On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “I want to state again your intentions are good—”

  “Why did you call me Weberman then,” Ratso interrupts.

  “I think you’re a good person,” Louie calmly asserts, “but your problem is that you’re overenthusiastic and it’s getting in my way so the only way I can deal with that is that I got to take some action with you. It’s just like a warning shot. You can go out and get tickets on your own.”

  “Can I buy them?” Ratso asks out of idle curiosity.

  “You can buy them on the street.”

  “Can you at least tell me where it is?”

  “It’s in Durham.”

  “Is it far from here? Maybe I won’t even go.” Ratso looks wounded. “Can I go to tonight’s concert?”

  “I’m giving you tickets for tonight.”

  “OK,” Ratso jumps off the railing and leans toward Kemp, “let’s set up some boundaries. One, I’m not gonna come to the hotel. If I come it’s only to call for somebody that I set up an appointment with like I did just now. I called to say I’m waiting in front …”

  Kemp frowns. “But still there are the other people who are gonna walk in and out of that door and they’re gonna see you and they’re gonna say, ‘Oh shit, here he is again.’”

  “Who,” Ratso screams like an owl.

  “I’m gonna say it,” Kemp shoots back.

  “What should I do, wait across the street?”

  “Something so the others don’t have to feel that they’re on. Minimize your presence off the concert-hall scene. In the concert hall you belong like anyone else.”

  “OK,” Ratso starts to recapitulate, “so I set up appointments, obviously not stay in the same hotel, not hang around, and don’t follow the bus. Is it OK if I try to buy a ticket to the next show?”

  “Yeah, but don’t ask anyone in the group for one,” Lou cautions. “If you can buy them on the street, that’s fine.”

  “Well, let me write down the itinerary, I’m not going tomorrow,” Ratso decides.

  “Hey, I’m not telling you you can’t go,” Lou backpedals, “all I’m telling you is I’m not going to give you a ticket. I believe in free enterprise. I really do.”

  “I know you do,” Ratso scowls.

  “If I don’t have any problems with you from now to Waterbury, there’ll be a ticket for you at Waterbury. I’m just telling you straight, I just want you to know I’m serious. I got other things to do.” Kemp starts to walk back to the door.

  “Wait,” Ratso screeches, “I’m not being greedy now, but I need two tickets to each show.”

  “You’re getting one now, what do you need two tickets for?”

  “I always take in a kid or something, I take notes.”

  “What does the kid do?” Louie asks sarcastically.

  “I pick up somebody in that town who’s a good person to interview.”

  “That’s all bullshit.” Kemp frowns. “Five thousand people in the town and you pick one person and he’s in the book.”

  “You were the one who told me to talk to the people.”

  “Lots of people,” Kemp screams, “not one person.”

  “But that one person in Newport I brought to the camera crew was the best interview they got.”

  “They told me that, too,” Louie admits. “I acknowledge that.”

  “And another girl I brought in once, an eighteen-year-old tripping on acid, turned out to be the most articulate—”

  “Look,” Kemp interrupts, “I’m not doubting it. I just want you to understand where your place is and how to do it. I’ve helped you plenty of times.”

  “I know you have,” Ratso admits.

  “But when you get in my fucking way, then I’m gonna have to treat you accordingly.”

  “But the other night you thought I was sneaking behind your back when I asked Dylan if I could write a book,” Ratso protests.

  “Yeah, you were,” Kemp snarls. “That’s still not the protocol … you don’t go up to Dylan and ask him to write a book. If you want to do that, you come to me, we’ll go through channels and we’ll get back to you with a legitimate answer. I won’t make the decision myself, I’ll discuss it with him.”

  “I have an outline. Should I give it to you?”

  “I told you that two weeks ago,” Kemp shakes his head.

  “You didn’t give him any of my other messages. I would feel much more at ease if I felt I wasn’t being jerked off,” Ratso screams.

  “Jerked off, how are you being jerked off?”

  “Bob invited me on this fucking tour. You were there.”

  “Bob’s human too,” Louie purrs. “Bob has a few drinks like anybody else and somebody comes up to him and asks—”

  “Hey,” Ratso yells, “I didn’t ask him. He asked me!”

