On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “I know, I know,” Rubin laughs heartily, “Bob says every time I get him I get him when he’s fuzzy. I gotta call later from now on. Hold on, I got another call on the other line.” A pause.

  “Hey I gotta go, take care of yourself, you smuck, you,” Rubin shouts and Ratso hangs up, amused that no matter how hard he tries, Rubin still can’t manage to pronounce “schmuck.”

  Ratso goes back into the dining area and joins Sara and Sally Grossman, Albert’s wife, who are lingering over their breakfast. Sally and Ratso are both from Bayside, Queens, in fact, they both graduated from Bayside High and that alone is worth a good ten minutes of “Do you remember …?”

  “I can’t get used to living on the road,” Ratso shakes his head, and sips on his breakfast tea. “It’s nearly 4 P.M.”

  “Isn’t it weird?” Sara agrees delicately. “I can’t believe it. Today I slept the latest that I ever slept in my life. I woke up after 3. At home, I usually get up early in the morning.”

  “Yeah, it really seems to do something to you. I saw Springsteen in New Haven leaving the concert and it reminded me of Bob’s line, looking so fine at first and left looking just like a ghost.”

  Sara smiles. “That’s a poignant line,” she says in her half-raspy and half-silken voice, “I always did relate to that line.”

  “How do you like touring?” Ratso wonders.

  “It’s not my thing, love,” Sara fluffs her hair, “I really can’t take the traveling. And I have no real function here. Back home, I have the kids, and other things, but there’s really nothing for me to do here. I’m thinking about going back soon.”

  The three of them chat on a bit and Ratso takes his leave and wanders in the lobby. The buses have already left for the Boston Music Hall since there’s a matinee at four. In fact, the only sign that the tour is staying at the hotel is this shifty-eyed haggard-looking kid who’s been sitting in the lobby since one.

  Ratso walks by and the intruder beckons him. “Could I speak to you a minute?”

  The reporter warily sits down and sizes up the interloper. Obviously a sickie, he thinks, staring into those crazed eyes, observing the repressed violence in the halting, soft-spoken pattern mumbled through the tightly clenched teeth. And he’s no kid either, he’s got to be at least thirty, Ratso realizes as the stranger spins out a tale of tremendous obstacles and intransigent mindguards in his quest to see Dylan and inform him of some land near his birthplace in Duluth, a birthplace this current Bostonian shares.

  Ratso decides that he has to act fast. This guy’s imagery is classic textbook paranoia, maybe even paranoid-schizophrenic. And nobody’s here, the goddamn security have all split, and worst of all, Sara’s still around, right that instant sipping tea unawares in the dining room, not five hundred feet away from this maniac.

  “Is Bob around anywhere?” the maniac, who’s named Lenny, asks, shifting his beady eyes around the lobby.

  “Look, man, they’re all gone, they all went to the show already. Nobody’s here,” Ratso stresses.

  “I’d just like to see him for a minute. I’ve spoken to this guy Kemp, who seems to have a fairly close relationship to Dylan, but he’s just giving me the runaround. See, all I want to do is show him this,” and Lenny pulls out a picture of a beautiful Midwestern lake.

  “Look, why don’t you write a letter,” Ratso suggests and walks over to the hotel office.

  “Can I help you?” a middle-aged woman asks as the dark-glassed blue-jeaned intruder walks into the carpeted office of the hotel manager.

  “Yes, I’d like some security people to remove someone,” the reporter says in urgent, clipped tones, “I’m with the Rolling Thunder tour and there’s a potentially dangerous person who’s been out in the lobby furtively looking for Mr. Dylan for hours and everyone’s gone except Mrs. Dylan and he might recognize her and do something dangerous.” Ratso pauses for a breath.

  “Well, we don’t really have any security people,” the woman apologizes.

  “What!” Ratso explodes. “Listen, this guy is dangerous and we’re talking about a potential threat to Bob Dylan’s wife.”

  The woman scurries into an office and an older gray-haired man emerges. Ratso explains the gravity of the situation and the man agrees to the reporter’s plan. When our hero gives the signal, two bellhops will pounce on the sociopath, pull him into the office, and detain him while Ratso collects Sara and rushes her to his car.

  In the lobby, he calls Sara and tells her of the situation.

  “Are you sure this is necessary?” Sara purrs.

