Welcome, Anthony Rapp! — Page 285

We write back and forth. For example, the person who plays Benny responded to me:

"Okay, talk to you later." The voice of a man could be heard faintly, blending in with the many others on the crowded walk. Shutting the phone he had been on, then shoving it back into his pocket, Benny kind of loitered on the walk next to a newspaper stand. "Benny, where are you, Benny?" Out of boredom and confusion, he began talking to himself in a quiet singsong tone. Dressed rather casually, he looked remarkably like any other man that you passed on the street, feeling no need to dress up unless he had a meeting or other important event. Looking around, he hated to admit it, but he was kind of lost. Whenever he came to the slums, he tended to get lost. No matter the fact that he used to live in an apartment there, he still had no sense of direction. Or maybe he was in denial and refused to accept the fact that he used to be one of them.

Idly pacing around, he dared to steal a glance at the magazines laid out on the near stand, wondering what the tabloids were digging their claws into this time. Before he could actually read a headline, the cell phone in his back pocket vibrated...he had never been able to find a ringtone that didn't annoy the hell out of him. He stopped on a dime and, glancing around, answered it, then was swept into a lengthy conversation with an investor. Instinctively, he wanted to hang up right when he answered and realized that it related to more work, but, well, seeing as there was nothing else to really do, Benny listened, adding an 'Mm'hm' in every so often. His eyes wandered the street, searching for any sign of familiarity and he spotted a corner that he had seen before.

"Excuse me, sorry. Could I slip pas- thank you." Weaving his way through a group of obvious street dwellers, he cringed slightly. Immediately catching himself, Benny realized that he was being unusually polite to the lot of the bums. "Move," he ordered, pushing past them. Hearing a few hoarse shouts along the lines of 'Hey, watch where you're going!' coming from a crowd near, Benny turned his head slightly to eye the source of the problem, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the voice on the other end of the phone, the man asking him if he was still there. "Uh, yeah, sorry, I'm listening."

His face seemed to hold an even more distasteful look, if that was even possible, as he arrived at a tattered apartment complex. Same graffiti, same roof, same windows. He was where he was supposed to be. Preparing for the oncoming situation, he hung up with the investor, then took a breath of easement as he climbed the steps. As the person a few steps ahead of him entered the building, he caught the door, slipping into the complex unnoticed.

Bang, bang. "Mark, Roger!" Benny's knocking came out as more of a ruthless banging with an obvious lack of politement than he meant for it to.

"Mark!" he called through the door, followed by a loud bang. "Roger!" he bellowed with another bang, this time with a small smile, knowing that it was annoying the hell out of them if they were even in there.

And then I responded back to him:

Roger stopped his tuning short, his hand twitching out an insufferable screech rather than a note as he was startled by the pounding at the door. With a muttered curse, Roger tossed his guitar pick to the floor and shot the door an accusatory glare. He waited.

“Mark, Roger!”

It was Benny.

“Sh!t!”

Benny was the last person Roger was in the mood to deal with.

Benjamin Coffin III used to be a close friend of Mark and Roger’s. That ended the day he married Alison Grey of the Westport Greys—the daughter of the man who owned their building. Now, Benny was Mark and Roger’s landlord. And not only that, but the promise he made them about not having to pay the rent? He broke it. Despite the fact that Roger and Mark had no jobs and absolutely no cash, Benny was going to force them to pay up. Damn yuppie scum. He was one of them, now, and forevermore considered an enemy.

“Mark!” Roger twitched, aggravated, at the sound of a second pounding on the door. “Roger!” Jesus, he was being annoying as hell. Couldn’t Benny see that no one was home? Or that maybe, just maybe, no one wanted to see his face? Roger stared at the door apprehensively, eyes narrowed. He gingerly set his guitar down on a low table and waited with bated breath.

Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe he’ll eventually give up and realize no one is home. Maybe…

THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

Roger let out a drawn-out sigh and pulled himself to his feet. He trudged to the door with a frown, speaking toward Benny in a tone just over a murmur, “I’m comin’, I’m comin’, stop being so damn loud…” Roger slid the heavy door open and leaned against the doorway as if forbidding Benny to pass. He crossed his arms.

“Benny. Hi,” Roger uttered lifelessly. “What do you want?’

*****

And so on and so forth. Good if you're into creative writing.

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