  “Well, I wasn’t there,” Lou admits, “and I didn’t hear. All I knew is he was looser those nights. He was drinking, he was enjoying himself. Listen, I think you’re basically a good guy. OK. If I didn’t think you were you wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

  “Did you like my first piece for Rolling Stone?” Ratso inquires.

  “Basically I liked it. There was a lot of what I would call Rolling Stone-type shit in there. Trivia, you know.”

  “That’s Rolling Stone.”

  “That’s Rolling Stone,” Kemp agrees. “I don’t dig that. How much of that is you and how much is you reacting to them I don’t know.”

  “You should hear the shit I’m getting from them,” Ratso moans.

  “I don’t doubt that, I think they’re a bunch of assholes,” Kemp spits. “I told you that at the beginning. Look, just don’t make your article petty. I want meat there. I don’t want a lot of stringbeans. Make it meat.”

  “Hey, there was more meat in my first article than any other one,” Ratso protests, “the stuff with Rubin …”

  “That part was good,” Lou admits, “I’ll go through the article and underline what I thought the shit was. I gotta go.”

  Kemp starts toward the Inn but again Ratso interrupts. “Hey Louie, one more thing, I got a friend that works for the National Enquirer and they want me to do an article on Bob.” Kemp rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and walks into the lobby.

  Ratso had promised McGuinn that he would take him to the Curio Lounge, a strange bar that he had discovered the previous night. They drive over and Ratso rushes into the bar, immediately asking the barmaid to see the owner. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a thin, bespectacled man around fifty, smoking a pipe and exuding amused, cynical detachment. Ratso flies into a breathless gush about what a great-weird place this is, perfect for the movie that we’re shooting, the movie of the tour that we’re in the middle of. And Ratso’s right, the place is even more bizarre in the daytime than it was last night when he and Levy were here for a drink.

  For one, there’s these weird exhibits all over the walls, like the doll on the wall as you enter, a doll the legend underneath tells us was made by an armsmaker to royalty, who made the doll complete with a hidden gun, then gave it as a gift to his unfaithful amour, Katina, who as was her habit pressed this cherished gift to her bosom and blew her chest out. Our jealous suitor then proceeded to pick up the doll and blow his own brains out. Or take that display case in the rear of the front room, featuring what’s purported to be the remains of a Civil War general, complete with a red, pulsating heart visible in the bony rib cage. This number was executed for the owner by a friend named Dr. Paul Dudley White, a heart surgeon who was Eisenhower’s personal physician. And the sign below the skeleton reads, “We thank Dr. Paul Dudley White for his wizardry with the living heart. We toast Dr. Wally for his wizardry with the whimsical heart. Signed Amen.”

  “What do you think of that one?” Dr. Wally booms, as he sneaks behind Ratso who’s still gaping at the skeleton. “It is the actual remains of a Civil War general. They think I’m a little nutty around here and a very interesting character,” Wally boasts.

  Just then Howard Alk
arrives to scout the bar for the film crew and Ratso immediately takes him on a tour of the guns, skeletons, dragon heads, and other bizarre curios. “Oh my God,” Alk gapes, “we could spend months shooting in here.” Ratso rejoins McGuinn and Wally as Alk rushes to call a film crew down.

  “You’re a weird little guy,” Wally tells Ratso.

  “People like that don’t live long,” McGuinn cautions.

  “Yeah, but when they do they really live.” Wally smiles. “He surprised the hell out of me, smoking that cigar. He doesn’t look like a cigar smoker, usually fat bombers smoke ‘em.” The three chat and Wally reveals that he’s an opthamologist, still practicing, who has this obsession with guns and other strange memorabilia. And he built the bar to his own strange specifications, mainly so he could have a place to hang out.

  Ratso and McGuinn sit down at a table as Wally goes to answer the phone. Not your conventional table, though, this one has a Ouija board for a top. Right above their heads is a plaster cast of Lucifer’s head, complete with flames shooting out the nostrils. Wally rejoins them. “Did you see my Capone windows?” he asks, sipping on his ginger ale. He leaps up and drags them over to a display case near the bar. “I have all his guns.” Wally gestures toward an array of handguns, shotguns, even a submachine gun all under glass. “There was a lot of good in that man. I can’t move these guns you know, it’s classified as a museum, if I want to move them the government charges me money. Yup, Capone was quite a guy.”

