God Save a Poor Wretch Like Me (Roger/Joan CASUAL)

[ROGER DAVIS]

It never failed.

In the three years that she had been gone, it never failed to rain on April 1st. Not surprising, since April loved the rain. Even though she was dead in the ground, it always rained on her birthday. It had been a decent morning, Roger had forced himself out bed at Mark's urging after the Filmmaker had noticed Mimi had left and Roger hadn't been seen. It was a vast improvement from even a year ago, when Roger had been in Sante Fe on April's birthday. He hadn't gotten out of bed or even lifted his head from the pillow for the entire day, even after it had been soaked in tears.

Mark had urged him to go down to April's small gravestone. Maybe lay some flowers. Talk to her. Tell her about Mimi, about how she got off smack for good. Roger had protested, but in the end, after Roger had promised him that he wouldn't do anything, Mark had left and gone back upstairs.

Two hours later, Roger had pulled on a jacket and made his way outside. He stopped by the small flower shop, purchased a single daisy, and made his way to the cemetery.

The sky was threatening to open up as Roger came upon the headstone, and his eyes were threatening to spill over with tears as he looked at the small headstone that simply said:

APRIL ERICCSON

"Hey baby."

He sat down in front of the headstone, and was silent, laying the flower down in front of him. He ran his fingers across the petals. "Mimi says hi." he stated, and then scoffed slightly. "I'm lying. She doesn't--I don't talk about you with her."

He felt himself frown, looking down at the flower. "I miss you, baby. It's been three years, and..." Roger felt a lump rise in his throat, and he looked towards the sky. "It still hurts. After three years, I can still feel my heart like...being ripped out of my chest every time I think of you. I think of that day." Just then, a large crack of thunder sounded overhead, and he looked up sharply at the sky. A drop hit the top of his head, and he looked down at the headstone, with almost a sad smile. "One year. Just one year, I want one rain-free day." He sniffed in, feeling the tears mixed with rain fall down his cheeks.

"I love you, baby." he said honestly, and moved, pressing his lips against the headstone that was now wet with rain. "I'll come back when the rain stops. Maybe bring Maureen. I know she's gonna want to bring you flowers or something. Mark'll probably come. Film. He hasn't changed, but I'm sure you know that already."

The rain got heavier, and Roger knew if he didn't stop somewhere and wait it out, he'd get soaked and get sick and...well, that'd be the end of him. He noticed the small church next to the cemetary, and he jolted in to get out of the rain.

The Church wasn't exactly the first place he'd expected to be, but the rain was pouring, and he didn't need to get sick. That was the last thing he needed. Shaking the water off of his jacket and hair, he moved into the darkened church, eyes scanning over everything around him. It seemed like he had been here too many times, with all the deaths that had been happening lately from AIDS and drugs. Sue had died recently. Paul's friend Allen had died two weeks ago, and it seemed like the entire East Village was dropping like flies.

He almost felt like leaving just then, the swell of memories almost overtaking him, but he could hear the thunder from where he stood int he church, and he knew he had to sit it out. So he slid into a pew, bringing his knees to his chest. What was he supposed to do? Pray?

He wasn't sure God wanted to listen to an AIDS infected former heroin addict like him anymore. His feet shifted, bumping against the pew he sat on, and the sound seemed to echo loudly through the church. He saw a few people glance back at him sharply, and he frowned.

"Sorry."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan woke to the sound of thunder. Biting her lip to keep back a whimper, she huddled underneath her blanket, praying her cardboard box would keep her dry. Her stomach cramped with hunger and she licked her lips. How long had she been without food? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a decent meal. The last time she’d had food that wasn’t scrounged out of a dumpster or trash can.

Pushing her hands through her hair, she grimaced. Enough oil came away to supply the entire United States for a year. ‘What am I becoming?’ she thought. ‘My parents would—‘ She pushed the thought from her mind. No. She wouldn’t think of them now. She couldn’t. Her stomach growled again. Food. She needed food. Pushing up the flap on the box, she peered out, shading her eyes with her hand.

A gray angry sky stared back at her. Lightening flashed in the distance and thunder rumbled. Rain pelted the earth, creating a small river in the streets. ‘Perfect,’ Joan thought. How was she supposed to get any money in this? Anyone with any sense would be inside, warm and dry. Another thunderclap sounded and Joan clamped her hands over her ears. She hated thunderstorms. A chill gust of wind blew across the box and it rocked.

