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deathbyshinies, who wanted RENT, and Maureen, Joanne and Mark on the 2008 presidential election.
ficlet:: between the moon and new york city
by Raven
PG-13, gen, RENT, 1500 words. Mark gets out of jury service; things are changing.
"Yeah, so you've told me this part twelve times," Collins says, his voice disappearing into the cupboard. "You haven't gotten to the part where you went for jury service complaining it was going to take weeks and then came back two hours later."
"I was recused," Mark says, again, leaning against the counter. Collins is trying to fix the sink, with the winter sun spilling through the window and shining off his head. Suddenly Mark's starting to relax. "I was in the room, and then the usher came in and said, Mark Cohen? And I said, hey, that's me. And they said I had to go, the judge needed me recused, and I was getting my things and heading out, and she came running after me."
"The usher?" Collins sounds frustrated. "Mark, just check the waste disposal, would you?"
Mark does, and there's nothing in it. "Not the usher, the judge."
"The judge," Collins repeats. "We're talking about the federal court of the Southern District of New York? The judge knows you personally?"
"Joanne," Mark says, and grins.
"Oh," says Collins, as though from a great distance. "I forgot."
"Yeah." Mark's standing by the window, looking out, and still smiling to himself. The apartment overlooks a Greek deli on the one side and one of the grubbier parts of Columbia on the other side; it's convenient for Collins, who can roll out of bed and acquire the miraculous ability to teach a class somewhere in the five minutes between the apartment and the lecture theatre. This semester it's Intro to Heidegger and Radicalist Philosophies In Social Media Networking, and bitching about tenure. Mark doesn't need to work anywhere in particular, so he works here; in all these years, he's still not tired of New York. He's never going to be a millionaire here, but he gets by, which is more than all he ever wanted, and Collins pays the lion's share of the rent, so Mark gets by that little further while Collins has the room big enough to bring men home.
Luciano drifts into the kitchen, towelling his hair. "Mark, ¿cómo está?" he says, cheerfully, and kisses the part of Collins' head that isn't under the sink. "See you guys later," he adds a moment later, running out the door with briefcase in his hand. Collins waves a foot in lieu of any other visible body parts. "Take your pills!" comes the shout from the doorway, and he's gone.
Mark puts the towel back on the rack, still smiling; for some reason, he's in an obscenely good mood. It's a beautiful day, and he lives in New York City, and he doesn't have to do jury service.
"Anyway, so. Joanne gave me her card. She said, she and Maureen are watching the election all night tomorrow night, and we should come."
"Jesus, fuck!" There's a minor crash and Collins emerges, finally, rubbing his head. "That hurts. Why do kitchen counters have to be made of solid lead or whatever? No, Mark, I tell you what you're gonna do. You're going to call Joanne and tell her, thanks, we'd love to, but we insist she and Maureen join us here. I can hook up the spare monitor and we can watch it on the bigger screen."
"Sure," Mark says, but a little doubtfully.
"Look at it this way," Collins says, standing up and stretching his arms out. "Tomorrow night, God willing, a black man is going to be elected to President of the United States. You think we should watch that from suburbia?"
Mark laughs. "Yeah, point taken." After a moment, still leaning against the window, he adds, "Maureen? It's been a while since we last… I mean, she and Joanne, are they still…?"
"I don't know," Collins says, thoughtfully. He washes his hands, and stomps off to get dressed and take his pills, muttering something about Sein und Zeit, and Mark sits down at the table and pours himself some orange juice. He's still grinning, like an idiot, he thinks, but he can't seem to shake off the feeling of sudden, bubbling joy.
*
After half the evening has gone by – the counting in the eastern states is beginning in earnest – and they've got through two bottles of bad white wine and quite a lot of Collins' bourbon, Mark still isn't sure, so he figures the most tactful thing to do is just ask.
"Me and Maureen?" Joanne says, and giggles. She's drunk, which is a good look on her, Mark thinks; all her sharp wit emerges from under that depth of reserve. "You think I'd have put up with her this long without the compensation of really great sex?"
