Prologue
"Why did Mimi knock on Roger's door
and Collins choose that phone booth back where Angel set up his drums,
why did Maureen's equipment break down?"
Mimi Marquez needed matches. The power had gone out, on Christmas no less, and she had a candle, but there were no matches to be found.
Mimi also needed some friends. She'd lived in this building for three months and still hadn't met any of the other tenants.
Figuring she'd kill two birds with one stone, Mimi picked up the candle and headed into the hallway. "Would you light my candle?" wasn't exactly the best conversation starter, but it was all she had.
She stood in the middle of the hallway, a door on either side of her. Either one was bound to have a match. Mimi always hated making decisions.
"My mother said to pick the very best one and you are it," she chanted, ending with the door on the right. She knocked, and it was opened a few minutes later by a tired looking woman with fiery red hair.
The woman made pleasant conversation, but Mimi had to confess herself disappointed. She had been hoping to run into the guy in plaid pants had seen earlier that day.
Tom Collins knew he must have been homesick when he found himself enjoying the smell of New York as he walked its streets.
He was in an alarmingly good mood for having gotten kicked out of MIT. He'd get to see his roommates again, and Tom always loved to surprise people. He wished he could make a better entrance, but he didn't have they key into the loft anymore. A pay phone loomed in sight, so he grabbed the spare change out of his pocket, dropping a few extra coins at the feet of a street drummer as he passed.
Tom stopped just outside the booth as he smelled the stench of puke coming from inside. Sure, Mark could drop the key down from the balcony, but entrances be damned, Tom hated the smell of puke.
He walked down the street to the nearest phone booth, away from a shifty looking group of guys who seemed likely to beat him up for just the dollar in change he had stashed in his pocket.
Joanne Jefferson was not exactly sure why she had agreed to be Maureen's production manager. She couldn't remember, but she had a distinct feeling that a bottle of vodka had been involved in the decision.
The protest was only a few short hours away, and the damn equipment wasn't working. She didn't know how to fix it, didn't even know what it was supposed to do, exactly. She had called an electrician, but he was late, and now Maureen was going to call Mark.
And she'd be damned if she let Mark do her job. This was her job and her girlfriend. Not his.
She heard the door creak open, and the electrician lumbered toward the stage. Calling Mark will not be necessary. Thank God.