The rain began to fall harder and before Joan quite knew what was happening, the box was on its side, soaked through. She tumbled out into the street, rolling into a puddle. “by my staff!” The odd phrase sprang automatically from Joan’s lips. It had popped into her head several years ago, and she’d adopted it as a catchphrase. Scrambling to her feet, she took off her jacket and shook it. ‘Not like that’s gonna help. I’m soaked.’ She pulled the blanket, also drenched, out of the puddle and wrapped it around her shoulders. Nothing for it but to find somewhere dry, she decided. Bending against the wind, she started walking.

Joan kept her gaze on the ground as she walked. The fewer people who saw her, the better, as far as she was concerned. Wouldn’t want to get recognized. She shuddered as memories of the institution rose up like phantoms in her mind. Crossing herself, Joan began to pray, mumbling the words under her breath. Overhead, the storm still raged. The rain blinded her and she slowed, stumbling along. The wind stung her cheeks and the thunder echoed so that she could barely hear. “Please, God, help me.”

All at once she saw it, a dim blur against the sky. The church. Joan hurried forward, grunting when she ran into the wrought iron gates. She stumbled backwards and squinted up at the sign. Her lips moved as she struggled to read the letters. Cemetery. Oh well. It was a church wasn’t it? And it was dry. She opened the gates and went inside. Stumbling up the steps, she entered the church. Pausing in the doorway, Joan waited for her eyes to get used to the dim light. Candles were everywhere and the room smelled of smoke and incense. When she could see again, she stepped further inside. Spotting a niche in the wall, Joan hurried toward it. Dropping to her knees, she began to pray. The hours slipped away and still she knelt there, lost in her prayers.

Joan knelt in the corner of the church, pulling her threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders. She'd been here for hours, waiting. For her Voices. But they had not come. She'd said the Lord's Prayer. Counted the Rosary till her fingers were stiff. Nothing. Why had they not come? They always came. She lifted her gaze and stared at the ceiling. "Where are you?" she whispered, trying to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. "Why haven't you come to me?" Shivering, she pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders.

A sudden, horrible thought dawned on her. Perhaps she'd displeased the Lord and she would never hear her beloved Voices again. "What have I done?" Her voice cracked and the tears she'd been trying to keep inside flowed down her cheeks. "Please. Tell me what I have done to anger You and I will not do it again. Please! I cannot live without my Voices. I cannot!" Several people turned to stare at her and Joan glowered back until they looked away. Slinking closer to the wall, she pressed herself into the niche she'd found there. "I will do whatever You ask of me. Only tell me." She put her head in her hands and cried, her shoulders shaking.

The door slammed and she looked up, wiping her eyes to clear her vision. A scraggly man made his way into the church. He sat down and the pew creaked under his weight. Joan narrowed her eyes and tried to disappear into the wall. She was a hairsbreadth away from him and she hoped he hadn't seen her. Or heard her talking to her Voices. 'More like trying to talk to them,' she thought, glowering. Anger rose within her. What had she done that they should ignore her this way? She hadn’t disobeyed them in anything that they’d asked of her. Throwing back her head, she shouted, “why won’t you talk to me?” flinging her words at the ceiling.

[ROGER DAVIS]

Why won't you talk to me?!

The voice, strangled and horse and horribly, horribly pain-filled hit Roger's ear, making him jerk slightly in shock before whipping his head over to look towards the sound of the woman's nearly screaming voice. Tears had been slowly streaking down his cheeks, and he brought a hand up to wipe at his cheeks.

Okay, so maybe he didn't feel so bad. Either this woman was crazy, or she was alone just like he was. Sure, he wasn't really alone, but in the end...well, everyone died alone, didn't they? April certainly had and....well, would he?

He wasn't sure.

"Because God's not here."

It was the first words he had spoken since leaving the cemetary, and his fingers and lungs itched for a cigarette. Was it bad lighting up a cigarette in a church? Maybe. But God sure the hell hadn't given him a break the last few years, so why do something for him? He dug into his pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. HE took one out, lit it, and took a deep drag in, though he felt himself cough as the smoke burned in his lungs. He looked at the girl, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and he brought a hand up, wiping at his nose as he sniffed.