  Alk rejoins the trio as they stroll around the bar. “This place has a lot of nooks and crannies,” Wally points out. “I do my own designing and thinking. Did you see ‘The Chained Madonna’? It’s one of the rarest paintings in the world, done by a famous artist at the turn of the century.” Wally leads them to a painting of a beautiful young woman, wrapped in chains. “She looks happier with chains on.” He smiles paternally. “Jesus,” Alk mutters to himself, “this is primo.” “And here’s ‘The Silent Woman.’” Wally beams in front of a painting of a woman, beheaded. “You oughta bring Dylan over,” he smiles, “I think he’d enjoy this.”

  They walk back to the bar, passing a urinal sticking out of the wall, then a suit of armor. “We dress people up in that.” Wally shrugs. “Last Halloween, we had him in front.” It’s almost five and a few early patrons are wandering into the bar. The film crew van pulls up and Larry Johnson and David Meyers tramp in, carrying box after box of equipment, and begin setting up in the rear. “Jesus,” Johnson stares in awe, “he must be in big bucks to do this.”

  Just then, the camper pulls up, and Neuwirth hops out, followed by Dylan and Gary. Ratso rushes out to escort them. “You better split, man,” Neuwirth barks at him, “it’s a closed set.” Ratso ignores him and collars Dylan. “Lou said it’s a closed set,” Dylan mumbles apologetically. “I spoke to Lou,” Ratso counters, “it’s cool.” Dylan shrugs and they both walk in. They stand in the hallway, just scanning the bizarre interior. Wally steps up. “You know the place, Ratso, show them around.”

  They walk around for a few minutes, then Alk collars Dylan, showing him the room he chose for the scene. “We can aim at the bar, then move to the tables to discuss important business.” Dylan takes it in, stroking his chin, adjusting his dark glasses. Neuwirth interrupts and drags Dylan to a back room to show him a full-sized organ made out of guns.

  They troop back to the room, Dylan pausing to sign a few autographs, and then the singer takes charge. “Who’s here?” he muses out loud. “Oh there’s Roger. Howie, why don’t you play ‘As Time Goes By.’” He directs Wyeth to an electric piano. “What can we tie this in with?” Dylan asks Neuwirth. “How about the alchemist scene?”

  The film crew sets up as Neuwirth walks to the bar. “I want a tall ridiculous drink, make it a ginger ale. With a ten-inch straw.” About fifteen people from the tour have filtered in, including Lola, an actress who’s been in some of the earlier scenes. “Can we use Lola to bring some drinks in?” Dylan wonders. Neuwirth meanwhile is looking for a hat, to compliment his wardrobe of black T-shirt with 2025 across the front, jeans, and red aviator shades. Back at the table Dylan and playwright Sam Shepard are conferring, working out the scene.

  “I got it,” Shepard yelps, scribbling down an idea on his clipboard. “This is the object,” he holds up what looks like a turkey carcass, “the secret bone. What you came for.”

  “And the answer’s only a foot away.” Dylan smiles.

  “It’s a mojo bone,” Shepard adds.

  “OK, well we don’t need this.” Dylan pulls a large bottle off the table then checks his watch. “We got an eight o’clock show,” he reminds everyone.

  In a few minutes they’re ready, the spectators have been herded to the rear, Dylan is leaning against the bar, his back to the camera. “Order the green devil at the bar,” Neuwirth shoots a last-minute instruction as Johnson screams for quiet. Wyeth goes to the piano and plays some soft cocktail-lounge doodlings. “Hey Howie,” Dylan screams, “play some Casablanca-type music.” “Do As Time Goes By’ over and over again,” Neuwirth shouts.

  Finally the camera rolls.

  Neuwirth snaps his fingers and Lola scurries over. “Waitress, ask him to join me please.” He points in Dylan’s direction, then takes a long drag on his cigarette. