DISCLAIMER: you think i actually make money off of this? you’ve gotta be kidding me. Rent is Jon Larson’s, and i’m just borrowing pieces of Aida because i like in-jokes (i hope you rentheads get this). oh yeah, and roger’s song is mine all mine
AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the response to the Rentfic challenge to write a story about Maureen that involves the rest of the gang getting locked out [to be interpreted at will].
RATING: R for language and some sexual themes

South of Yesterday
by kaydee falls

-----------------------------------
If Roger didn’t stop playing that damn song, Maureen was going to break something.

It was driving her nuts.

Actually, she rather liked the melody, but she was trying to rehearse here, dammit! And to top it all off, the words that Roger was singing were muffled by the thin wall to the point that she couldn’t make them out clearly. Every now and then she would catch a phrase, but the rest were just these infuriating mumbling noises.

If she was at home, she wouldn’t be having this problem. She would be belting out Amneris’s “My Strongest Suit” like it was nobody’s business. But she had lost her keys again, and Joanne was at some meeting or another. So she had traipsed through the dirty snow to the loft to have a nice, quiet room in which to practice for her audition.

Only it wasn’t as quiet as she might have wished.

“I would rather wear a barrel than conservative apparel / For dress has always been my strongest suit!” Maureen sang to the mirror in the bathroom.

“Mumble mumble midlands of Today mumble mumble mumble innocence mumble mumble” Roger sang in the living room.

She sighed. It was no use. She would probably go crazy if she didn’t listen to Roger sing his new song coherently. Besides, it might take her mind off the twinge of guilt she felt over her upcoming audition. The broadway stage was an immoral place for a protester/performer to be. It represented the side of the tracks that she and her friends did not come from. It represented a bourgeois frivolity that the homeless and destitute could not partake in.

It represented money Maureen so badly needed.

But she would worry about her set of morals later. Now she was going to hear the lyrics of Roger’s song.

Maureen pushed open the door to the living room. Roger had temporarily shut up, adjusting the strings of the guitar and strumming random chords to see if it was tuned properly. They were alone in the loft: Mark was off filming in Washington Square Park, Mimi was at work, Collins might be anywhere in the country (although most likely still in the East Village somewhere), and Joanne was, of course, at her meeting. Maureen wondered briefly what sort of meeting her lover was at, then dismissed the thought and walked over to Roger. He looked up at her curiously.

“I thought you were practicing for your audition,” he said blandly.

“You were throwing me off. It’s all right, I don’t mind,” she added hastily, “I was actually sort of interested in your new song.”

“It’s not new, technically,” he told her. “I wrote it a while ago. I just found it scribbled on a sheet of paper a few hours ago, so I’m giving it another try. See if I can make any improvements, so maybe the band could use it.”

“Have you made any changes yet?”

“No, I was just running through it a few times, getting comfortable with it again. It’s been awhile.”

Maureen perched on the edge of the worn out couch. “Let’s hear it.”

Roger blushed a little. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not very good. Like I said, it needs touching up.”

“Come on, Roger, please,” she pleaded, putting on her best pout. “What I could hear through the door sounded decent.”

He ducked his head. “All right,” he muttered, “but I warned you.” He flexed his fingers, cleared his throat, and began.

Stuck in the midlands of Today
Finding it rather flat and dreary
With the occasional fire-red flower
Fragile as paper-thin porcelain
But it brightens up the dust

Wistfully peering over my shoulder
Back south of Yesterday
Where the earth was moist and rich
Sprouted silver trees with sparkling leaves
Swayed gently in the cool winds

Smiles were more plentiful
There south of Yesterday
Laughter was less forced
Tears flowed smoothly and swiftly
Not leaving the sour salty aftertaste

South of wonderful Yesterday
Friends were fewer but closer
Words danced from our lips
Warmed tongues and hands
That here and now burn so coldly

Simple joys are scattered to the winds
Here in the midlands of Today
Shards of innocence are strewn across the dust
Laughing at different jokes here
Humor is always so crude

Still trudging steadily forward
Can’t ever go back south
To the shining Yesterday in my mind’s eye
Looking behind just increases the distance
Of the irreversible path already traveled

Expecting to soon find myself
Past this dusty landscape
Moving north of Tomorrow
A little scared of what I’ll find there
And taking one last glance behind....