"God's gone from Alphabet City. Hell, even from New York, I'd say."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Ducking her head, she stared at the floor. She wasn't used to people talking directly to her and she suddenly wasn't sure what to say. "God is here," she insisted. "He is everywhere. But my Voices..." She stopped, clamping her mouth shut. Joan had made a promise to herself never to speak of her Counsel to anyone. She cursed herself for nearly breaking her own vow.

The man's cigarette smoke stung her nose and she sneezed, choking back a cough. The church was smoky enough. Why did he have to add to it? Lifting her gaze from the floor, she appraised him. His leather jacket was scruffy and he was as drenched as she. If he was as cynical as he sounded, why was he even in the church? “Why are you here, if you do not think God is here? Where do you suppose He is, if not in New York?”

She shuffled back against the wall, ducking her head again. Was he staring at her? Did he think she was crazy, like everyone else did? What if he asked her about her Voices? Or worse, what if he called the authorities. Joan fisted her hands to keep from clamping them over her ears. She swallowed to keep back a whimper. Maybe she should just leave now, before he could say anything. But her feet were bolted to the floor. Trying not to shiver, she waited for the questions she was sure would come.

[ROGER DAVIS]

God is here. He is everywhere. But my voices...

Roger tilted his head slightly as she mentioned voices. Wonderful. He had found himself in a church with a crazy chick who heard voices. He brought the cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag before he pulled it away and flicked the ashes to the dirty floor. "Those voices happen to say when the storm was gonna let up?" Roger asked, the smoke exiting his mouth as he spoke. "'Cause my girlfriend's gonna wonder where I am. Last thing her and I both need is for her to think I'm dead somewhere.."

Why are you here if you do not think God is here? Where do you suppose He is, if not in New York?

"It's a building and it's wet outside." Roger stated as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "I'm staying out of the rain 'cause I can't really afford to get sick right now. As shitty as my life is right now, I'd, you know, like to live. At least for my girlfriend for a few more years." That was the truth, as shitty as life was, he lived for Mimi and his friends. He didn't live for himself most of the time, but for other people. If other people were happy that he was around, it made the pain a little easier to bare.

"He's not here." Roger said after a moment. "I--I've been here way too many times to even count. Just in the last month, and it's disgusting. I shouldn't have to be here as often as I am for funerals for people that, you know, as far as I know were God-fearing people. God may be somewhere, baby, but it sure as hell isn't down here in the slums."

Sure, maybe he and April had taken the hand of the devil and ran wild through New York, but even if they had done all of that, even if they had been the most sinful of people, that still didn't mean they deserved death. Wasn't God all about forgiveness and shit?

"I mean, have you heard those guys that carry the signs in Times Square? We're all immoral and sinful creatures. According to them, God's not willing to kick it with the Bohemian crowd."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

God's not willing to kick it with the Bohemian crowd.

Joan shook her head. "No. You’re wrong. Jesus was always with poor people. He wanted to help them change their lives. To forgive them. Besides, everybody sins. Even the yuppies. Maybe especially the yuppies." She smiled up at him. "How do you know that God didn't bring you here? As you say it is just a building but there are other buildings." She stood slowly, leaning against the wall for support. Joan flinched as another clap of thunder shook the building. The lights flickered and she shrank back against the wall. She hated thunderstorms. Always had. And the dark. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and shuffled her feet. What was it he’d asked her? Something about her voices and the weather? "No, my voices do not tell me about the weather." She chuckled. "Though I wish they would. I hate the rain, and thunder and lightning and--"

Joan stopped abruptly. She'd done it again. Now he really would think she was crazy. She glanced up at him, fear now in her eyes. "Please don't tell anybody what I told you. I'm harmless, I swear." Yeah, way to reassure him with that statement she thought, scowling. She glanced toward the window. Still raining. She didn’t really want to leave yet anyway. Besides, the guy didn’t look like he was going to freak out and run away. Or call the police on her. Maybe if she just kept her mouth shut he’d forget about what she said. Maybe. Joan could hope anyway. And she was good at hiding. Blending in. No one would find her if she was careful. Her Voices had told her. And they never lied. Ever.

She looked away, chewing on her lip. She had to say something, she couldn't just stand there looking like an idiot. "I'm sorry you're sick. I can pray for you, if you want." The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. "Couldn't hurt, right?" She tried to smile. "And I'm sorry, that you've been here because of funerals. It's hard to lose people." Not that you'd know anything about that, a voice whispered, you never let people get that close. She shook her head. "Shut up," she growled under her breath. Why couldn't her Voices come, instead of the nagging thoughts that now flew through her head? Where were they? Why weren't they here? Perhaps when the man left...but he seemed nice and Joan found herself enjoying talking to him. She hadn't had a conversation with another person in so long...a smile flickered across her face at the thought. She was talking to someone. And he didn't think she was crazy.

