Go to exactly the right part of New York City, and talk to someone of a certain age who has lived there all of his life. Then, and only then, you might hear the term "verto". You might hear something like "that restaurant is pretty verto" or "there's a bunch of verto shops there". It means low-budget or somewhat shabby, but still kind of pleasant. You might be a bit embarrassed that your favorite restaurant is verto, for instance, but it wouldn't stop you going there - in fact, it would be part of its charm. But even the few people who use the term probably don't know where it comes from. It's a corruption of what that section of town used to be called: Vermintown.

Decades ago, one kind soul did his part to try to help the rodent population of New York City. He hired a fairly big group of them to clean the subway cars at one of the terminals. As time went on, those rodents were joined by rodent mechanics, electricians, painters and office workers - all working at that one terminal. Many of those city employees found housing fairly close by, which is how the area around that terminal came to be dubbed "Vermintown". In 1965, the term was already on the way out, but I knew that that was where most of the rodents in New York lived. So I ended my cross-country hitchhike by having the final car drop me off there.

I checked in to a modestly-priced hotel which technically was on the outskirts of Vermintown. In other words, the rooms were a bit nicer but they still would rent a room to a chipmunk. With that as my home base, I started exploring the city. I didn't go to the Empire State Building or Statue of Liberty - I wasn't looking to do anything tourist-like. I was just trying to get an overall feel. What was this city like? Would I like it here? Could I make a living as a musician here?

It felt a bit surreal those first few days, wandering around a city where I didn't know anybody or anything. I felt a bit like one of the alien visitors in those science fiction stories I read all the time. I did try to find a new ice cream parlor to eat lunch at every day, so I guess the "ice cream fiend" part of my personality had followed me into this new city. I managed to find a few great shops, although in my mind, nothing would ever top Henderson's. And even though I was sorely tempted a few times, I managed to resist the urge to call or visit Simon.

I had an extra obstacle when it came to getting into the music scene. Folk music was sort of exploding in New York at the time, and while I thought folk music was fine, it was a genre that didn't really have much use for a drummer. So I'd walk into a little place, see a guy playing acoustic guitar by himself, leave, walk into another place, see another guy playing acoustic guitar by himself, and so on for much of the night. It was like living in a town of a thousand would-be Bob Dylans.

Eventually, though, I found a few jazz clubs, and a couple of night spots with rock and roll bands playing. I tried staying around after the sets, and working up the courage to introduce myself. Sometimes I managed it, and sometimes I didn't, so maybe I hadn't taken enough karate lessons. Anyway, the times I did, I explained that I was thinking about moving to New York, but only if I could find some sort of regular drumming work. Most folks were pretty nice to me, which was a relief. It appeared that just being a fellow musician helped ease over some of the initial awkwardness. But nobody said they knew of any openings.

Finally, I found one rock group that knew of another that was looking for a drummer. They gave me the lead singer's name and phone number, and I called him the next day. He seemed a bit hesitant, but he finally agreed to give me a try, and asked if I could come in for an audition in about five days time.

"Um, I don't actually have my drum set here. I could have it shipped to me in the next week or two."

The guy sighed. "Look, do you want this gig or not?"

I set my jaw. "OK, OK. I'll get a set and meet you then." Well, apparently I was going to go drum shopping.

I don't remember the name of the first shop I went to, but it was a huge music shop for the time. I browsed the shop for a bit with my front paws clasped behind me - old habits die hard - before a clerk approached me. As soon as I saw the look he gave me, I knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant transaction. You just start sensing these things after a while.

"Can I...help you?" he said, in a voice that suggested he'd rather do anything but.

I grinned back, because sometimes I managed to win people over with politeness. "Yes, please. I am interested in a drum set."

He sort of rolled his eyes and had me follow him to the counter. After digging around under the counter for a bit, he pulled out a small set of bongos, which he then handed to me. I looked them over briefly and, still trying to be polite, said, "Well, these are nice and all, but I was interested in a full drum kit."

He looked me over and said "Don't you think you might be a bit small to play the drums?"

I grinned again and said, "Well, I'd like to try, anyway."

He rolled his eyes again, then walked back out from behind the counter. He led me to the drum set-ups and said, "We might have a children's set that might be small enough for you." But I had already stopped in front of a full-sized set.

"Excuse me," I asked loudly. "Could I try these, please?"

The guy turned and looked, then sort of tossed up his hands in a "whatever" sort of motion. I pulled a couple of cheap drumsticks out from a display, then lowered the throne so my feet could reach the pedals. I tested the bass drum pedal once, then the high hat once. Finally, I looked at the sales guy and said, "OK. Let's see how these sound."

