A week later, and Johnny found himself alone in his hotel room, his bandmates having gone off to visit relatives and kin. Johnny wanted to go home, he really did. The question was, would they let him back after he'd gone off and mace his way in the world. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure if they still lived in the same place, since he hadn't spoken to them since he left school.
Quietly, Johnny slipped into his warm army jacket his uncle had given him as a graduation present and walked across the dark room, out into the hallway, and made his way outside into the pale blue morning, the crisp air snagging the breath from his lungs. Calmly, he wandered down the street, looking for something warm for breakfast, preferably followed down by some coffee, hot chocolate, or maybe a spiced apple cider. Yes, a nice warm cup of hot apple cider. That should hit the spot. He thought to himself as he wrapped his coat around himself like a bat's wings.
Finally, after almost a quarter of an hour, he found a little mom-and-pop bakery run by a little old Italian lady where he bought himself a small loaf of ciabatta bread. Walking out with his loaf, he hobbled over to a Dunkin' Donuts for some hot cocoa. From there he ordered a taxi to Central Park, where he knew he wouldn't be hounded by fans. Not that he didn't love his fans, he just wanted to sit and think and be alone for now. He strolled through the area until he found a bench near a statue of a dog that had helped deliver some kind of medicine to Alaskan children in the twenties.
As he sat and ate and drank, he noticed a pigeon, lying on its side, unmoving. Poor little guy, Johnny thought, He probably almost made it through the night. It was then that he heard a soft cooing on the ground before him, a hungry, obviously ill-fed pigeon staring up at him, its gaze switching alternately from him to his bread. "Is that your mate?" Johnny asked, gesturing to the deceased. "Probably was. Anyway, here's something for your troubles." As Johnny absent-mindedly tore piece after piece of bread and tossed it towards his companion, he thought ot the dead pigeon and his own uncle. What if he died and his uncle didn't know it? What if something had happened to his uncle? He had to reestablish connection. When he had finished his paltry meal, he found a pay phone, dropped in a coin, and dialed. Please let this be the right number, he thought to himself.
"Hello?" Johnny breathed a sigh of relief when a familiar voice came over the phone.
"Uncle Eric? It's me, Johnny."