Bill asked me to drive him to Columbia, Missouri, so I do. We leave early on Friday and return late Saturday. He plays three shows in between. I drive and haul gear. It’s a good division of labor.

The last couple hours of the ride, the nav system has us on everything but dirt roads. I mapped out the route but don’t recall this plunge into the hinterlands. Because I don’t carry a smartphone, Bill is in charge of steering. We both wonder if this could really be the way to a large college town, but it eventually gets us there.

The main drag is clogged with traffic and street-parking is being closed off for some kind of festivities, so we circle around a bit before finding a spot and going into a storefront commandeered into a makeshift artists’ lounge/info center. We get lanyards, pamphlets, and other material, then go off to another storefront a couple blocks away so Bill can drop off his records and CDs at the merch area. The next stop is a bakery Bill knows, for lunch. It’s as mobbed with humans as every other place on the route. More so. This seems to be one of the focal points of the festival. Bill says hello to a few people he knows. He’s played in this town several times before.

There’s an air of anticipation all over that I can’t quite meet at its own level. Maybe it’s because I’m just here to do a job or maybe because I’m allergic to holiday feelings.

Bill’s first show is at the music school’s recital hall. We’re very early. We stash his gear on stage, then are locked out by the piano tuner who is getting the instrument ready for the headliner. She has been delayed by storms in Chicago and being driven by acquaintances of the organizer from Saint Louis. Scheduled to arrive shortly before doors are to open to the public. Bill soundchecks, then we wait.

I sit up front for Bill’s set. Student photographers flit about snapping and clicking. After a short break, the headliner comes on. I last about ten minutes. Fortunately, I’m stage right and she sits facing stage left, so she doesn’t see me leave. I go back to the greenroom, wading through a mini flood in the hallway. A bathroom incident. The next afternoon the same thing happens at the artists’ lounge. Custodians have to be called. Both times it’s right after the headliner has used the facilities. I’m not conspiracy-minded but do spot patterns…

We check into a hotel just off the highway around 11pm. The lobby lounge/restaurant area is overrun by children and the grownups who pay them little mind. We order food off a QR code and are eventually alerted to fetch it at the bar. It’s all kind of dystopian. The momentary blackout due to the severe storm outside only adds to the feeling.

We set up in a large church gymnasium-turned-movie-hall the next morning at 8am. Bill is to play a short set before a documentary about poet Mary Oliver. We stay for the movie. A few minutes in, the tech lady tiptoes over and leaves a brown bag full of ones, collected from staff passing the hat through the arriving audience.

We have a few hours to kill before his last set, in a grand old theater, before a documentary about a doctor’s experience in Gaza. I opt to skip that one and spend some time at a ramshackle bookstore we’d noticed the day before. In the window, a small sign says hours are Saturdays 1-4pm. It’s called Adams Walls of Books and is everything a bookstore should be. I’ve been trying not to buy books but find three I want. The owner only accepts cash, Venmo, or check. I have Venmo but no smartphone, so she holds my books while I run out to find an ATM.

The original plan was to stay a second night at the hotel and leave in the morning but Bill is done by 4pm and asks if I’d be up for driving back right then.

I’m always up for leaving early.

K reads “Bucket of Pig’s Blood” and I read “Dust Jackets” at Tangible Books, March 5th, 2026.