The last chords faded away. Roger looked up at her. “Well?” he demanded.

“I like it,” she said honestly. “It’s kind of depressing, but it definitely has potential. When did you write it?”

He laughed shortly. “When I had just started the rehab, after April--” He choked on his own words, stopped, and took a deep breath. “Depressing, you said it. And I was hazing out from the treatment, so it doesn’t make much sense. And it doesn’t rhyme, and it has no rhythm. It’s one heck of a lousy song.”

Maureen shook her head. “No, you just need to fine tune it a little. It’s melody is kind of odd, but interesting. It’s good.” She sat silently for a moment, turning over the lyrics in her head. ‘Back south of Yesterday...’ “What’s its title?” she asked suddenly.

Roger smiled wryly. “ ‘South of Yesterday,’ shockingly enough,” he said. “Couldn’t you guess?”

She shrugged distractedly.

“You know,” he said, “you’re a lot more subdued when you’re nervous about a performance...or an audition. Much more likable.”

She threw a cushion at him. It bounced off of his guitar, and the guitar strings twanged affrontedly. “Hey!” he yelped.

“Serves you right,” she sniffed, and ducked as he threw a crumpled wad of paper in her direction. She glanced at her watch. “Well, Joanne should be home by now,” she said. Let me just call her.”

“Go ahead,” Roger shrugged, retrieving the cushion and paper.

Maureen grabbed the phone and dialed, then waited for a response. The answering machine didn’t kick in after two rings, so Joanne was obviously there, but she didn’t pick up until after the eleventh ring. When she did, her voice sounded breathless. “Hello, Joanne Jefferson speaking,” she said,

“Hey pookie, it’s me,” Maureen said playfully, twining the phone cord around her fingers. “I lost my keys and the door was locked a few hours ago. I remembered you were at some meeting, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Joanne said, a little distantly. “I was.”

“Well, I’m coming home now. I’ll pick up some groceries on my way, okay?”

“Yeah, honeybear, that’s fine,” Joanne said, still sounding a little frosty. “See ya.”

The dial phone serenaded Maureen’s ears. She shook her head and hung up, then grabbed her jacket off the back of the couch.

“Something wrong between you two again?” Roger asked, glancing up from his guitar.

“A little, I guess,” Maureen said distractedly, fishing through her pockets for her wallet. “She’s still a little mad about--shit!” Her wallet contained exactly 23¢. She displayed its emptiness to Roger. “I said I’d pick up groceries, but I’m flat broke!” she lamented.

“At the moment, so am I,” Roger told her. “So stop at the ATM.”

She glared at him. “The Food Emporium got rid of it once they noticed Collins’s little alteration,” she reminded the musician.

He shook his head. “I know, I know, but you can still get some cash there. From your own account, sadly, but cash nonetheless.”

“I suppose,” she sighed, and headed out.

“Wait a second,” he stopped her, “I want to know what happened between you and Joanne.”

“Nothing really,” she shrugged. “I was just caught flirting with some chick at my protest two weeks ago, and she hasn’t quite forgiven me yet. I’m being extra nice to her, but it isn’t working. Anyway,” she finished, “I’ll see you later.” She walked out.

As she hurried down the street, trying to stay warm, her audition song popped back into her head, and she hummed it under her breath. Her conscience also returned, along with the wave of guilt at virtually abandoning her protests to hopefully play Amneris. She shrugged it off. ‘I need the money,’ she reminded herself. ‘I need a paycheck. I can’t depend on Joanne for everything.’

She got to the supermarket and quickly punched in her code at the ATM. She shuddered a little to see that her balance was less than $100 after she withdrew a $20. It only reinforced her need for some steady cash flow. Quickly, she grabbed a few items, paid, and jogged home. With night falling, the chilly air was turning positively biting.

