The Twenty Eighth Day....

We drove to Denver and that night were booked into a Motel (one of the worst and best we'd been in on the whole trip) by a fellow who looked like Tom Waits' recently-exhumed, great, great grandfather. A huge chained pit-bull-crossed-with-mountain-lion kept lunging at me across the counter when I was trying to sign the book. This creature had sharp and massive teeth so there was maybe big white shark in there too. Tom Waits watched this creature with deep affection as it tried to kill me, saying, "Aawww. Look at that. Just loves company."

We walked across to our room. The door had been battered in, it looked like regularly. Probably whenever the sociable hound was off its chain and got hungry. And there were other signs of injuries and disagreements.

Next day, our last day in America, I had a row of flea bites that looked like a best-by date stamp. Andy was fine, though I would have thought that small creatures would have preferred eating a fresh young fellow like him to me.

But we had slept well, full of great Rock and Roll and Colorado whisky from the Roadhouse where Andy had first sang, and I had first read, in America. And a girl in a red shiny fringed dress told me that she was a groupie to the band. But it turned out her main duties were just dancing while they played.

In Denver Airport Andy wore all five of his hats because he couldn't get them into his case. A policeman came up to him and said, "Sorry Son. Only two hats on one head in Denver Airport. You'll have to come with me."

But he couldn't keep it up, and started to laugh. Andy lowered his hands and laughed too.

But we'd spent the last thirty days expecting to be shot at some stage and I think Andy thought this was it.