  “Sara, this is a fucking psychopath we’re talking about. Jesus.”

  “All right, love,” she sighs, “I’ll be in my room. Anytime you’re ready.”

  Ratso returns to the lobby and sizes up the situation. The letter ruse worked, Lenny’s scribbling away on Sheraton stationery. The reporter smiles and walks past the office, lingering long enough to scream “Now!” to the waiting bellhops. As they rush into the lobby, he vaults up the stairs and stops in front of the room. He knocks loudly.

  “Who is it?” Sara says softly.

  “It’s me, schmuck.”

  She quickly lets the reporter into the room. “I’ll be right there,” she says, and goes back to the mirror to put on an earring. Ratso wanders around the living room of the suite, peeking under the tin covers of last night’s room service. “Aha!” he screams to Sara, in the bedroom, “you don’t eat the same cheap shit we peasants get in the hospitality room. And look at this fancy wine, 1964, huh? Good year?”

  Sara rushes into the room. “Ratso,” she scolds, “Bob’ll murder me if he finds out you’re looking around here. C’mon.”

  Ratso frowns. “But I haven’t really eaten anything,” he whines and picks up a cold chicken cutlet.

  “All right, but don’t snoop around.”

  In a minute, Sara is ready, looking beautiful in a long kimonotype dress. Ratso shovels the cutlet into his mouth and slowly opens the door. No one is in sight. They rush out the side door, into the Monte Carlo, and tear out of the parking lot. Success.

  “We did it,” Ratso exults, after putting a good twenty miles between them and the hotel.

  “Are you sure he was dangerous?” Sara wonders.

  “Are you kidding?” Ratso looks at her with scorn.

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe it’s just that I’m so used to them.” Sara sighs. “I mean we get a Christ every six months coming up to our house. Even the kids are used to it. We even got a John the Baptist last year.”

  They talk on, Sara periodically checking Ratso’s tape recorder to make sure it isn’t on.

  “I just don’t trust journalists,” she worries out loud, “they always distort things. One photographer took some pictures of me and one of the kids in my house and promised that she wouldn’t use them and one day I open a magazine and boom, they’re there. And those movie magazines!” Sara rolls her eyes. “You know, I don’t like to fly, so one of my friends brought me a bunch of magazines before I flew out to join this tour, and somewhere between L.A. and New York I picked one up and there’s a picture of Bob on the cover, they were saying he was having an affair with Sylvia Miles.” She clutches her throat at the memory. “That made me sick, love, I was sick the rest of the flight. I mean, Sylvia Miles! I’d think they would think he’d have better taste than that.” She laughs. “I can’t believe you’re a reporter, though, Ratso, I really like you. I can’t believe you’re a reporter.”

  Ratso snickers. “I’m no reporter. I’m a sociohistorian. I’ve got a masters degree in sociology, studying deviance. That’s why I get along so well with musicians.”

  Ratso enters Cambridge and steers toward Boston and the Music Hall when Sara suddenly shrieks. “Stop!” she yells, and points to an old store that has some antique dresses and old jackets in the window. Ratso circles the block. It’s a hippie Salvation Army. “Wanna go in?”

  “Sure,” she smiles, “I’ve seen the show already.”

&n
bsp; And what a used clothes Valhalla this is. There are tons of dresses, scarves, leather jackets, hats, suede cowboy shirts, bowling shirts, Hawaiian shirts, Norwegian Army hats, even boxes and boxes of magical candles. Ratso is going wild, he’s running around like a contestant in Supermarket Sweepstakes, piling coat after coat, shirt after shirt after scarf into his arms, racing some imaginary clock. He beats Sara to the cowboy shirts and pulls the first three off the rack. “Hey,” Sara fingers the third, “that would be nice for my husband.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Ratso grabs it back, “he’s got enough clothes. Let him buy new ones.”

  “Well, we have to get him something,” Sara lectures.

  “I’ll consider it,” Ratso pouts.

  They shop for five more minutes, Sara winding up with two dresses and a handful of candles, Ratso splurging on three cowboy shirts, one warm-up jacket with a huge Indian head on it, a white leather jacket, a suede sport coat, and a huge lamb-fur Norwegian Army hat. Of course, he borrows the money to pay for them from Sara.

