A/N: I wasn't going to post this. It heads nowhere, but it doesn't get there very quickly. Anyway, it's a Mark story, a little love for the boy who didn't get nearly enough depth in the movie. (Post-Rent)
Disclaimer:RENT is all fromthe great mind of Jonathan Larson.
Also, I'm sorry if I screw up any geography (story and actual map geography), etc.
It was a warm summer morning. The sun shined through the window, every speck of dirt making an appearance in the light. It was June 21st, the longest day of the year. Mark was up early, he had to come up with another dull segment for Buzzline. As much as he hated the job it's what fed him. Literally. However, he couldn't tell if eating was even worth such a shitty, sold out life. He stared out the window until the snoring coming from the couch became too irritating. Roger had fallen asleep on the couch after tinkering with his guitar for what seemed like hours the night before, keeping Mark up well past midnight.
Mark walked over and removed the guitar from Roger's death grip, setting it on the coffee table beside him. He also got his desired reaction, Roger waking up and the snoring finally ceasing.
"Come on, can't a guy sleep?" Roger protested, sitting up on the couch, squinting from the bright sun which flooded the apartment.
"I could ask the same," Mark passively retaliated in his usual sarcastic matter.
"Yeah man, sorry about last night." Roger rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes were adjusting to light. Mark just raised his eyebrows a little, acknowledging Roger's usual 'sham' apology. Roger got up and walked towards the coffee machine. Mark filmed out of boredom.
"Zoom in on Roger. It's 80 degrees, but he still can't wake up without a drink of scalding hot city water that's been filtered through week old coffee grains." Roger just flipped him off.
"What time is it anyway?" Roger asked, turn on the coffee maker.
Mark shrugged. "6:30, something like that."
"Remind me later to kick your ass for waking me up this early."
"It's the longest day of the year, it's the one day a year that New Yorkers have approximately 15 hours of sunlight. You've already wasted an hour of it."
"And I plan on wasting another five sleeping later." Mark just shook his head. There conversation was abruptly interrupted by the high pitched ringing of the telephone. As the machine picked up, Mark rolled his eyes. His parents.
"Mark? Are you there? I know you're up, it's the longest day of the year, and I know how you're awake. You never wasted this day as a kid, ever." Mr. Cohen audibly sighed. "Listen, I didn't want to leave this on your answering machine, even though I should have expected it, considering I don't think you've picked up in over a year…" he continued to ramble, until he stopped for a good ten seconds. "Last night Mark, your mother collapsed at Anne's recital." He paused. "She died Mark, it was a brain aneurysm, it wasn't anyone's fault…"
Both Mark and Roger listened in silences. Roger stopped pouring his cup of coffee. Mark stopped fiddling with the camera, but his face was blank.
"I had my secretary, Julie from the office, put some money in that old account from when you were in high school, I didn't know how else to get the money to you. You need to come home Mark. Rent a car, take a train, just don't run away from this Mark…" The machine cut off abruptly.
Mark's expression was blank until he broke into a laugh. He shook his head.
Roger set down the just filled cup of coffee. "You've got to be kidding, Mark." Quite a reaction from the guy who abandoned his family and never returned, at all.
"When I was 15 my father cheated on my mother with his secretary…Julie." Mark laughed again, even more hollow than before. Shaking his head again, he set his camera down and walked over to open the window.
"You've got to be kidding me. You plan on doing the same thing you always do. Bottle it up. Hell, you'll probably even make a film about it. But you'd never dare face the problem by actually going home." Roger instantly regretted lecturing Mark, he knew he sounded like a hypocrite, but he didn't have the same heart as Mark.
"From Roger, product of the white-picket fence family as can be seen," Mark replied sarcastically. He sat down near the open window his head in his hands. "I'm not going back there, I swore I never would." He stood up. "I swore I'd never go back there!" he shouted, anger and grief filled his voice.
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Mark lost the battle against himself. He gave up, submitted to his journey of shame. He was going back, but this was the only time. The last time.