I slammed into the "Walk Don't Run" intro, went into that beat for four measures, then jumped into the "Wipe Out" solo. I came out of that, played the "Wipe Out" beat for a bit, then ended with a closing freak-out like at the end of "Topsy". It had been over a month since I had gotten to play the drums, and damn, it felt good to be playing again!

As the closing cymbal crash faded out, I sat in silence for a moment as everybody in the store stared at me. Then I handed the drumsticks to the clerk, shook my head and said "Nice action, but I don't know if I like the overall feel of this set. Thanks anyway." And I stood up and walked out of the shop.

I hadn't gotten far down the block when I heard a voice. "Hey, chipmunk!" I looked back, and a short guy wearing glasses was hurrying to catch up to me. Once he had, he said, "That was some great drumming in there." I thanked him, and he went on to introduce himself as Walter. He played guitar in a group that was looking to switch gears a bit and get a more rock and roll sound, but they hadn't found a good drummer. Would I be interested? Heck, yeah, I was interested. But I was honest. I told him I didn't have a set here in town, and I was shopping for one so I could go to an audition for another group in a few days.

"You want to go buy that set?" Walter said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Not from that guy," I said, making a face.

"Oh. Well, there's another shop down the way here. They've got a few drum sets." That sounded like a good plan, so we walked down to the shop together. Along the way, Walter and I discussed the bands we'd played for. I decided against mentioning the Chipmunks at all. I just said that I'd played in an instrumental rock trio with my brothers for the last several years.

We walked into the other shop, and I took maybe five steps in before I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a brand new Ludwig drum kit - green, no less. I ran my paw over the bass drum, then brought down the throne, grabbed a couple of sticks, sat down, and started playing. And two measures in, I knew I had found my new set.

I finished my little solo, and Walter just stared at me. "You're it, little guy."

"I'm what?"

"That look on your face when you play." He gestures above his head. "It's like you go somewhere else. The music takes you." He grinned. "You're just the drummer our band has been looking for."

I bought the set and arranged to have it shipped to the audition spot. Since I had now committed to joining at least one band, I figured I was going to need a more permanent address than a cheap hotel. I spent the remainder of the next two days checking out apartments, eventually choosing Apartment 1 on the ground floor of a fairly large building in the heart of Verto. I called Scooter and gave him a list of things I wanted him to pack up and deliver to me. I felt pretty sad talking to him, as it was clear that I was no longer going to be sparring with him every Saturday. "That's OK, kid," he told me. "You got your life to live. Go live it."

While I was moving my meager possessions into my new apartment, my next-door neighbor came over to introduce himself. He was a beaver who went by the nickname Rusty, and he worked as a head maintenance guy for the subways. Rusty was a bit strange. He had this slow and deliberate way of talking, like he was giving everything he said a lot of thought, even if it was something fairly obvious. If you told Rusty, "it's pretty hot today", he'd pause for a second before slowly nodding his head and saying "yep, sure feels that way, neighbor". He always called me "neighbor", too. I often wondered if he did that because he couldn't remember my name.

My audition for that first band didn't go all that well. My drums were piled up in the corner when I arrived, so I set them up as the band members chatted among themselves. Once I was ready, I expected to be introduced to everybody in the group. Instead, the guy just looked at me and said, "'Like a Rolling Stone'". I had never played that song before, but the song was huge at the time, and I knew it pretty well. I nodded, tapped out three counts, hit the downbeat, and away we went.

Once we finished, the lead guy sort of cocked his head and looked back at me. "You put a lot of fills in."

That confused me. "Um, just the ones that are on the record."

"No, I'm pretty sure those aren't on there. It's Dylan. He wouldn't clutter up his song like that." He pointed to another guy who had been sitting on a couch staring. "Ok, your turn." The guy got up, walked over to me, and held out his hand.

"What's this?" I asked.

"He's auditioning, too."

"...on my drum set?"

"Come on. It wouldn't make any sense to make him drag a drum set down here when yours was already here."

I looked at him, looked at the new guy, then handed him the drumsticks and got off the stool. He readjusted the throne, then counted off the beat for a second run-through of "Rolling Stone".

I tried my damnedest to remain objective. He's a drummer, too, I thought. He's bringing his own feel to the song. But I honestly thought he just wasn't playing it as well as I had. Presumably taking a cue from what was said to me, he hardly put in any fills - just a steady and restrained beat from start to finish.

When he finished, the lead guy smiled. "See? That's what we're looking for. Great timekeeping. Nothing showy. You're hired. Our first gig is next Wednesday..."

