As 1966 began, I was beginning to settle into New York a little more. I felt less like an interloper, and more like I had found a little niche for myself. Mind you, I didn't really feel like a New Yorker, and still don't to this very day. Even after so many decades, it feels more like my adoptive city than my true home. Personally, I blame the snow. I know some California transplants run outside during their first snowstorm, arms outstretched, catching snowflakes on their tongues. Me? I closed the curtains and hoped it'd be over soon. Even now, when the first flakes of the season fall, I'm immediately daydreaming of the spring. I love New York and really do enjoy my time there, but I'm apparently still an Angeleno at heart.

As I worked on building up my apartment, I came to realize that I was a lot better at this sort of thing than I thought I would be. I had never been much of a "handyman" growing up, with Simon and Alvin usually handling the minor fix-it jobs that had to get done at Mrs. Gorman's house. However, now that a project was completely in my paws, I was actually making good progress on it. I would put an LP on my hi-fi, spend the next twenty minutes sawing or sanding or whatever, then flip the record over and get back to it. To this day, when I hear songs from the Beatles' Help!, or Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights, I can remember what parts of my apartment I was working on.

Another thing I noticed was that my cash flow was getting dangerously one-sided. New York living wasn't outrageously expensive back then, but I didn't have much money coming in. The Second Gears were playing maybe one gig a month, and I was walking out with maybe a few dollars each time. That wasn't even enough to pay for the records I bought each month. I still had Chipmunks royalty payments coming in on a regular basis, but those didn't exactly add up to a living wage. Obviously, I was going to have had to find more income.

I redoubled my efforts to find a gig, and finally found a spot drumming with a jazz ensemble. The Hector James Quartet was a rather typical jazz combo for the time: sax, piano, stand-up bass, and drums. The HJQ had regular gigs three nights a week - Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays - but at three different venues. I didn't have a truck then, so I had to find a way to get my drums to every gig. Luckily, Jimmy didn't live too far from me, and my drums just barely fit into the back of his truck next to his stand-up bass. I started paying for Jimmy's dinner every night that we played, as a way to pay him back for having to schlep me and my drums around.

Soon after I joined, the quartet began getting occasional gigs on Saturday nights, as well. As these gigs became more frequent, I came to the realization that I was going to have to leave The Second Gears. And to be brutally honest, it wasn't a very difficult decision. I did enjoy being back in a rock and roll band, but I just didn't think the group was coming together. With my brothers, I had gotten used to playing up to twelve sets a week, along with rehearsals to learn new material. By contrast, I don't think The Second Gears ever met up more than once a week, and the band was still trying to master songs that my brothers and I would have had down in a few run-throughs.

At the next Second Gears rehearsal, I made the announcement that our next gig was going to be my last. The band didn't take the news too well. Dan tried to browbeat me into staying - "you can't just walk out on us!" - and I ended up exchanging some harsh words with him. I called the band "a bunch of amateurs" who didn't have the drive to be a first-class group. Dan ended up kicking me out of the band right then and there. I yelled that I'd have my drums out of there the next day, then got up and sort of stomped out...well, with as much stomping as one can do with chipmunk feet.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt pretty bad about the stuff I had said. I remembered my promise to Mrs. Gorman - that I would be somebody who would make her proud. Well, she wouldn't have been very proud of Theodore Chipmunk that night. And I knew what Mrs. Gorman would want me to do to try to make things right. As much as I hated doing it, I needed to apologIze. I ended up spending all day riding the subway here and there, tracking down my now-former bandmates to say I was sorry. It was just like Mrs. Gorman used to tell us: "A second to break, all day to mend."

Playing with the HJQ was fun, but it was also challenging. Our repertoire was mainly bebop, with a few Herb Alpert-type poppier tunes thrown in. The pop stuff was easy enough, and I could sort of slip into auto-pilot during those if I wanted to. But the jazzier stuff was a lot tougher for me. I know some jazz drummers can get right into the groove at a moment's notice, but for me, it always required a weird balance of deep concentration and improv skills.

Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" was the toughest number for me. I got to take a solo for almost two minutes in the middle of that one, but the song is in 5/4 time which, as a rock drummer, I had a tough time staying on. The pianist Hiro usually played the piano lick pretty loud during my solo just so I wouldn't get lost. The guys were really supportive, though. In rehearsals, they would encourage me to open up more, and to "go off script", as Hiro liked to call it. Either they really liked my drumming, or else jazz drummers were in really short supply.

In late April, I finally finished the additions I wanted to make to my apartment. The living room now had two additional "upstairs rooms". I thought of one of them as my "library". I kept most of my books and sci-fi magazines there, as well as a lamp, radio and comfortable chair. The second was my "practice room". I kept my old set of drums up there, along with my ukulele and other musical stuff. The dining room had one upstairs room, which I called my "vault". It was just storage for the books and records I didn't use too much, but didn't want to get rid of. (The records I listened to regularly were next to my hi-fi in the living room.) I added some steps in the kitchen, and built a raised grate in the shower. I guess it's only natural that I wanted to show it off, so I invited Simon over for dinner.

"You had informed me that you had undertaken some home renovation projects," Simon recalls, "but not the full scope of them. I was taken aback when I saw the result. At the risk of sounding belittling, it was difficult for me to believe that you had accomplished so much, with or without aid. Not just your skill in creating such a complex creation, but your determination in seeing it through to completion."

Simon pauses before continuing. "It is a bit strange, in retrospect. To my way of thinking, Alvin always remained Alvin. He grew up, and eventually matured, but my mental image of Alvin rarely needed more than an occasional tweak. My mental image of Theodore, on the other hand, seemed to need updating on a regular basis. I am not sure if that is because I continually fell back on viewing you as the shy awkward chipmunk of your youth, or because you continually were pushing yourself outward."