[ROGER DAVIS]

"See," Roger wagged a finger at her, taking a drag of the cigarette. "You say that. But then everyone else says that Jesus hates people like me. People like my friends. All the, you know," Roger took a more preacher-sounding voice, "the sodomizers and degenerates of the earth." Roger shook his head, scoffing almost bitterly. "It's hard to believe in a guy who's got such fucked up people representing him. Like, for example," Roger curled his legs under him, turning in the pew to look at her. "I knew a girl. Sweetest girl on the planet. Got AIDS from a fuck-" he paused, and then continued, "Sorry, got AIDS from a real jerk. Sweet as pie little girl, probably only a little younger than I am. She died last week. But yet, there's people in the world that hate other people because of the colour of their skin, or the people they chose to love and spend their lives with. Like, full on hatred. Like, 'I wish death on you' sorta hatred. They get to live healthy, non-pain-filled lives. What gives?" Roger asked, looking at her. "Jesus wants to help? Smite the bastards who look treat us like shit just 'cause we decide to love someone that they don't agree with. Just because we make mistakes in our lives. Smite the people who say we deserve to lose every cell in our body to a virus. Then I may wave a Jesus flag."

Rant over, Roger felt himself arch an eyebrow as she spoke once again about her voices, and then nearly begged him to not tell anyone about what she had told him. He paused, and then brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a thoughtful drag. "You aren't gonna kill me, are you? Freak out on me? Your voices don't tell you to like...go murder people in the middle of the night or go blow up the Empire State Building, do they?" he asked, and at her response, he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Then why should I care if you hear people? As long as they're decent to you and not mean...well, it'd be nice to have some company."

However, when she spoke of her being sorry that he was sick, Roger felt his eyes close slightly. "Don't--" he started, and then pursed his lips. "Don't say you're sorry. I'm--" he felt a scoff escape his lips. "People say they're sorry when they don't know what else to say and they want to fill the silence with something. People say they're sorry but really thank god that it's not them. So...so just don't say you're sorry." When she spoke of praying for him, Roger scoffed slightly, widening his eyes for a brief moment in almost sick amusement as he brought the cigarette up to his lips to take a deep drag. "Praying doesn't help. It may make you feel better for a few minutes, but then you just realise that after that feeling goes away, you're still dying alot sooner than you should." It was alot like the drugs; they could help for a while, but sooner or later, you'd get conscious and realise that life hadn't changed.

She whispered under her breath for someone to shut up, and he arched his eyebrows slightly. "...you okay, baby?"

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan nodded. " Yeah, thanks. Just hungry." Her face grew hot. "My Voices are good. They wouldn't tell me to do anything bad." It was nice, Joan decided, being able to talk about her Counsel this way. "I'm sorry--um...its too bad your friend died." She shuffled her feet. Small talk was never her thing. "So...." She looked out the window again. The rain had stopped. "Wanna go...get some dinner? I have money." Not much, she thought, but enough to get food. And she wasn't ready to be by herself yet. She liked this guy, even if he wasn't religious. He has his views and she had hers.

Glancing up, Joan gave him another smile. He didn't mind her Voices! Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe she'd finally found a friend who wouldn't run away the minute he or she found out about the things Joan could hear.
"Joan."
She whipped her head up at her name. They were here. At last. "Yes?" she whispered, glancing at her new friend. Please don't leave, she thought. She dropped to her knees.
"Stick close to this one. He needs a friend."
Joan nodded. She couldn't agree more. He seemed so...lost. She looked up at him and smiled. "My Voices say hi." Her gaze flicked back to the light that hovered near the wall. They hadn't, exactly, but he didn't need to know that.
"But you must not forget your mission. And remember, child, we are here, with you always. Even if you cannot see us"
"That's not easy to remember, especially when I"m wet, freezing and hungry," Joan muttered, folding her arms.
"You must try."
She flinched at the irritation in their tone. "I will. I will do better, I promise. Only please don't leave me again. I-I can't bear it."
"We will come to you as often as we can, but that is all. It must be enough."
"Alright," she whispered. The light and the voices faded. Wiping the sudden tears from her eyes, she stood up again and turned back to Roger. "So. Dinner?"