I stood up, and loudly said, "Well, I guess I'm done here. Congratulations." I tried to smile at the band's new drummer, then turned back to the lead guy. "I'll have the drums picked up tomorrow."

"Well, no hurry, man. If you want to leave them here for a while..."

"...yeah, is it okay if I rehearse on them?" asked other drummer.

I stared at him, then back at the lead guy. "Tomorrow," I repeated. "I'll have them picked up tomorrow."

As I walked out, I heard him say, "Geez, what a grouchy rat..."

I went back to my apartment, switched on the radio...and immediately heard "Like a Rolling Stone". Complete with drum fills. I started unpacking some boxes, muttering to myself.

I had the drum set sent to Walter's band's practice room. There wasn't much use in me keeping it at home, as I'd have to keep dragging it to practice in addition to gigs. This band included three other guys - Dan on guitar and vocals, Barry on bass and Miguel who played Farfisa organ. They had originally been calling themselves The Gears, but after losing their drummer, they decided to try rocking a bit harder - and they decided to mark the change by changing their name to The Second Gears. Before we got started, I got the feeling that both Dan and Miguel were rather unsure about me. But after the band finished working our way through "I Feel Fine" and "I'm Telling You Now", Miguel gave me a grin. Dan, on the other hand, was still frowning.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't think he's loud enough."

Walter bugged his eyes out from behind his glasses. "Are you kidding? He's as loud as any other drummer." Barry nodded, and even Miguel seemed to agree.

Dan started fiddling with his guitar a bit. "It's just...you know, a vermin drummer? Come on."

I had purchased a drum kit, and finalized a move to New York, based on Walter saying I'd be perfect for this group. And now the lead guy was giving me the "I don't want to play with rodents" routine. I slammed my sticks down on my snare, got off my stool, and walked over to Dan. "First off, you have a problem with me, you talk to me. Don't talk about me like I'm not sitting behind you staring at the back of your head. And second, I'm a damn good drummer. You want me to play louder? I got plenty in reserve. You want me to speed up, slow down, switch to bossa nova or take a three-minute solo? I'm ready." I poked a thumb into my chest. "Try me."

Dan stared at me, then glanced around at the others before looking at me once again. Slowly, a smile crept over his face. "All right. Let's see what you got." He indicated my drums with his chin, so I walked back to my throne, sat down, and picked up my sticks. Dan smirked and asked, "Can you do 'Wipeout'?"

I rolled my eyes. "I was in an instrumental rock trio for the last three years. You think we never played 'Wipeout'?"

Dan ran his hand across his fretboard. "Prove it."

I spun the drumstick in my right hand and pointed it at Dan. "Try to keep up." I launched into the opening drum solo, and everybody else fell in. The band wasn't bad, although it was pretty clear this wasn't one of their regular songs. Still, they soldiered through it, and I kept powering on. We hit the part of the song where it fades out on the record, and one by one, the other guys stopped playing. I kept going until Dan finally stopped, and he gave me a bit of a smile. I finished with a round of cymbal crashes, then once more pointed my sticks at Dan.

"And don't call me 'vermin'," I added. "It's rude." I grinned, and everybody laughed. Including Dan. I may have lost out on the first band, but I managed to win over the second.

The Second Gears had their first show about a month later, and I decided that it was probably time to let Simon know I had moved to New York. I picked up the phone and started dialing his number, but then hung up. I remembered how how unenthusiastic he was when I first mentioned moving to New York. Maybe he wouldn't want to see me? If so, I wasn't sure I'd want to hear that. So I gave it some more thought, and came up with a different plan.

"I returned from my morning classes to find a note affixed to my door," recalls Simon. "It was a mock-up of a concert poster - five bands slated to perform at a small club the following weekend. You had circled the penultimate band name - The Second Gears - and added a note that simply read 'Hope to see you there! - TD'."

Simon pauses for a minute before continuing. "It is difficult to describe the succession of emotions I felt upon seeing this ersatz poster. First and foremost, I felt relieved. You had disappeared from my life a few months previous. Your twice-weekly phone calls had suddenly stopped, and when I attempted to phone you, the line had been disconnected. So any sign that you were alive and well was a welcome one.

"Next, I must admit, came annoyance. You were in New York. You had, as it were, invaded my space. As if this metropolis was mine alone." Simon smiles. "But the annoyance faded as I gave it more thought. You were in a new band, so you obviously had already settled yourself. And you had maintained your distance. Your poster was a subtle message that you had relocated, and wished to reconnect. And it helped me realize that I wished to reconnect as well."