Dinner was just Chinese take-out, but it was great to have a chance to catch up with my brother. Simon's post-graduate studies were going well, and he was giving some serious thought to becoming a professor himself. "I had greatly enjoyed a few of my professors' classes, and was contemplating following in their footsteps. Originally, I believed my high voice and small stature would prevent me from being a quality professor, but I had begun to consider methods by which I might overcome those obstacles."

Meanwhile, I told Simon about my financial worries. Playing with the HJQ at least had given me some steady income, but it still wasn't quite what I was spending. I still had a good chunk of change in the bank, thanks to the sale of the house and the ongoing Chipmunk royalties. But I didn't like the idea of spending more than I made every month. Drumming no longer appeared to be paying the bills - or all of them, anyway. Was it time for me to go out and get a "real job"? If so, doing what?

Simon looked thoughtful for a while, then said, "I believe I know of a potentially lucrative field for you to pursue."

"What?"

Instead of answering, Simon simply held out his paw to the platforms I had constructed.

"...what? Building these?"

"And the kitchen refurbishments. And other similar projects - bed lofts, storage shelves, and the like."

I looked doubtful. "There's not THAT many rodents in New York City."

"There are a fair number," argued Simon. "And every last one of them lives in a human-sized apartment or house. Which means all of them could potentially benefit from your creations. And there is no reason why humans might not need similar improvements to their homes."

"I dunno. You really think others would go for this sort of thing?"

"What was your initial reaction upon seeing your neighbor Rusty's place?"

I smiled. "OK, point taken, but...well, how do I find customers and everything?"

Simon poured himself another small glass of wine. "Actually, I am not certain. Allow me to mull this over for a time. Neither marketing nor business is my forte, but I believe we could formulate a plan that might provide you with a potentially sizable customer base." He offered to put together a business plan, and I readily agreed to that. I still wasn't sure about the whole idea, but I had faith that Simon could determine whether it would be worth taking the plunge.

Later that same week, Hector James's fiancée was attacked on the street, and taken to the hospital. The rest of the band met Hector there, as a show of support. He took the attack really hard. For the next week or so, he could get through the sets OK, but not surprisingly, he wasn't his usual happy self.

Hector had only recently begun writing songs, and his first few had been fairly simple bop-type numbers with titles like "Summer Evening". But after the attack, he wrote a moody piece called "Hospital Waiting Room". It was somber and a bit discordant. We would all do a bit of improvisation on it when we played it live - sometimes stretching it out a bit, sometimes cutting it short. Improv was never my strong suit, but I did my best to try to keep up.

One night, I was feeling a bit adventurous, and I didn't play the brushed drum beat to kick off "Hospital Waiting Room" like I normally did. Instead, I gently tapped the side of my snare to count off the beat, occasionally dropping a sudden heavy kick drum in. The rest of the guys - all much better musicians than me - immediately responded, making their parts slower, draggier, creepier.

Before my eyes, I watched the song become something completely different.

Up until that point, I had never thought of "Hospital Waiting Room" as anything more than a simple piece of music. Even knowing the backstory behind it, it just seemed like a sad song about a sad event. But that night, I actually felt it, physically. It almost felt like I was back in that hospital waiting room - tense, sad, hoping against hope for a scrap of good news.

I'd like to take credit for that, but I can't. I just tried doing something a bit differently. Messing around, really. It was all Hector and Hiro and Jimmy. They heard what I was doing, and between the three of them, they recognized what to do with it, and where to take it. They turned it into...well, I'll say "art". And at that point, I just had to not screw up anywhere. Which thankfully I didn't.

After the set, I chatted with the others. "'Waiting Room'?" I said. "That...that was..."

"...that was why I do this," said Hector. The others just nodded. Nothing more really needed to be said. It was a real honor to play with those guys.

Around that same time, it was Simon's turn to invite me over for dinner, and we met at a pizza joint near his campus. He had completed his business plan, listing all the things that I would need in order to get a business up and running. As I expected, the list was extensive. I would need a full set of tools - I had used Rusty's to do my place. I would obviously need a way to get the materials to the job sites, so I was going to need a truck...and of course the truck would need to be retrofitted so I could drive it. Throw in money for advertising and materials, and it all added up to making a huge initial outlay. I probably wouldn't be making it all back until late 1967 at the earliest, and that was if I had a steady stream of projects to do.

After looking over the numbers, I frowned. "I don't know. Maybe I should just...go work at a store or something."

Simon gave me one of his steady looks through his glasses. "Is that what you would prefer to do?"

I took another bite of pizza before answering. "Well, no," I admitted. "But..." I tapped the sheet. "...that's a hell of a lot of money to fork over."

"It is," he agreed. "Which is why I would recommend one further step."

"What's that?"

"Bring aboard an investor. Someone who will furnish you with some of the start-up capital, and receive a percentage of the profits in return. This will minimize your risk."

"Hm. Maybe. But who would invest in me? Nobody knows me here, and I can't picture some rich guy throwing bags of money at a poor chipmunk."

"Actually, brother, I have already taken the liberty of lining up an investor for you. He has consented to invest half of the initial start-up capital, in exchange for half of the post-expense profits."

"Half of the start-up costs?" I couldn't believe somebody would donate that much. "That's incredible. Who is it?"

"Someone who has faith in you."

I stared at Simon, flabbergasted, who gave me a crooked smile in return.. "You? You would stake that much money on me?"

"I would not do so if I did not believe you capable of making good on that investment."

I looked over at my brother again. Well, if he thought I could do it, then damn it - I thought I could do it, too. I stood on my chair and extended a greasy paw across the table, and Simon and I shook on our new business partnership.