[ROGER DAVIS]

My voices are good. They wouldn't tell me to do anything bad.

"Good to know." Roger said with a slight nod, but he paused, looking at her almost cautiously. "Um, but if like...on the off-chance they do turn out to tell you like...evil stuff, can you tell me? So I can...you know...leave?"

Wanna go...get some dinner? I have money?

So. The girl with voices had just asked him to dinner. Either he hadn't lost his gift in an instant, or the only girls (besides the very non-crazy Mimi) he attracted were the...well, not necessarily crazy, but...affected? Was that the word? Gifted. Different. "Um...sure." he wasn't as hungry as he could have been, but the tears had started to dry on his face and his stomach had stopped tightening and flip-flopping around.

Yes?

Her whisper made his brows narrow slightly, and he looked at her almost confused as she dropped to her knees. His mouth opened, almost so speak in confusion, until she spoke again, saying that the voices said hi.

"Oh." Roger said instantly, slowly glancing over to the spot on the wall where Joan was looking, though he saw nothing. "Um...Hi. Hi, Voice...people? I only assume people 'cause you said Voices. It's like...plural." he said unsure before giving something of a small wave. "Hi, I'm, um...Roger Davis--are they like, here or something?" he asked, looking around as if expecting to at least see something other than what had to have been a flicker of a candle on the wall. She continued to speak, and Roger instantly wondered what he had gotten himself into. Though, she didn't seem violent. At the moment, at least. So thankfully, that was good. He just had to hope that he didn't show up on the eleven o'clock news by going with her.

She pleaded to not be left alone, and Roger pursed his lips. "You are talking to them, right?" he asked, and then he watched as she wiped tears from her eyes and turned back to him. The beautiful ones were always the messed up ones. Even if the messed up part wasn't exactly bad.

"Um...dinner's cool, baby."

He knew two things about the situation he had found himself in; Mark would love to film this chick, and Roger continued to hope that he didn't end up on the news in the morning.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

"Great!" Joan grinned at him. "My name's Joan, by the way." She wrapped her blanket tighter around her shoulders and headed for the door. "I hear three Voices, Saint Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine. So, yes. They are plural. I can't always see them and it makes me sad. They are a great comfort to me." Reaching the door, she turned to make sure he was still behind her. "They would not tell me to hurt you, so you do not have to be afraid." She grinned again. "I am glad that you are coming to dinner with me. I haven’t had anyone to eat with in a very long time. My Voices are wonderful company but they do not eat. Of course." She giggled softly. “So, where do you want to go?”

She looked out the window while she waited for him to reply. The clouds had gone, leaving behind a bright blue sky. The sun was shining and the grass moved gently in the breeze. For a cemetery, it looked nice. If you could ignore the headstones dotting the landscape and the enormous wrought iron fence surrounding everything. Joan glanced over her shoulder to see if the guy was following her. She didn’t really know anything about him, not even his name. But her Voices had told her that he was alright, and that he needed her. So he must be safe. Her Counsel wouldn’t tell her to go with him if he wasn’t. Right? ‘Of course, right,’ Joan told herself. They’ve never lied to me before.’

She toyed with a thread on the blanket and tried not to eye the man’s jacket. She was freezing, but she couldn’t very well go into a restaurant with a ratty blanket around her shoulders. They’d throw her out. Of course, they might throw her out anyway. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath, and she knew she smelled. Even if she’d gotten used to it, she could see the looks on other people’s faces when she walked by. So far, the guy hadn’t seemed to notice, so maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe.

Of course, that same annoying voice said, you are in a church, surrounded by smoke and incense. Maybe he hasn’t smelled you yet. Joan gritted her teeth. This voice wasn’t like her Counsel, it came from inside her head. She knew it wasn’t real, but sometimes….sometimes it was hard to remind herself of that. Especially now, when she was having her first normal conversation with anyone in….she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a normal conversation. Joan shook her head. She just wouldn’t think about it and hopefully it would go away. Pushing open the door, she stepped out into the sunshine. “It always smells so good after a rainstorm, don’t you think?”