The gig itself wasn't that great. "It was evident that you had not yet fully integrated into the group," admits Simon. "Your set was pleasant but not much more. The Second Gears stuck out due to your canny choice of songs to cover. If memory serves, every other band on the bill attempted 'Like a Rolling Stone', but The Second Gears elected to perform a rock and roll rendition of 'Don't Think Twice It's All Right'."

After breaking down my drum set, I walked into the crowd, spotted Simon, and gave him a huge hug. We spent the rest of the night at a table in the back, half-listening to the other groups as we caught each other up on what we'd been up to the last few months.

It was the weekend after that gig when I came home from shopping to find a note on my door. A package had been delivered while I was out - more stuff from Scooter - so they had taken it next door to Rusty's place. I walked over and knocked, and Rusty opened the door a bit and peered through the crack. "Afternoon, neighbor," he said.

"Hi, Rusty. I had a note saying they delivered something here for me...?"

Rusty appeared thoughtful for a second before answering. "Yep, indeed they did, neighbor. Would you care to come in and collect it?"

"Yes, please, Rusty."

Rusty again paused slightly before closing the door, unhooking the chain, and throwing the door open wide. He turned around and walked to the back of the living room where a crate stood on end. I didn't follow him, though. I had taken one step into the room, and then stopped short, looking around with my mouth hanging open.

By looking at it just right, I could tell that Rusty's front living room had once looked just like mine - high ceiling, old light fixture, large doorways, kind of run down. But there had been a ton of work done to the room. On either side, a platform had been erected, with a ladder leading up to it. But they weren't just plain platforms. I could see that they had furniture and things arranged up on them - like small rooms elevated above the floor. And the areas underneath the platforms had light fixtures and furniture as well. It was as if they had built an additional small story in the large living room. And since Rusty stood about as tall as I did, he could use either "story" just fine.

I stood there staring at it all, and finally asked Rusty about it.

"Oh, yes," he said, like he had stopped even noticing. "Built those, I did. Had relatives move to town. Couldn't find a place to live, so they lived here for a spell. Bernice - that's the wife, Bernice - she said I should mock up something up to keep them out of the way."

"So you had folks living up there?"

Slowly, Rusty nodded. "Yep. Yep. About a year. Not quite that. Big enough for a rodent bed, small dresser, little chair, lamp. Hung some drapes - just fabric, really - along the outside. A little privacy, not that much. Still crowded, but it kept us from bumping into each other, you understand." He looked up at them and scratched his head. "Finally moved out. Seemed a shame to tear 'em down. So that there's Bernice's sewing room now, and that's now my den."

"Why are they only against the walls?" I asked. "Why don't they span the whole room?"

Slowly, Rusty shook his head. "Not my building, neighbor. Gotta leave room for the human landlord to come in if needs to. And had to make 'em ready to pull out at a moment's notice, in case we lose the lease. Need to move out? Give me the word. We move the stuff down, unplug the electrics, pull out that, that, that and that..." He pointed to various spots on the platform. "Everything's ready to moved out."

I excitedly asked Rusty to show me the rest of his apartment, which he proudly did. No room had escaped his handiwork, and all of it seemed both genius and rather obvious in retrospect. Why wouldn't rodents have steps attached to the lower kitchen cupboards, so they could reach the counter and upper cupboards easily? Why wouldn't they have a storage area along the ceiling of the kitchen for canned goods? Why not have an elevated stainless-steel mesh platform in the shower, so rodents could reach both the controls and the shower-head? The more I saw of Rusty's place, the more I wanted to see.

By the time Rusty had finished the grand tour, his wife Bernice had come home with their young daughter Grace. After introducing myself to them, I told them how much I loved their place. I then asked if there was any way I could pay Rusty to help me outfit my apartment just like his. He wasn't too keen on the idea, but Bernice reminded him that the extra money would probably come in handy. So he told me that he would do a lot of the planning and measuring, but I'd have to buy the materials and do a lot of the actual building myself.

I had to think about that for a minute. I had taken woodworking class in high school, and while I had passed without any problems, I couldn't say it was something I felt that I was all that good at. Then again, the more I thought about it, my biggest problem in the class was working with tools that were built for humans. If Rusty had managed to build these things of his, he obviously must have found a way around those problems. So we arranged to have him start coming over for an evening or two each week, and for a bit longer on Saturdays.

During one of those Saturday building sessions, Rusty was hammering something as I held it in place. He suddenly paused and said, "Oh, by the bye, saw your new record at the shop. Nice. Good to see you still making records."

I gave him a look. "Actually, we haven't recorded together for months. It must have been an old one. The one with a photo of a children's choir on the cover?"

