1 Roger Davis threw down his guitar pick in frustration. The song he had just spent forty-five minutes composing sounded as horrible now as it did the first time he played it. Chords that sounded perfect a half hour ago now had an effect on him similar to the feeling he got when nails are scraped on a chalkboard. Roger buried his face in his hands and voiced his annoyance in a shout that sounded like an angry cat. Feeling somewhat better, he got to his knees and began a search for the pick he had tossed away. While he was crawling around on the floor hunting for his pick, he though he heard something outside. He paused for a moment to listen, but when only silence greeted his ears, he continued looking. Suddenly spotting an object reflecting the moonlight near the window, like a certain small piece of plastic might, he made his way towards the ledge he enjoyed sitting on. Seizing the pick, he noticed someone dancing happily outside on the street. Weirdo, he thought as he stood up and brushed the dust off of his clothes. Grabbing his guitar, he started tinkering with different chords again, trying to find a few that sounded good together.
What Roger didn't notice that the sound he had heard outside was back, and this time was much louder. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with his music, as he so often was, he may've noticed the noise was in fact a song. The singer was the girl he had spotted dancing through the street. She lived in the apartment directly below the one Roger shared with his best friend, Mark Cohen.
While Roger played his music, the girl stood on her balcony and sang to the sidewalks of Avenue A below her. Anybody who heard her voice, for it carried throughout the streets, would stop for a moment and listen to the music. Her singing was praised by all her heard it, and everybody knew her name. Everybody, that is, except Roger Davis. But that will change.
