Early aughts, New York, somewhere in Westchester County.
Peter Tork's blues band, Shoe Suede Blues, were playing a series of dates across the northeast, this one a night concert at a fair. They would often pick up such gigs when the Monkees weren’t on tour.
I wasn't working with him in those days, just visiting on the road and hanging out. The show was great fun. Peter really loved playing the blues and always threw a Monkee tune or three in the mix for the faithful.
Afterwards, as often happened, Peter did an autograph signing. The line to meet and take a photo with him seemed to go on forever. Many happy fans. Peter was all smiles.
With nothing to do, I grew bored and drove my rental car back to the hotel. Although I’d driven Peter to the gig, I knew he'd find his way back with the band in the van when he was done.
It had been a long day of travel. I took a hot bubble bath, then put my clothes back on. I figured we might be done for this day, but you never knew. Peter was a night owl. I fell asleep in my clothes around midnight.
I woke up to Peter standing next to the bed.
"May I speak with you?" he asked.
"I believe you already are," I said sleepily.