  By the time they reach the theater, the first show is almost over. But after depositing Sara backstage, Ratso hurries out to catch Dylan’s last few songs. And realizes that he’s probably missed the hottest concert yet. Tonight, Dylan’s phrasing is razor-sharp, the band is tight as a whip, and what’s more, Dylan knows it, prowling the stage in total command, gaping while McGuinn sings a verse to “Heaven’s Door,” mugging with Stoner on the chorus to “Oh Sister,” slyly smiling at Baez during the rousing finale. The ovation is tumultuous.

  Between shows, Ratso corrals Shepard and gives the Western greenhorn a tour of the Combat Zone. When they return Baez is finishing a new arrangement of “Wonderful World.” “I was at Boston University for four days,” she tells the largely student audience, “and the only thing I learned was how to be Jewish when I had to.”

  “Fucking goyishe kuppe,” Ratso curses softly then starts boogeying as McGuinn lilts into “Eight Miles High.” Suddenly, Gary runs up.

  “Lou wants to see you backstage, Ratso,” he grabs the reporter.

  “What? Bullshit. What is this a trap?”

  “I’m serious, I swear to God. Lou wants to see you backstage. C’mon, there’s not much time.”

  Ratso warily allows himself to be led past the burly security guards and down to the subterranean depths of the theater. Kemp is standing there waiting for him along with Regan.

  “OK, we got a job for you.” Kemp appears conciliatory and businesslike. “We need whores for tonight. A couple of hookers.”

  “What kind?” Ratso asks without batting an eyelash. “White, black, fancy, street?”

  “Fancy hookers, one black and two white. And we also need about ten groupies, good-looking ones, though. We’re gonna be shooting tonight at the hotel after the concert.”

  “No problem, I know every whore in the Combat Zone,” Ratso boasts.

  “Well, go to work; you don’t have much time. And, oh, before you go, Regan wants to take your picture here for your tour badge.”

  Ratso swells with pride as the photographer positions him against the brick wall. At last, after taking all that shit, I won’t be a nigger anymore, he thinks. In fact, he’s still smiling as the icy mist of water squirts out of Regan’s false camera and bathes the lens of Ratso’s dark glasses, their first cleaning all tour.

  Ratso retreats upstairs, a little mortified but still fueled by a sense of mission. He would suffer the petty indignities, he resolves, the trivial abuses that stand in the way of larger triumphs. As soon as he gets back in the audience, he makes a beeline for Lisa, who managed to talk her way in and is hunched now in the first row.

  “I hear you’re in charge of Peggy now,” Lisa smiles, and it was true, one of Ratso’s duties, now that he was receiving a room, was to take care of Dylan’s not-so-housebroken beagle puppy. The reporter so far had managed to slough that responsibility onto some of the security guards.

  “OK, Lisa, we got an official job for you to do.” Her eyes open wide with excitement. “You gotta round up ten good-looking groupies, make sure they’re good-looking, and bring ’em out to the hotel.”

  “Are you kidding? Barry and Lou’ll kill me.”

  “Lisa, this is an official mission. It’ll be your job. I’ll clear it with Barry and Lou.”

  She nods and starts combing the audience. Ratso smiles and corrals Gary, who’s crouching to the left of the stage, watching Bob finish the show. “You got any money, we’re gonna have to give the hookers some money upfront.” Gary just pulls out a thick wad of bills and starts thumbing through them. Ratso doesn’t see anything lower than a Hamilton.

  After the show, Ratso and Gary hit the Combat Zone. The reporter runs into Good Time Charlies, ignores the faded stripper swaying over the bar, and scans the room. No luck. He grabs Gary and they drive around the corner and double-park in front of the 663. Ratso rushes inside.

  “Rega,” he suppresses a shout and hugs the hooker. She smiles, “How ya doing, kid.”

  “Listen, you wanna do some work? Remember the film I told you about? The Dylan tour. We need three girls out at the hotel tonight.”

  “How much up front?” Rega asks.

  Ratso brings in Gary and Gary walks to the corner with the hooker, discussing finances. Within five minutes, three well-dressed young girls are sitting in the back of the Monte Carlo, barreling toward Boxboro.

  Back at the hotel, the groupies are arriving in droves, young ones, ugly ones, fat ones, in fact, Lisa has managed to recruit every conceivable type other than good-looking ones. They’re roaming the halls in packs of twos and threes, ogling, pointing, whispering, giggling. Ratso laughs to himself as he escorts Rega and her two friends to the hospitality room.