Rusty grabbed another nail and pounded into place. He inspected his work, then paused again before speaking. "No, no, it was a drawing. Animated cartoon-like. Three chipmunks and a man. Playing rock and roll."

I grimaced. "That's our Beatles one. With the man playing guitar on the cover, right?"

Again, Rusty put another nail in before answering. "...no, no, the man was playing the drums. Thought that was odd, seeing as how you said you were the drummer. Can't recall the name. 'Go Chipmunks Go'? Something like that."

Our conversation wandered off to other topics, but I kept thinking about this record Rusty had seen. It might have been one of the many knockoff Chipmunks albums that had come out in our wake. After The Chipmunks hit it big, a lot of other labels were putting out records by The Badgers and The Beavers and whatever else. I remember one label put out several albums supposedly sung by singing grasshoppers. So maybe Rusty saw an album by one of those groups - the Gophers, or something like that.

The next day, I decided to walk over to the record store to see if I could locate the album that Rusty was talking about. Ends up it wasn't hard to find. Right in the Chipmunks slot were two copies of a new album called "Chipmunks a Go Go". I pulled one out of the rack and stared at the front cover. Yes, David Seville was behind the drum kit. A green drum kit, no less. And where was "Theodore"? On lead guitar! And my heart sank when I saw the track listing. It was nothing but covers of current hits. A few of the songs were pop fluff, like "Sunshine Lollipops and Rainbows". But there were some good rock and roll songs on there, too - a couple of Herman's Hermits songs, "California Girls", "Mr Tambourine Man"...what? The Chipmunks covered Bob Dylan? And I wasn't a part of it?!

They even put our individual names on the cover. "Alvin Simon & Theodore With David Seville". The slack-jawed smile of guitar-playing "Theodore" on the cover seemed to be mocking me. He got to play and sing a Bob Dylan song on a record...but I didn't.

Seething, I bought the album and took it home. I placed it on the turntable, ready to hear Dave do a goofy intro before Alvin launched into "What's New Pussycat". But instead, I heard..."What's New Pussycat". Sung by some rodents I didn't recognize at all. It definitely wasn't Alvin singing lead. And no David Seville, either. I flipped the album cover over and scanned the back. No mention of Ross Bagdasarian there, either.

I kept listening, and by the end of the record, I was no longer angry - just confused. What was this, exactly? It wasn't terrible or anything, but it didn't sound at all like any other Chipmunks album. I decided to call Simon to see if he could shed some light on it. And, as usual, he could.

"Did you not get a phone call from Liberty discussing the album?"

"No! They never called me at all!"

"Did you alert Liberty that you had a new telephone number?"

I paused. "Uh...no."

"Thus the lack of a phone call. They telephoned me, and laid out the recording dates and so forth. Naturally, I declined. I simply assumed you had, as well."

I groused, "But I would have loved to do this one. This was the album I wanted to do instead of that dumb kids one."

"Indeed. However, I was told quite firmly by Liberty that session musicians would be employed. Would you have consented to traverse back to Los Angeles only to provide backing vocals?"

I hadn't really considered that. "Well, maybe..."

Simon pressed on. "And if it were not even Alvin and myself you were harmonizing with?"

That reminded me. "Yeah, where's Alvin on this thing? And David Seville?"

"Alvin was presumably still on his tour when they recorded the album. And Mr. Seville was probably still on his extended vacation."

After I got off the phone with Simon, I ran my paw over the cover of the album, just as I had done with the Chipmunks Beatles album about a year ago. And I had another revelation. Back then, I had finally realized that there was a disconnect between myself and "Theodore". And now, I noticed an even bigger disconnect. Apparently, The Chipmunks weren't reliant on any one thing. It wasn't us three. It wasn't just "Alvin and whomever", or even "David Seville producing whomever". None of us were necessary parts of the Chipmunks brand. Even with all of us unavailable, The Chipmunks could still soldier on.

The Chipmunks were a concept. An idea. If it had rodent voices singing, and the red- blue- and green-clad cartoons on the cover, then it was The Chipmunks. That was all it took.

That revelation actually made me feel a little better about it all. I had felt somewhat unimportant in the Chipmunks scheme of things before, but apparently I wasn't alone in that regard. All of us were unimportant in the Chipmunks master plan. And with this type of album getting churned out, it seemed The Chipmunk phase of my life was pretty much over. I would continue getting some modest paychecks out of it, so long as they kept using my name on the cover. But that was probably going to be the extent of it. I was done being an active part of The Chipmunks.

Theodore Chipmunk is dead, I thought. Long live TD Henderson.