Mark splutters into his drink and Maureen squawks, "We're not exclusive, or anything!"
"Monogamous, honey," Joanne corrects. "The word is monogamous. My mother says this is why I'll never make it to the second circuit. Screw that, I say. How about you, Mark?"
Mark isn't seeing anyone, so he tells her that, and she grins and tells him in a sepulchral voice that Craiglist is the answer to all his problems. Mark doesn't think so, but it feels good for a moment, that his only problem these days is his lack of a girlfriend. Collins tells her about Luciano with a softness in his voice Mark hasn't heard in a while. On the TV Maine's numbers are coming in, and Mark smiles to himself as he gets up and goes through to the kitchen.
He takes his time pouring out fresh drinks. It's dark and freezing out there, but in his mind the room is still full of the morning's light, still suffused with that quiet, honest optimism. In the dimness he's suddenly aware of perfume and then Maureen's arms are around his neck. "Wonderful, wonderful Mark," she says, fondly, kisses the top of his head and runs back through. Mark laughs and follows her with the tray.
When the state of New York is called, they're laughing and hugging each other as though it were ever in doubt, and Mark sits up and says, wonderingly, "Hey, we did that."
"Single-handedly?" Joanne asks, mischievously.
"Yeah," Mark says. "Yeah, why the hell not."
At eleven pm, Eastern Standard Time, the polls close on the west coast. Mark's holding his camera loosely in one hand. There's no sound in the room except the TV, and the occasional clink of ice in a glass. From the street, the sound of cheering is rising above the traffic. When they call it, Joanne is curled up on the floor, arms around her knees, crying silently. Maureen slips an arm around her, and Joanne looks up and says, "Hey, I'm not... I mean, I'm happy."
"Hey," Collins says. "Me too."
Maureen grabs them both and pulls them to her, and says, sincerely, "Fuck, yeah."
Mark doesn't film this, because he'll remember.
*
The morning dawns cold and clear, and pieces of pink ribbon and glitter flutter along the street. Mark's clearing up while Collins deals with his hangover, and there's a note on the table thanking them both for their hospitality, notable for Joanne's neat signature and Maureen's lipstick. Mark wanders around thoughtfully, putting cushions straight and picking up bottles, and he's exhausted, but he's feeling it again: that bone-deep feeling, not of euphoria, but of contentment. This new morning, this sparkling, sleep-deprived mood – they'll pass, but what's beneath will stay.
Grabbing the last of the glasses from the kitchen table, he ducks automatically, then looks up. They mounted Roger's guitar on the wall, in the end. For a while Mimi had it, and then afterwards it came to them and, as Collin said, they weren't selling it, they weren't storing it, they weren't playing it, and they sure as hell weren't letting Roger's parents have it, so they mounted it and now it sits there up on the wall as a comforting bulk above their daily lives. Mark sees it and doesn't see it, most of the time – it's a part of his life, like the sun and the kitchen cabinets and New York City – and then sometimes he'll look up and see it as though for the first time, and remember the loft on Avenue A, and remember how it sounded. That hurts a little, but it's how it works, it's how life works and Mark is glad of the reminder.
He stands there for a moment, in the middle of the kitchen with a glass in each hand, and remembers.
"Morning," Collins says, from the doorway. "It wasn't a dream?"
Mark indicates, with a sweep of his hand, the pile of bottles. "Not unless you have some other explanation for the bourbon."
"There is no explanation for bourbon," Collins says, feelingly, and disappears, clutching his head.
Mark opens the window. "Collins," he calls, "do you realise we actually made a difference in the world yesterday?"
Collins is in the bathroom throwing up.
"Well," Mark tells Roger's guitar, "you ring in the change, you live through it, then you live with it."