At the apartment, she half-kicked the door open, balancing her bags. “Honey, I’m home,” she called out cheerily, giggling to herself. Joanne emerged from the bedroom, glared at her, and grabbed the groceries with a short “Hey.” Maureen sighed. So much for that trick. Shaking her head, she followed Joanne into the kitchen.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Maureen trudged through Washington Square Park, feeling mildly depressed. Roger’s song was stuck in her head again, and it was annoying the hell out of her. To add insult to offense, it was one of those disgusting February days, where everything was flat and gray, and it was bitterly cold outside. Plus, it had just started to drizzle. Maureen shivered as she strode past the wide, circular fountain, shoulders hunched. This was just a depressing place to be. The park was devoid of its usual NYU students and hot dog vendors, the fountain wasn’t running, there were construction scaffolds around part of the Arch, and the only person in sight was a junkie, leaning against a tree as he tried to shoot up inconspicuously.

She shook her head as she crossed University Place, heading east towards Broadway. ‘Stuck in the midlands of Today...’ reverberated in her skull. Ugh. Wasn’t that the truth!

As she got to her apartment building, she started fumbling in her purse for her keys. She had had a new set made only two days before. Joanne’s business was really picking up, apparently; she had meeting practically every other day now. Like this afternoon, for example. And Maureen was sick of crashing at her ex-boyfriend’s loft and calling home every hour until Joanne picked up. Besides, the people from “Aida” were supposed to be calling her sometime this week, and she didn’t want to miss that call. She needed the part, in spite of herself.

Finally reaching her apartment, Maureen stamped her feet to get some feeling back into them as she fumbled for her new keys. The door was locked, as usual. Why the hell did Joanne have so many meetings?

At last getting the key into the lock, she turned it happily and shoved on the door. It didn’t budge. Perplexed, she shoved it again. Something was still blocking it. She glanced up at the second lock, the one they never used. She had never even had a key for it before. Smiling grimly to herself, she thanked her lucky stars that she had thought to copy Joanne’s version of that one, too. This time, the door glided open quietly.

Dropping her purse on the kitchen counter, Maureen glanced over at the phone. The answering machine blinked at her that she had one message. She was about to play it when she heard a soft sound from the back of the apartment. What the hell? Cautiously, she walked to the bedroom door.

Laughing. It was laughing.

Maureen felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. It suddenly got very hard to breathe. Her brain started working overtime, trying to convince her that there was a perfectly logical explanation for this. Maybe she should just run, right then, leave and not come home until six or seven, pretend that nothing was wrong. But her hand moved, completely of its own volition, and gently pushed open the door.

It was Joanne laughing. Joanne, and the girl Maureen had flirted with at that stupid protest. And they were not fully clothed. Not even close.

Maureen gave a sharp cry and pulled the door shut with a slam. She half ran, half stumbled to the kitchen blindly, and groped for her purse. All those meetings in the past few weeks....

Joanne emerged, a bathrobe wrapped hastily around her. “Not a nice feeling, is it?” she commented coldly. Maureen stared at her, dazed. Joanne had never sounded this nasty. Not ever. Not even during their most bitter fights.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, trying to put strength behind it.

Joanne laughed harshly. “No, thank you, not anymore. We’re through.”

Maureen nodded dumbly. Of course they were breaking up. It was over. Joanne wasn’t just cheating, she was getting revenge for every time Maureen had flirted or slept with someone else. This hadn’t been an isolated fling; it was a steady relationship in which Maureen had been a third wheel. And shit, it hurt.

She wasn’t able to think properly. Her thoughts and emotions formed a raging torrent that she couldn’t swim through. ‘...Tongues and hands that here and now burn so coldly...’ Roger’s guitar hissed through the maelstrom of her mind. She put her hand to her ears and shook her head to clear it, then snatched her purse and stumbled to the front door.

She pulled it open and stepped into the hallway, when Joanne’s voice stopped her again. “Oh, and those Broadway people called you,” she taunted. “You didn’t get the part.”

Without hesitation, Maureen whirled around and slapped the taller woman across the face. Joanne didn’t even flinch, although an undercurrent of fear emerged behind her dark eyes. But with that, Maureen ran. She didn’t bother with the creaky old elevator, just thrust herself down the stairs and out to the street.

