Categories > Theatre > Rent > The emotions of Mark Cohen
What possessed Mark to go to that particular club that particular night, he's never figured out. However, he was there. The band had, for New York, a rather small cover charge. Perhaps that was the real reason. Fucking budget. However, once Mark was in the club, he was pleasantly surprised. A young blonde man fronted the band, which played a rather upbeat style of rock. They were good, in a back-alley club way.
The rest of the patrons of the club seemed to share Mark's opinion, as the place was packed. It seemed to him that the band, and the frontman in particular already had a rather strong following. Mark scanned the crowd with his camera, capturing the fangirls' reactions. One girl in particular, seemed to have a special grin for the blonde guitarist. Mark would have bet a year's supply of film that she was the frontman's girlfriend. She had a strange innocence to her, a grin that could melt ice off of buildings. At the very least, she made for some amazing shots.
It wasn't long before the guitarist noticed Mark. Just as one set ended, the guitarist smirked at the cameraman, leaning into the mic. "Hey, would the geeky cameraman near the back come up here for a moment? If I'm going to be on TV tomorrow, I'd at least like to know what channel to watch for."
Facepalming, Mark trudged up front, calling out. "I'm a filmmaker, not a TV reporter. Not stupid enough for that." His off-hand comment got laughter from the assembled fans.
Leaning into the mic again, the guitarist smirked again. "Oh, so I see how it is. There's levels that even Hollywood won't stoop to." Laughter rippled through the room, and the lights changed, signaling a break in the music, for rest, and drinks. Jumping off the stage, the guitarist walked over to the bar, leaning against it. Mark went over, shiftily putting his camera in his bag. The guitarist spoke first. "So, are you going to tell me what you're doing filming my gig, or am I going to have to get you thrown out?"
Mark winced, clinging to the strap of his bag with one hand. "Er, sorry about that. I didn't mean anything by it. I just film shit sometimes. Practice shots, really. And, well, there's so many people here, and so much to show, and the lighting was really good back in that last set..."
"Yeah, I get your point, film geek. I'm just giving you a hard time, really. I don't care." He holds out a hand. "I'm Roger. Roger Davis."
"Mark Cohen, nice to meet you. And really, I do more screenplays than anything. I just like to film sometimes." Mark relaxed a bit, smiling at Roger. Something about the other man's manner was comforting. At the very least Mark wasn't flailing anymore.
The girl he'd been shooting earlier wandered over, and wrapped her arms around Roger, kissing him. When the kiss broke, Roger grinned. "April, this is Mark, an intrepid cameraman, oh, sorry, scriptwriter and sometimes cameraman. Mark, this is my girlfriend April."
"It's nice to meet you, Mark." She grinned sweetly. There was that smile again, the smile that Mark just wanted to keep filming.
"Nice to meet you as well, April." And with that, a friendship was begun. Roger told Mark to stop by after the gig, and the two men went out for a drink, quickly solidifying their friendship. It seemed only a short time until Roger phone Mark to tell him that April had slit her wrists, and that he had AIDS. Mark really wasn't sure what to do at first. However, after talking it through with people, he invited, no, told Roger to come live with everyone in the Loft.
After moving in, Roger just stayed. Literally. He barely went out, he didn't even touch his guitar, which simply collected dust in the corner. Mark worried about Roger. Deeply. Every chance he got, he begged his friend to go out, to actually do something out of the Loft, but each time it failed. Then, people started leaving. Benny to get married, Collins to Massachusetts. Mark dove even deeper into scriptwriting, because, well, -someone- had to be around. Roger, in his withdrawl, could be volitile at times. Mark worried deeply about him. Worried, perhaps unnecissarily, that he would come home after an afternoon of filming, or shopping, or something, and find Roger on the floor, having taken the same road as April. He quit his part-time job, living instead off of savings, Maureen's income from occasional plays, and the very rare check from his mother, half of which he was damn tempted to return. It helped Roger, though. Some days, he seemed almost cheery.
When Maureen moved out, everything just seemed to get worse. Mark stopped leaving himself, only going out when he absolutely had to. The crappy screenplays piled up, as Mark worried more, and lost inspiration. Eventually, December came, then Christmas. For no reason known to man, Roger picked the guitar up from the corner and started tuning it.
