It was coming around 6:30 when I found myself standing in front of Roger’s door. I took my life in my hands with a cabby who smelled like he went a couple rounds in a distillery, but I was in no mood for an uptown train to Hell’s Kitchen. That’s where Roger called home. It’s where I used to call home too when I was a kid. 47th street was our old block for as far back the memory reel played in the back of my aging head. Read more.