In the cold, she just started walking blindly. She didn’t know where she was going, and it didn’t matter. All her stuff was back at the apartment; she hardly noticed. All she knew was that she was alone, cold, tired, hungry, and had only six dollars in her wallet, and nothing in her bank account. She had neither love nor home nor job, and damned if she would move back in with Mark and Roger!

She found herself outside of the Life Cafe. Catching her reflection in the window, she realized that tears had made two hot tracks down her face, ruining her makeup. Maureen wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t even strictly crying; it was more like her eyes were floodgates that had been opened, and couldn’t be closed again. She looked terrible, and laughed at herself shortly, harshly. ‘There south of Yesterday / Laughter was less forced / Tears flowed smoothly and swiftly / Not leaving the sour salty aftertaste...’ ‘Stop it!’ she screamed silently. ‘I don’t want to listen to you!’

Peering more closely at the window, she saw Roger, Mimi, Collins, and Mark seated at a table inside. Unreasonable anger welled up inside of her. What were they doing there? Why hadn’t they invited her? ‘South of wonderful Yesterday / Friends were fewer but closer...’ She realized that Mark had one arm slung about a stranger, a pretty brown-haired girl with tight jeans who, as Maureen watched, giggled and nuzzled his cheek. He grinned back at her, then kissed her full on the lips. Maureen wanted to pound the glass window until it broke. ‘What is this, fuck my lover day?’ she demanded of the world in her head.

She must have done something, because Mimi glanced in her direction. Hastily, Maureen tried to turn away, but not quickly enough. In a moment, the Hispanic chica was outside.

“Maureen?” she asked tentatively. “God, you look awful. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Maureen whispered, backing off. “Just get away from me!” she screamed, eyes wild.

Mimi eyed the other woman cautiously. Something was very wrong with the actress. She had always been very passionate, to say the least, but this was different. Something had snapped. “Maureen,”she repeated, “calm down, it’s me, it’s Mimi. You know me, you helped save my life not so long ago, I’m your friend. Please, what’s the matter?”

Maureen laughed viciously. “Shards of innocence are strewn across the dust / Laughing at different jokes here / Humor is always so crude,” she sang tauntingly.

Mimi’s eyes widened in recognition of her boyfriend’s song. She reached for Maureen’s arm. “Won’t you tell me what happened?” she whispered.

Maureen just smiled harshly -- it was more of a grimace than a smile -- and hummed Roger’s song to herself. Abruptly, she whirled to face Mark, who had just come out of the Cafe with Roger, Collins, and the short brunette. Her expression changed dramatically, transforming itself to an almost deranged version of her trademark pout. “Marky,” she pleaded seductively, “can I just borrow the key to the loft, just for once?” Her face darkened. “There’s just something I gotta check on there, I promise I’ll never ask for it again.”

Mark was scared of the crazed light in his ex-lover’s eyes, and his brow creased worriedly. “Maureen, are you--” he started, voice full of concern, but she cut him off.

“Just give me the damn key, Mark!” He complied hastily, and she clenched her fist over it protectively. Changing gears, she blew a kiss at Collins. “Long time no see, Tom,” she cooed, with an nervous giggle. “Ta-ta!”

She turned and ran off down the street. “Maureen!” she heard Mark call after her, and a detached part of her knew that they would be following her from a short distance. The rest of her, the crazy part, didn’t care. Run, it instructed her, and she ran.

Simple joys are scattered to the winds / Here in the midlands of Today...

She scampered lightly up the rickety old staircase to the loft, unlocked the door, and leapt in. Then she slammed the door and locked it again.

What am I doing here?

She found herself back in the bathroom. Unconsciously, she dropped the key into the toilet, and flushed.

They’re coming, right behind you.

Glancing fearfully over her shoulder, she saw for herself that the loft was empty, and laughed aloud, hysterically.

Looking behind just increases the distance / Of the irreversible path already traveled...

Yes. Can’t go back.

She heard footsteps clattering up the stairs, and then someone rattled the doorknob. It was locked, of course. She could have told them that. But she had stopped caring.

