these fairy-like feet, and the socks somehow bring out their beauty. Her tits are nice, but her feet have a charm that he can't begin to explain.
When it's over, she bundles up in one of his old sweatshirts. The material dwarfs her; she looks like a little girl. Roger steals Mark's scarf to warm her because whenever she shivers, it sends him into flashbacks of Christmas Eves passed. He holds her until the shivering stops, and she's falling asleep in his arms.
Beep. Beep.
"Fuck."
"Roger, is that yours?"
"I'm going to kill Mark."
"Then I'm keeping his scarf. Take your AZT."
"Yes, Mommy."
"Shut up."
He listens to her because it could be her beeper in a few hours. Here they are, then, two people who think they can cheat death if they pick up the pace. They're like turtles racing to the fountain, and they can't get there fast enough. Roger takes his AZT.
"Come back to bed, baby. It's not tomorrow yet."
He climbs in bed next to her and tries to pretend nothing happened. Love scene, take two. She's breathing shakily, awake but drifting. It's five minutes until tomorrow, and he doesn't remember if he told Mimi he loved her today.
"I love you."
"Love you too."
"I'll miss you."
He doesn't know where that came from. As the clock's digital face shifts from 11:58 to 11:59, her consciousness fades, and she's halfway in his arms, halfway in a dream. He imagines she dreams about Easter eggs in April and being a prima ballerina.
Her response comes in a whisper: "Miss me? Where ya going?"
Nowhere. Anywhere. Everywhere. In circles. Once upon a time, far, far, away. Towards an ending (he likes to believe there are still happy endings). Towards a beginning, maybe.
Everyone starts somewhere.
Fin.