  Tonight, in lieu of the usual modest liquor offering, Imhoff has devised an elaborate spread and rented one of the banquet rooms for the Revue and their guests. Inside, most of the crew, a few of the performers, and guests like Albert Grossman and author Emmet Grogan are seated around tables. Ratso and Gary parade in with their catch and take a table at the rear. After a few minutes, Barry comes in with Peggy and orders Ratso to walk the dog.

  The reporter grabs the leash and strolls barefoot around the lobby, a model of sartorial splendor in his white pants, orange Kinky Friedman T-shirt, and huge Norwegian Army hat delicately balanced on his head. And, as luck would have it, he stumbles upon the prettiest little coed Lisa invited, a dark doe-eyed art student. They talk a bit, he tells her to get rid of her friend, runs back to the hospitality room, pawns off the dog to security, grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels, picks up his waiting partner, and sojourns to the deserted game room.

  Back in the hospitality suite, the party isn’t exactly raging. The hookers are all sitting together at one table, in their furs and slinky dresses feeling as comfortable as war resisters at a VFW convention. In fact, except for a few quickies, their pocketbooks will be the same size when they leave as they were when they came in. And as for the groupies, they keep their patrol up for a few hours, then drive back into town about dawn, with stories to keep their dorm floors enthralled for weeks. But Ratso would miss all this non-action. He was still in the game room, sprawled across the pool table, clutching the Jack Daniels bottle, passed out cold.

  The next afternoon, Ratso wakes up, lurches off the pool table, knocking over the half-empty bottle, and stumbles back to his room. After a shower, he picks up some novelty items he bought the previous night, reluctantly grabs the cowboy shirt, and walks down to Dylan’s room. He knocks.

  “Who’s there?” a groggy voice responds after the third rap.

  “It’s me, Ratso.”

  The door slowly opens onto a dark room. Ratso cautiously enters and when his iris adjusts, he makes out the singer standing barefoot in the living room, wearing a huge Mexican poncho and his dark glasses. And nothing else. In the bedroom, he can see Sara huddled under the covers talking to Sally Grossman, who’s kneeling alongside the bed.

  “Here, we got you
a present when we went to the used clothing store yesterday,” Ratso proffers the green cowboy shirt.

  “Thanks, man,” Dylan gushes. “Hey, I’m just getting up …”

  Ratso gets the message and heads for the door. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I think I’m gonna sell another feature article to another magazine. Fuck Rolling Stone.”

  “Great,” Dylan yawns.

  “Far out, huh,” and Ratso puts out his palm. Dylan finally gets the idea and makes a feeble slap, with a herky jerky motion.

  “No, schmuck,” Ratso screams, “this is the way you do it.” And he slaps Dylan’s palm with vigor, cracking up Sara and Sally, and then slips out the door.

  That afternoon, Ratso visits with friends in Cambridge, and by the time he finds the gym at Brandeis, he’s missed the first half of the concert. Just as well, he thinks, as he picks his way across the sardined bodies. Festival seating in another musky gym. Ratso makes it to the sound board in the middle of the floor and grabs a seat next to Bernie Gelb, who tapes every set of Baez’s. Joan’s wearing basic beachcomber again, rolled-up jeans, barefoot, red tank top, appropriate attire for this sweltering gym. And, like all the other dates so far in the Boston area, she’s just about stealing the show from Dylan.

  She plows through a searing “Diamonds and Rust” and the crowd goes wild. Ratso leans over to Bernie. “What was that anti-Semitic shit she was saying at last night’s concert?”

  “C’mon,” Bernie smiles, “some of her best friends are Jewish.”

  She’s soaring through “Swing Low” a cappella now, ending on a wavering trill that sends these young Jewish students into ecstasy. Gelb cheers lustily. “Stand up Bernie,” Ratso tries to drag him to his feet. “Stand up! Then they all will.”

  “I want to dedicate the next song to the United Farm Workers,” Joanie says solemnly and starts into the old Wobbly favorite, “Joe Hill.”

  Baez cedes the stage to Dylan and he maintains the intensity, ripping through the standard set, peaking to an incredible, “Just Like a Woman.” The crowd cheers, but in vain because as usual there would be no encore this night.