Pounding. Someone was pounding on the door. “Maureen!” Whose voice? Mark’s. He sounded scared. Of her? For her? “Maureen, please!”

“I’m going to call Joanne,” a deeper voice murmured. Collins. “See if she knows what the hell is going on.”

If she closed here eyes, time would go backwards. She would be at home in this loft, with Mark and Roger and Collins and Benny and April. Or maybe Joanne. I want my pookie back!

Back south of Yesterday / Where the earth was moist and rich / Sprouted silver trees with sparkling leaves...

I know what to do now. I know where I’m going. Isn’t that nice? I think it’s nice. It’s wonderful to know something for sure.

With the occasional fire-red flower / Fragile as paper-thin porcelain / But it brightens up the dust...

“Maureen, chica, open the door!” Mimi. No. I’m happy now. Leave me be.

In the poorly lit hallway, Mark tried futilely to break open the door. “Come on, Roger,” he panted. “Help me.” Mimi and Mark’s brunette girlfriend, Phoebe, stood aside nervously. “All right, one, two, three, go!” Mark shouted, and the two men rammed the door. It didn’t budge.

“Whoa!” Collins called, running up the stairs two at a time. “Hold on a second!” He pulled a paper clip out of his pocket, straightened it, and then inserted into the lock. “Joanne dumped her,” he informed them tersely as he fiddled with the piece of metal. “Maureen walked in on her and another woman in bed, and flipped. Also, she didn’t get that part, and from what it sounds like, she has no cash stored, either. Nothing.”

“And too damn stubborn to ask anyone for help,” Roger murmured.

Phoebe slipped her hand into Mark’s. “You dated her?” she asked quietly.

Mark nodded wryly. “It was a while ago. She -- I couldn’t keep up with her. I hope she’s okay,” he added worriedly. “You don’t know Maureen -- she can really lose it sometimes, and this one’s a doozy. I don’t trust her with herself right now.”

Mimi caught the small woman’s contemplating expression. “It’s all right, girl, he’s not in love with that one anymore,” she said lightly.

“I know,” the newcomer shrugged, and smiled at her boyfriend. “I felt sort of sorry for her, actually. She looked so upset.”

“Well, with a little luck, we’ll just find her crying in a corner,” Collins said matter-of-factly, as the tumblers of the lock clicked into place and the door inched open. “If we’re not lucky, I’m ready to call an ambulance -- although for her or for us, I’m not sure.”

Quietly, they walked into the loft, footsteps echoing hollowly. “Maureen?” Mark called tentatively.

The men and Phoebe started checking the small loft, while Mimi efficiently cleaned up the little evidence of Maureen’s initial outburst.

It was Mark’s new girlfriend who found Maureen, in the bedroom with the blinds drawn. She was curled up on the bed, facing away from the door, asleep. ‘She probably needed to sleep, after all that,’ the girl thought to herself, then noticed the small plastic bottle on the little table next to the bed. Curious, she picked it up, reading the label. Sleeping pills.

Phoebe suddenly felt a little nervous, but she opened the lid and peered inside. It was empty, except for a crumpled slip of paper. She pulled it out, and read it, a little confused. Turning, she saw Roger standing behind her, and silently handed the paper to him. He glanced at it, and for an instant pain played across his face. He handed the slip back to her, turning away. “What is it?” she asked him quietly.

“The last verse of my song,” he told her shortly, then stepped back out of the bedroom. “Collins,” he called softly, “you may want to call that 911 now....”

She looked at the note again, at the looping scrawl across it. ‘Expecting to soon find myself / Past this dusty landscape / Moving north of Tomorrow / A little scared of what I’ll find there / And taking one last glance behind....’ She heard Mimi crying softly in the living room, as Mark pushed past her and reached out for his old friend. She caught his arm, and he faced her, eyes brimming with tears. “No,” Phoebe told him sadly, finally having understood. “Let her be.”

And she held him as he cried.
-------------------
wow, I really am morbid, aren’t I? I’ve gotta learn to write humor. Anyway, feedback is to HPTFalien@aol.com, as always, and I would really really appreciate it. Thank ye.