Bobby got transferred to San Antonio when the band broke up.

One weekend I hitch-hiked down there to see him and Joyce and the twins.

Joyce had twins. They may have been married now.

I don't remember if I went out and heard him play or not.

I was a white boy following Bobby around. At his heels, saying, "Me and you are pals-huh, Spike."

I knew he was a person of accomplishment, who would go somewhere.

Maybe he has changed jazz trumpet playing through the students he taught at Pomona College, where he has been a Lecturer in Music and Director of Jazz Ensemble since 1974.

Maybe I changed writing through my self-published pamphlets and home-made web page on the worldwide web.

Maybe I will sink without a trace.

Survive in the memory of a handful of members of the Buzzard Cult, named after the revitalization movement that swept the Lower Mississippi Valley just before and after European contact.