And at least some of us did, he thinks, and it hurts a little less as he breathes in the breeze.
finis.
deathbyshinies, who wanted RENT, and Maureen, Joanne and Mark on the 2008 presidential election.ficlet:: between the moon and new york city
by Raven
PG-13, gen, RENT, 1500 words. Mark gets out of jury service; things are changing.
"Yeah, so you've told me this part twelve times," Collins says, his voice disappearing into the cupboard. "You haven't gotten to the part where you went for jury service complaining it was going to take weeks and then came back two hours later."
"I was recused," Mark says, again, leaning against the counter. Collins is trying to fix the sink, with the winter sun spilling through the window and shining off his head. Suddenly Mark's starting to relax. "I was in the room, and then the usher came in and said, Mark Cohen? And I said, hey, that's me. And they said I had to go, the judge needed me recused, and I was getting my things and heading out, and she came running after me."
"The usher?" Collins sounds frustrated. "Mark, just check the waste disposal, would you?"
Mark does, and there's nothing in it. "Not the usher, the judge."
"The judge," Collins repeats. "We're talking about the federal court of the Southern District of New York? The judge knows you personally?"
"Joanne," Mark says, and grins.
"Oh," says Collins, as though from a great distance. "I forgot."
"Yeah." Mark's standing by the window, looking out, and still smiling to himself. The apartment overlooks a Greek deli on the one side and one of the grubbier parts of Columbia on the other side; it's convenient for Collins, who can roll out of bed and acquire the miraculous ability to teach a class somewhere in the five minutes between the apartment and the lecture theatre. This semester it's Intro to Heidegger and Radicalist Philosophies In Social Media Networking, and bitching about tenure. Mark doesn't need to work anywhere in particular, so he works here; in all these years, he's still not tired of New York. He's never going to be a millionaire here, but he gets by, which is more than all he ever wanted, and Collins pays the lion's share of the rent, so Mark gets by that little further while Collins has the room big enough to bring men home.
Luciano drifts into the kitchen, towelling his hair. "Mark, ¿cómo está?" he says, cheerfully, and kisses the part of Collins' head that isn't under the sink. "See you guys later," he adds a moment later, running out the door with briefcase in his hand. Collins waves a foot in lieu of any other visible body parts. "Take your pills!" comes the shout from the doorway, and he's gone.
Mark puts the towel back on the rack, still smiling; for some reason, he's in an obscenely good mood. It's a beautiful day, and he lives in New York City, and he doesn't have to do jury service.
"Anyway, so. Joanne gave me her card. She said, she and Maureen are watching the election all night tomorrow night, and we should come."
"Jesus, fuck!" There's a minor crash and Collins emerges, finally, rubbing his head. "That hurts. Why do kitchen counters have to be made of solid lead or whatever? No, Mark, I tell you what you're gonna do. You're going to call Joanne and tell her, thanks, we'd love to, but we insist she and Maureen join us here. I can hook up the spare monitor and we can watch it on the bigger screen."
"Sure," Mark says, but a little doubtfully.
"Look at it this way," Collins says, standing up and stretching his arms out. "Tomorrow night, God willing, a black man is going to be elected to President of the United States. You think we should watch that from suburbia?"
Mark laughs. "Yeah, point taken." After a moment, still leaning against the window, he adds, "Maureen? It's been a while since we last… I mean, she and Joanne, are they still…?"
"I don't know," Collins says, thoughtfully. He washes his hands, and stomps off to get dressed and take his pills, muttering something about Sein und Zeit, and Mark sits down at the table and pours himself some orange juice. He's still grinning, like an idiot, he thinks, but he can't seem to shake off the feeling of sudden, bubbling joy.
After half the evening has gone by – the counting in the eastern states is beginning in earnest – and they've got through two bottles of bad white wine and quite a lot of Collins' bourbon, Mark still isn't sure, so he figures the most tactful thing to do is just ask.
"Me and Maureen?" Joanne says, and giggles. She's drunk, which is a good look on her, Mark thinks; all her sharp wit emerges from under that depth of reserve. "You think I'd have put up with her this long without the compensation of really great sex?"
Mark splutters into his drink and Maureen squawks, "We're not exclusive, or anything!"
"Monogamous, honey," Joanne corrects. "The word is monogamous. My mother says this is why I'll never make it to the second circuit. Screw that, I say. How about you, Mark?"
Mark isn't seeing anyone, so he tells her that, and she grins and tells him in a sepulchral voice that Craiglist is the answer to all his problems. Mark doesn't think so, but it feels good for a moment, that his only problem these days is his lack of a girlfriend. Collins tells her about Luciano with a softness in his voice Mark hasn't heard in a while. On the TV Maine's numbers are coming in, and Mark smiles to himself as he gets up and goes through to the kitchen.
He takes his time pouring out fresh drinks. It's dark and freezing out there, but in his mind the room is still full of the morning's light, still suffused with that quiet, honest optimism. In the dimness he's suddenly aware of perfume and then Maureen's arms are around his neck. "Wonderful, wonderful Mark," she says, fondly, kisses the top of his head and runs back through. Mark laughs and follows her with the tray.
When the state of New York is called, they're laughing and hugging each other as though it were ever in doubt, and Mark sits up and says, wonderingly, "Hey, we did that."
"Single-handedly?" Joanne asks, mischievously.
"Yeah," Mark says. "Yeah, why the hell not."
At eleven pm, Eastern Standard Time, the polls close on the west coast. Mark's holding his camera loosely in one hand. There's no sound in the room except the TV, and the occasional clink of ice in a glass. From the street, the sound of cheering is rising above the traffic. When they call it, Joanne is curled up on the floor, arms around her knees, crying silently. Maureen slips an arm around her, and Joanne looks up and says, "Hey, I'm not... I mean, I'm happy."
"Hey," Collins says. "Me too."
Maureen grabs them both and pulls them to her, and says, sincerely, "Fuck, yeah."
Mark doesn't film this, because he'll remember.
The morning dawns cold and clear, and pieces of pink ribbon and glitter flutter along the street. Mark's clearing up while Collins deals with his hangover, and there's a note on the table thanking them both for their hospitality, notable for Joanne's neat signature and Maureen's lipstick. Mark wanders around thoughtfully, putting cushions straight and picking up bottles, and he's exhausted, but he's feeling it again: that bone-deep feeling, not of euphoria, but of contentment. This new morning, this sparkling, sleep-deprived mood – they'll pass, but what's beneath will stay.
Grabbing the last of the glasses from the kitchen table, he ducks automatically, then looks up. They mounted Roger's guitar on the wall, in the end. For a while Mimi had it, and then afterwards it came to them and, as Collin said, they weren't selling it, they weren't storing it, they weren't playing it, and they sure as hell weren't letting Roger's parents have it, so they mounted it and now it sits there up on the wall as a comforting bulk above their daily lives. Mark sees it and doesn't see it, most of the time – it's a part of his life, like the sun and the kitchen cabinets and New York City – and then sometimes he'll look up and see it as though for the first time, and remember the loft on Avenue A, and remember how it sounded. That hurts a little, but it's how it works, it's how life works and Mark is glad of the reminder.
He stands there for a moment, in the middle of the kitchen with a glass in each hand, and remembers.
"Morning," Collins says, from the doorway. "It wasn't a dream?"
Mark indicates, with a sweep of his hand, the pile of bottles. "Not unless you have some other explanation for the bourbon."
"There is no explanation for bourbon," Collins says, feelingly, and disappears, clutching his head.
Mark opens the window. "Collins," he calls, "do you realise we actually made a difference in the world yesterday?"
Collins is in the bathroom throwing up.
"Well," Mark tells Roger's guitar, "you ring in the change, you live through it, then you live with it."
And at least some of us did, he thinks, and it hurts a little less as he breathes in the breeze.
finis.
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on 2010-07-08 05:13 pm (UTC)I love it so, so much. Thank you, lovey.
**clings and sniffles a little, just because**
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