Mark's Point Chapter 2
Damn, he had to get out of here. Jesus, why did he say that? Roger had been his best friend since ever, since Mark couldn't remember. They'd gotten through a lot of shit together, and now Mark couldn't even muster some happiness because for once, Roger's life had been coming together. And it had been coming together.
Roger had gotten a song deal for "One Song Glory". His AIDS was getting better; not cured, never cured, but better. Manageable, some days. And then Mimi asked him to move in with her. The icing on the cake.
But Mark's year? He didn't even want to go there. Another year measured in heartbreak, in blind dates, in disappointment, and lonely cups of coffee. He'd biked a thousand miles getting a hundred miles of film, but he still couldn't get a TV deal. He'd been set up with a thousand girls by JoAnn, Maureen, Mimi, and even Roger, but he still couldn't find a girl who like him for all his quirks.
All that work and all that heart and where had he ended up? Sitting on the old busted sectional couch nursing his busted face with a bag of frozen peas on his face that he found in the back of the freezer.
Mark gingerly touched his nose. Shit, he thought. No wonder Roger had the cracked knuckles: he broke Mark's nose.
Well, it can't be too bad, Mark thought, walking over to the chipped mirror in the corner. But looking in the mirror, it wasn't that bad, it was worse.
His nose was broken with a big bump on the bridge, and a trickle of blood drooling out of one nostril. Under his left eye was some purple-black bruising in streaks, and a long red gash on his cheekbone. Mark pulled at his face for a moment, examining the gash, before realizing it was from the ring Roger wore.
It was a clatter ring with green crystals in the heart, with the setting claws sharp enough to get someone cut. The irony being that Mark gave it to him.
Damn. Did they even have a first aid kit around here? Mark decided to check the drawers next to the sometimes-functioning microwave. Nothing.
Ah, fuck. He looked like a MMA fighter after a bad round. At least it wasn't infected or something. Why the hell did Roger have to punch him? Oh right, Mimi.
Fucking Mimi and Roger, and fucking Maureen and JoAnn. God, it blows. Why couldn't he get a girl? Well, not just any girl, Mark thought. Someone who makes his palms sweat and makes him drop his camera and stutter. Who gets his jokes and will kiss him like the only guy in the world.
Oh shit. He sounded like such a romantic little ass. No wonder he couldn't find a girl. They'd go running in the other direction of they heard.
The phone rang, jarring Mark out of his thoughts. Not getting it, he thought. No way. Let the machine get it.
"SPEEEK," he and Roger said on the answering machine, making Mark want to throw it against the cement wall. Couldn't he get away from his problems for one minute? Count it as a birthday present, not like anyone remembered.
"Hello? Mark? It's the Wicked Witch of the West, your mother." Kill him now. Please.
"Happy Birthday from Scarsdale, sweetie!" his mom's chipper voice sing-songed. "I'm sure you're out with your friends celebrating-"
Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. "-So I don't want to clog your machine, what with all the other birthday messages you must be getting-"
Come on, just do it. Make this shitty ceiling cave in on his head. "-But your present is coming! Happy Birthday Sweetheart!"
The answering machine beeped and it was like he felt even shittier. If that was even possible.
All he wanted to do was film. His fingers started to twitch as he fought off the urge to jump on his bike and wheel through the city. It's what he always did when life got screwy.
He couldn't go. He was stronger than that. He wouldn't go out. He wouldn't go out. He wouldn't-
Mark's shoes were on, pea coat buttoned, and scarf tied in a second. He grabbed his camera and his bike and headed toward the door. When he turned, Mark thought to leave a note for Roger, but swore instead and locked the door behind him.
He didn't own a hat. Which, in February in New York City, would probably be a problem, but Mark loved the wind through his hart ha whipped through the New York streets, so he hunched over the handlebars of his bike trying to get a good shot of the grumpy businessman yelling into his phone.
Whatever. Too oppressive artsy, he thought, stopping the rolling camera and locking his bike to the light pole on 14th. God he needed a caffeine fix. And something warm, he thought, tucking his camera under his arm and blowing into his hands. Scratch the hat. He needed to get a pair of gloves. And coffee. Not necessarily in that order.
Mark spun around the corner, looking for a coffee shop. What happened to a coffee shop on every corner? This was New York for fuck's sake.
A neon coffee cup with the fluorescent spirals waving up came into Mark's vision, and he bolted for the door.