Watching the man come out of the church, Joan held out her hand. She hadn’t held hands with anyone in a long time. Most of the other homeless people avoided her, except for a small group of kids that she looked after. ‘Don’t really blame them,’ Joan thought, ‘Everyone else thinks I’m crazy. Why wouldn’t they?’ Except this guy. Mr. No-Name. He didn’t think she was nuts. He even seemed to like her Voices. Joan’s grin grew broader at the thought. She’d never met anyone who appreciated her Voices the way she did. Even the other street kids didn’t really understand, they just put up with her because she kept them safe and gave them food. But now, maybe, finally, she’d found a friend. Someone to appreciate her for who she was.

[ROGER DAVIS]

My name's Joan, by the way.

"Roger." Roger told her in a slight nod, watching as she pulled the dirty and torn blanket around her shoulders. He tilted his head only slightly and followed after him, listening to her speak of the Saints she supposedly heard. He wasn't very religious, so he didn't know if the Saints meant anything or not. He wondered if some doctor would have admonished him for agreeing with her when she spoke of her voices, or enabling her more when he agreed that they'd be a source of comfort, even if they weren't real. "I actually haven't eaten in a while." he told her, though he didn't want to tell her it had been because the AZT had been screwing with his stomach lately. When she asked where he wanted to go, Roger paused, thinking. "There's a place down the way by my place. The Life Cafe? We could go there. Maybe you can meet some of my friends, if they're there."

He exited the church, and was surprised to be met by bright blue sky. He looked at the sky, an almost sad smile crossing his lips before he glanced over at her, as if she had caught him actually smiling at the sky. He didn't smile normally today. He didn't even go out usually...but here he was. Walking with a girl he hardly knew in the middle of a cemetery.

He paused as he saw her finger the thread on her jacket. He was mostly dry underneath his leather jacket, and he pursed his lips before he shrugged it off, settling the jacket across her shoulders. "You look like you need to get warm." he told her before she could protest. "But I'll need it back. It's the only one I have."

He wanted to ask her where she lived. If she had a home. He wanted to ask her the last time she had taken a decent shower or bath or if she had eaten in the last week. But Roger had been in her shoes before; hungry, poor and looked down upon. He wondered if she'd realise that he wasn't looking down on her, but genuinely curious. She spoke of the rainstorm, and Roger nodded slightly, taking in a breath of fresh air, tinted with the smell of grass and dew. "My ex...she used to say that if she could, she would bottle the smell of fresh rain. None of that artificial crap that they say smells like fresh rain. But if she could bottle that...well, we wouldn't be poor right now." he said the words almost sadly towards the end, as if mentioning April was something that had been off-limits. He always had started talking about April in a happy tone, because she had made him happy, but the sentence always ended with a sad tone because he knew that she'd never come back.

He remembered what she had done.

He watched as Joan offered her hand, and he looked down, seeing a puddle. He took her hand and hopped over, laughing slightly as he nearly slipped into the puddle. He realised he was laughing, and he silenced it quickly, dropping her hand once more.

"She uh...she liked the rain. Alot." he said as somewhat of a sentence ender. He tried desperately to change the subject. "So, uh... do you live around here?"

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

"Thanks." She fingered the jacket. It was nice and she did[i/] feel warmer. Joan shook her head. "No. I live...." She paused, thinking. "Down that way." Her finger pointed down one of the many streets leading away from the cemetery. "I walked," she added, "to get out of the rain. " Strolling through the graveyard, she jumped over the puddles, giggling. The man...Roger, seemed so sad. Joan was determined to cheer him up. She wanted to make him laugh again. See him smile. He had a nice smile when it showed. Warm and inviting. Besides, her Voices had told her to help him, so she would.

She wanted to ask him about his ex, but the way he spoke....she knew she would only upset him. Humming under her breath, Joan led them from the cemetery. “What are your friends like?” she called over her shoulder, dodging the puddles that lined the sidewalk. “Will they mind me hanging around, since I don’t know them?” She chewed her nail. What if they found out about her Voices? Suppose they thought she was crazy? Turning, she narrowed her eyes at Roger. “You…you won’t tell them, about my Voices, will you? I, I’m not sure they’d understand.” And, she added silently, I don’t want to go back to the institution.

[ROGER DAVIS]

"You're welcome."

When she pointed down the street, Roger felt his lips purse slightly as he looked. She stated she had walked, and Roger nodded almost absentmindedly. He gave her a look over. She was pretty, though it was easily seen that she had lived on the streets. His nose was stuffed up still with snot from his tears, but he figured that she hadn't taken a bath. Roger had lived, for a time, on the streets, and had known people who had lived on the streets, and most of them didn't look as nice as she did. She could use a fresh change of clothes, maybe a shower, but that was it. "Um...look, maybe this is...like, out of line or whatever, but um..." He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Well, I squat in an building on 11th and Avenue B? Right on the corner. There's an area on the ground second floor; an old woman used to squat there but she died a few weeks ago. Her stuff's still there. You know...if you ever think that, you know...you wanna upgrade your digs."

