Through all these cities and all these towns
It's in my blood and it's all around
I love you now like I loved you then
This is the road and these are the hands
Tom Cochrane, "Life is a Highway"

The Volkswagen bus puttered off the next exit Roger could spot on the interstate. Within fifty miles, he found a roadside motel. It was more like a roach motel, a seedy dump. At the front desk, he was greeted by a palsied old man who resented the fact he was being pulled away from his TV dinner and a re-run of Cheers to check in a guest. He only pressed the key into Roger's hand after Roger paid his fifty dollars. The key was attached to a wooden keychain with the motel's name on one side and the number twenty-two carved into the other.

When Roger opened the door to the room, he nearly closed it back up again. It was a seedy dump, but it was a bed to sleep in nonetheless. Beggars couldn't be choosers, especially on a budget. The walls must have been white, but they were now faded to a dirty, dingy gray. The carpet was olive green…or brown, he wasn't quite sure. The black and white television was chained to the wall, perched upon the dresser, a thrift-store reject, which sat below a large, cracked mirror. Seven years bad luck, Roger thought with a smirk. But then again…it can't get any unluckier than this.

Using his duffel bag as a pillow, Roger slept in his clothes and on top of the gaudy orange, brown and beige comforter. He was pretty sure there were bloodstains on the ceiling. In the room next to him, he could hear muttered voices in foreign accents along with the clacking of dice. Twelve hours later, when he awoke, he showered and changed, grabbed breakfast at a Seven-Eleven, then drove another eleven hours.

When he stopped to rest once more in Illinois, he managed to find a perfectly clean and decent B&B just outside of Chicago. He befriended the owner of the family-run inn, an elderly African-American gentleman with no teeth named Awl, who played a mean steel guitar. Awl was eager to talk music with Roger, listening patiently as Roger practically told him his life story—about his mild success with the Well Hungarians and his drug abuse, all the way up to Mimi's death and his avoidance of New York City for the past seven years. Awl in turn told Roger about growing up in rural Illinois, pursuing his love of music (despite his mother's wishes), living through the Great Depression and ending up playing the Chicago blues alongside some of the best in the business: Muddy Waters, Robert Lockwood Jr., Little Walter.

A jam session ensued after dinner, much to the delight of the dozen other guests who were staying there, consisting of Awl, Roger, and Awl's great-grandson on the bongos. Roger departed the B&B late the following afternoon, but not without a care package from Awl's daughter-in-law, who insisted on feeding him. The food wound up in the cooler alongside the untouched bottle of Smirnoff Cal had given him, only to be eaten halfway through his journey.

In Pennsylvania, after another eleven hours of driving, Roger could not find a close enough hotel, and instead pulled the bus into the rear parking lot of a Wal-Mart and slept there, hoping he wouldn't be ticketed for loitering. It had happened before. He covered himself over with a Mexican smoking blanket and rested his head on a pillow he always kept handy. He fell asleep quickly, trying to ignore the chilly night air that was creeping in.

When he awoke in the morning, he discovered, thankfully, he wasn't ticketed as he slept. He freshened up and changed his clothes in the Wal-Mart bathroom, purchased a large cup of coffee and took it on the road with him, drinking it black.

At last, four hours later, Roger spotted the Welcome to New York sign. A thin coil in his chest pulled tight. When he finally dove into the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged in the city that never sleeps, he nearly wept.

He honestly was not prepared for the overwhelming joy and sadness and terror that swept through him as he drove towards his old stomping ground in the East Village. He wasn't completely sure why—he knew none of the old gang was around anymore. He just wanted to see it.

There it was. That damned old music factory that had been his home and prison for nearly a decade. He parked the Volkswagen at the curb, got out and stretched. He then leaned up against the bus and lit a cigarette, staring up at the building.

"Hey! Hey, you!" called a voice, heavily accented.

Roger turned in the direction of the voice, coming from the first fire escape. A short, rail-thin Latino man was shouting down at him. "You talkin' to me?"

"You try'na get a place here, man? You talk to Papi, he get you a place."

"No, man, I'm not here to—"

"Papi take care-a you, man. You talk to Papi."

"I'm not here for a place," Roger insisted. "I used to live here. Top floor."

"Top floor?" the man repeated. "That's the Litter Box up there, man. Papi loves having the Litter Box up there."

"Litter Box?" Roger repeated, his lips curled around his cigarette.

"Five or six of them living in there. Sex kittens. Hot pussy. Cathouse. Papi loves the Litter Box. I keep telling him to put a revolving door up there."

Roger couldn't help but laugh. His old loft was now a low-grade brothel. He wondered if Mark knew. He finished his cigarette and threw it on the sidewalk, grinding it out with the heel of his hiking boot. He went across the street and saw that the old payphone still stood and, surprisingly, was still connected. He fished quarters out of his pocket and slid them into the coin slot, then dialed Mark's number.

"Hi, you've reached Stephanie and Mark Cohen," said the perky female voice on the answering machine. Roger then realized he had never heard Stephanie's voice before. "We'd really like to talk to you, but we can't right now. So please leave your name and number and a message. We'll get back to you as soon as we can—promise!"

"Hey, Mark. It's Roger," he said into the phone. "I'm in town and—"

"Roger?!" Mark exclaimed, sounding breathless.

"You're still screening your calls, you loser?" Roger teased.

"No, no, I was—wait, loser? Never mind. I was in my production room doing some work. All the computers and equiptment I have in there, it makes it tough to hear the phone. So, what were you saying before I picked up?"

"I'm in town."

"Oh, you're here? Already? That's terrific! Where are you?"

"I'm in front of the old building, actually. I just got in a few hours ago."

"Well…do you want to meet somewhere? You, me and Collins? For lunch?"

"Sure. Where at?"

"There's a place on Sixth called the Moondance Diner. You can't miss it; the sign is huge."

Roger chuckled. "I'll manage." He paused. "I can't wait to see you, man."

"You, too," Mark replied. Roger could practically hear his friend's smile over the phone. "Half an hour?"

"Half an hour," Roger agreed. "Bye."

"Good-bye."

They hung up. Roger lit another cigarette and leaned against the phone booth, a close eye on his VW bus. He wondered what it would be like to see Mark and Collins after seven years. The coil in his chest pulled tighter in anticipation. Did they change? Would they notice that he had changed?

With the cigarette dangling from his lips, he climbed back into the VW bus, but not before the Latino man called down to him once more—"I'll tell Papi you was interested!"

"I'm not interested," Roger replied. "I'm just…passing though."