He used the last of his paycheck from the last Buzzline segment he submitted to buy a train ticket into Westchester. He wasn't taking the money from his father.
He stared out the window as the train neared the stop in Scarsdale. He had his camera out, filming the blur out the window as the trees flew past. He dreaded getting off the train. It was just as sunny in Scarsdale as it was in New York. It shouldn't be. Take all the garbage, dirt, and concrete of New York and put it in an area the size of Scarsdale and it still wouldn't be as ugly Scarsdale. The obnoxiously large houses. The fake families. The blind eye towards teenage rebellion: the drinking, the drugs, the sex; just ignored as if they didn't exist. It was a dirty place covered up by material goods and fake smiles.
He filmed the train station as the train pulled away. He remembered his almost weekly visits to the station. He'd always wait on the same bench. Third one from the end of the platform, with "Amy loves Jacob" scrawled in the old gum covered wood. He'd write during the minutes waiting for the next train into New York. His dream city. He knew someday he'd want to live there, he didn't care how, he didn't care where, he just wanted to be in a place where lies weren't hidden, and where people wore dysfunction on their sleeves.
Whenever he made the dreaded trip back to Scarsdale, he always seemed to see that one kid, Jimmy. He was the infamous dealer for the Scarsdale High teens. He had an arrangement with a dealer in the city. He picked up a huge stash from him twice a week at cost. He'd sell the cocaine, pot, and ecstasy at six times the street value. He'd then split the profits with the dealer back in the city, often skimming a couple bucks off the top before making the split. Mark remembered the day Jimmy explained the whole deal to him on a rainy day on the train back from the city. Jimmy was sweating, eyes bloodshot, he was obviously high. So high he even let Mark film the whole thing. He never used it for blackmail though, it was just another example of the lies of Scarsdale.
The crank on his camera stopped, he lowered the lens, and began the short trek to his childhood home. It was only a few blocks from the train station. Maybe that was the reason he loved to runaway. It was so easy, so simple, the perfect solution.
He was a block away when it hit him. Why he'd returned in the first place. His mother. Her blonde hair and pale skin which he'd acquired. She was from Brooklyn, but a pure Irish girl. She grew up a Jew after her mother died when she was just a baby and her father married a Jewish woman, giving up the families former Protestant roots in favor of 'guaranteed' salvation. She was the one who introduced Mark to the city, and all it's glory. She claimed to hate Scarsdale, but she never failed to play that perfect Scarsdale Jewish housewife role. Instead of carting their kids to soccer games, they bobby-pinned their son's yarmulkes, organized Hebrew school carpools, raised their daughters to be JAPs (A/N: Jewish American Princess) just like them, and they never talked about sex, ever. She married the Jewish doctor, had two brown eyed boys, a brown eyed girl, and then Mark. As he learned in 9th grade biology, he was a victim of genetic probability.
Even though she played perfect in Scarsdale, she never hid her secret affection for chaos on the trips she took Mark on to the city. She never hid her imperfections there. She would tell Mark about her escapades from when she was younger. They'd have ice cream in Central Park, and go people watching in Times Square. She confided about how she often wished she never left. However, the trips were few and the times in Scarsdale overshadowed most of their golden moments.
Mark considered turning around and taking the train back to the city. Why grieve with his family for the sake of pleasing them. They never knew their mother the way he knew her. He kept walking though. Arriving in front of the gigantic brick house. The garden was full of bright flowers. His mother always loved flowers, however, she never dreamed of getting her hands dirty actually gardening, so the beautiful garden was always the product of hours of work by a hired gardener.
There were no cars in the driveway, no lights on. Mark walked up and sat on the steps. He felt like an intruder, he didn't belong here. He pulled a piece of paper and a broken pencil out of his bag to leave a note, but he put them back a few seconds later. Looking around he made a decision.
He got up and started to head back to the train station. He'd wasted enough of the day, whether it be the longest or not, remembering his mother in a place she never even really loved.