Maybe that was too much, and he felt his eyes trail down to the ground as they walked, until she spoke, asking about his friends. The smile instantly spread on his face. "Um...my friends." he felt a slight laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head, lifting a hand to his hair to run his fingers through it. "My friends. Um...well, my best friend's a filmmaker. I mean, he was on Buzzline for a while as like, a reporter? I don't know, I only saw brief clips. He doesn't like to talk about it. He made a documentary on AIDS and the homeless a while back? Um...his ex is a performance artist. Maureen Johnson? Her girlfriend's a lawyer uptown. My other best friend, he's a teacher at NYU. Or was a teacher. I don't know what's up with that. Anyway, his girlfriend's a street performer, too." He lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "I have a very...diverse group of friends."

When she spoke of her voices, Roger arched an eyebrow as he looked over at her. "...I did say my friends are diverse, right? They're understanding. Almost like, insanely understanding."

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan snickered at his choice of words. Insanely understanding, huh? Well that was good--wasn't it? What if he was only pretending to be nice? Suppose he was lying about his friends? Maybe he didn't even have friends. Maybe it was all a trap. He was probably planning to lure her off somewhere and--she shook her head furiously. 'Stop it,' Joan told herself. Her Voices had told her he could be trusted and they wouldn't lie. As for his friends...well...maybe she was supposed to help them, too.

"OK, that sounds great. About meeting your friends. I'll think about the other." She wasn't ready to be next door to Roger yet. He seemed nice, but she couldn't be sure. And Joan wasn't taking any chances. "So, how far away is The Life Cafe?" she asked, for something to say. As they walked, Joan shed the jacket and handed it back to him. The sun was out and she was beginning to dry. Besides, if she had to split in a hurry she didn't want him to have a reason to come looking for her. "So..." Joan scuffed her toe in a crack in the sidewalk. She wasn't good at talking to people. Her Voices, yes. But they weren't really 'people,' in the strictest sense of the word.

She hadn’t had a real conversation since her Voices had come to her. His comment about his best friend’s documentary brought her back to the present. She did remember that. Joan had been standing out in front of a store, trying to count the money in her pocket, when she’d seen clips from the documentary on the television screen sitting inside the window. Though she was interested, she’d been too hungry to pay that much attention. If Roger really knew the person who’d shot the film, maybe he’d let her see it. If he and his friends weren’t a bunch of crazy serial killers, that is. Joan shook the thought from her brain. Sometimes, she wondered if people were right about her. Maybe she really was paranoid.

“No. You are only smart.”

Joan smiled to herself. It was her Voices. They spoke to her sometimes without the light. They were right, of course. She wasn’t paranoid. Only careful. She turned her gaze to Roger and grinned. Her Voices had told her to help him and she would. No matter what. She always did what her Voices told her to do. Always. Hesitantly, she reached for Roger’s hand again.

[ROGER DAVIS]

"Um, it's not far from the Cemetery here. Couple blocks." Roger told her, and then watched as she sheaded his jacket and handed it back to him. He took it and shrugged it on. He dug into the pockets and pulled out the pack of cigarettes, tapping one out of the pack and lighting it."...so."

He wondered if she'd ask about why he was in the cemetery. He didn't exactly look like the goth kids that hung around the cemetery just to look cool. He had been crying when he had been in the church. He wasn't sure he was willing to talk about it, but the girl had told him private things about herself. He just wasn't sure if she would want to hear something from him.

"Yeah, I mean, we'll probably see at least someone I know at the Life. We all usually like...hang out there. It's the only place, really, that we can get a cheap cup of coffee and cheap food. They usually allow us to, you know, do what we want, too. We could have gone to the Around the Clock diner, but the last time I went there...well, the last time we went there we got kicked out." He paused and shrugged. "I mean, we didn't really do anything. There were some stuffy people from uptown there. They didn't like us."

Sure, maybe they had been a little loud, and maybe they had been a little raunchy with Maureen's rendition of the Deli scene from When Harry met Sally, sure. Sure, they had been loud and shit, but they weren't hurting anyone.