Now this was new. Blinking, Mark pulled out the camera. This -had- to be documented. And come to think of it, perhaps there -was- something to filming random things after all. First shot Roger, tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year.
The rest of the patrons of the club seemed to share Mark's opinion, as the place was packed. It seemed to him that the band, and the frontman in particular already had a rather strong following. Mark scanned the crowd with his camera, capturing the fangirls' reactions. One girl in particular, seemed to have a special grin for the blonde guitarist. Mark would have bet a year's supply of film that she was the frontman's girlfriend. She had a strange innocence to her, a grin that could melt ice off of buildings. At the very least, she made for some amazing shots.
It wasn't long before the guitarist noticed Mark. Just as one set ended, the guitarist smirked at the cameraman, leaning into the mic. "Hey, would the geeky cameraman near the back come up here for a moment? If I'm going to be on TV tomorrow, I'd at least like to know what channel to watch for."
Facepalming, Mark trudged up front, calling out. "I'm a filmmaker, not a TV reporter. Not stupid enough for that." His off-hand comment got laughter from the assembled fans.
Leaning into the mic again, the guitarist smirked again. "Oh, so I see how it is. There's levels that even Hollywood won't stoop to." Laughter rippled through the room, and the lights changed, signaling a break in the music, for rest, and drinks. Jumping off the stage, the guitarist walked over to the bar, leaning against it. Mark went over, shiftily putting his camera in his bag. The guitarist spoke first. "So, are you going to tell me what you're doing filming my gig, or am I going to have to get you thrown out?"
Mark winced, clinging to the strap of his bag with one hand. "Er, sorry about that. I didn't mean anything by it. I just film shit sometimes. Practice shots, really. And, well, there's so many people here, and so much to show, and the lighting was really good back in that last set..."
"Yeah, I get your point, film geek. I'm just giving you a hard time, really. I don't care." He holds out a hand. "I'm Roger. Roger Davis."
"Mark Cohen, nice to meet you. And really, I do more screenplays than anything. I just like to film sometimes." Mark relaxed a bit, smiling at Roger. Something about the other man's manner was comforting. At the very least Mark wasn't flailing anymore.
The girl he'd been shooting earlier wandered over, and wrapped her arms around Roger, kissing him. When the kiss broke, Roger grinned. "April, this is Mark, an intrepid cameraman, oh, sorry, scriptwriter and sometimes cameraman. Mark, this is my girlfriend April."
"It's nice to meet you, Mark." She grinned sweetly. There was that smile again, the smile that Mark just wanted to keep filming.
"Nice to meet you as well, April." And with that, a friendship was begun. Roger told Mark to stop by after the gig, and the two men went out for a drink, quickly solidifying their friendship. It seemed only a short time until Roger phone Mark to tell him that April had slit her wrists, and that he had AIDS. Mark really wasn't sure what to do at first. However, after talking it through with people, he invited, no, told Roger to come live with everyone in the Loft.
After moving in, Roger just stayed. Literally. He barely went out, he didn't even touch his guitar, which simply collected dust in the corner. Mark worried about Roger. Deeply. Every chance he got, he begged his friend to go out, to actually do something out of the Loft, but each time it failed. Then, people started leaving. Benny to get married, Collins to Massachusetts. Mark dove even deeper into scriptwriting, because, well, -someone- had to be around. Roger, in his withdrawl, could be volitile at times. Mark worried deeply about him. Worried, perhaps unnecissarily, that he would come home after an afternoon of filming, or shopping, or something, and find Roger on the floor, having taken the same road as April. He quit his part-time job, living instead off of savings, Maureen's income from occasional plays, and the very rare check from his mother, half of which he was damn tempted to return. It helped Roger, though. Some days, he seemed almost cheery.
When Maureen moved out, everything just seemed to get worse. Mark stopped leaving himself, only going out when he absolutely had to. The crappy screenplays piled up, as Mark worried more, and lost inspiration. Eventually, December came, then Christmas. For no reason known to man, Roger picked the guitar up from the corner and started tuning it.
Now this was new. Blinking, Mark pulled out the camera. This -had- to be documented. And come to think of it, perhaps there -was- something to filming random things after all. First shot Roger, tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year.
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