"Large cup of coffee Dan," he said when he reached the counter and recognized the lethargic man behind it.
"Get outta here Mark. Not unless you can pay," Dan growled, barely looking up from his clearly enthralling Norwegian novel.
"Dude, what is it? A buck-fifty?" Mark asked, pulling the bills from his pocket and slapping them on the counter. "Here. Keep the change."
Dan rolled his eyes but complied, ambling toward the coffee urn and filling a large cup. "Here you go. Now piss off."
"Back at you, dude," Mark shot back, scanning for an empty chair. He found a booth instead.
Its much better to feel lonely when you can't even fill a damn booth, he thought, grinning to himself and heading to the spied seat.
Unfortunately, this focus on the window booth narrowed his senses, which resulted in a head-on collision with another woman trying to merge into the aisle way.
"Oh my god, I am so so so sorry,' the woman rambled, stooping to pick up Mark's fallen coffee cup. "I swear to god I am not usually this uncoordinated. I swear!"
"I believe you," Mark grinned, taking the cup from her.
"Let me buy you another cup of coffee," the woman begged, dragging Mark back to the ordering counter. "Another of whatever he just got."
Dan gave Mark a suspicious look, but poured the coffee anyway.
"Thank you," Mark said, all the could muster up. People didn't often offer to buy him coffee. People never did, to be exact. He looked up and took a better look at her.
She was short and expertly dressed, just like the blouses and skirts JoAnn always wore to work. Her hair was a hybrid between brown and blond, with the balance slightly in favor of brown. It was done up in wide curls and straight bangs which framed her face and strangely green eyes which were hidden behind thick box-frame glasses.
"It's the least I can do after I knock your coffee out of your hand," she smiled. "Now come sit with me."
"No really, I couldn't-" Mark's face turned an appley red.
"No, sit. I insist," she cajoled him, and he took the seat.
"Thanks." Mark fidgeted in his seat.
"I'm Betsy, by the way."
"Mark." He put his camera on the table situated between them, tired of holding it under his arm.
"So you like film?" she asked, straining to start conversation.
Good, he thought. Something he could talk about and not freak right now.
"Yeah, a little. I like filming the everyday stuff, like people walking and cars on Broadway. And whenever Maureen had a show-" Damn. And he was trying not to get pissed. "-I usually film some of that. It tends to get interesting."
"Maureen Johnson? You mean the woman who performs in warehouses?"
"Yeah. Strange you know her."
"I saw some footage in the editing room when some guy filmed the police taking it down. The footage was great, even if the performance sucked. Lots of aerials. Artsy, but informative."
"What do you mean, you saw that footage? I only gave it to Buzzline," Mark commented.
"Oh, Buzzline sent us a copy. Wait, that was your footage?" Betsy asked.
"Yeah, Maureen's one of my good friends." Ex-girlfriend. But he wasn't going to say that.
"Oh my god. I loved that footage. See, I work as an editor for Channel 4's NBC News segments, so I see everything that comes through our doors. And yours was good."
"Thanks," Mark said, blushing. Betsy was pretty and cute, no doubt about it. And she thought he was good.
"What are you doing by yourself?"
"Oh, I was just getting some birthday footage. My friends forgot," Mark said, then clapped his hand over his mouth. He shouldn't have said that, he shouldn't have said that.
"Oh my god it's your birthday? And they forgot? That's so upsetting," Betsy empathized.
Then her pager beeped.
"Oops. That's the crew. They probably have some new footage to get through," she said, downing the rest of her coffee and sifting through her bag. "I have to go, but call me later so we can go out for dinner. No one should be alone on his birthday."
She handed Mark a napkin with a phone number on it and "Betsy Carlton" with a little heart next to it.
"You're really sweet, Mark," Betsy said, before kissing his cheek and exiting the coffee shop, heels clacking.
Mark looked at the napkin.
Even if his friends did forget his birthday, even if Roger had punched him and Maureen had been bitchy, he had gotten Betsy. Even if everyone forgot, he still got a perfect present. And because of it, he would be able to face his next year. Because really, that was the point, wasn't it?
(A/N): Hey guys. I feel really bad because of all the people who have alerted me and this story. I love you all individually. But really, this is the last chapter. So don't beg for more :) But PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review. It's so important to me, and I think that it is the equivalent of saying "I do believe in fairies". So please do. LB Out.