Max had a powerful fear of night travel, a real handicap considering his chosen profession of jazz musician.
You see, in them days the gigs was scheduled catch-as-catch-can, usually back-to-back and sometimes five-hundred miles apart.
There weren’t no interstates then, so the boys would finish playing, get their money and pile into the car to head for the next stop.
They’d spell one another every few hours, but each man was as tired as the next.
It was cramped in there, what with all their instrument cases and so many bodies.
So you see, Max was right in being afraid.
