We all sleep well in our various digs, and Bobby fixes us biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast. It’s a keen reminder of how close we are to home. But instead of heading that way, when we’re all collected and packed into the van, we head east, catch I-70 and make our way across the state, following the river, to the confluence of the Missouri and the Mississippi, where the French settled across the river from the remains of the great city of Cahokia. Here in St. Louis, among the billions of bricks that make up this fair city, we are successful at finding the Off Broadway (aptly named) venue where we’re booked to play. But we are entirely unsuccessful at finding a decent meal, ending up at a Jack In the Box eating some kind of rice and chicken dish and watching Van getting hustled out of 5 bucks by a gay, black and extremely entertaining hustler. We were about to all chip in when the fellow left, singing. What a way to end the tour. But it wasn’t over. We still had to deliver at the Off Broadway, and we did, and collected our fee headed down I-44, at last, for home. We pulled into my driveway some time around 3 a.m., quickly unloaded the van into various vehicles, and said our goodbyes. Not a soul was sad to see it end. But there wasn’t a one of us who would have missed it for anything. We’re still playing often, and closer to home, and are none the worse for the wear. But we are changed. In more ways than I can count. But that’s another story. This one is exhausted and ready to say good night, John-boy. Thanks for coming along with us.

-m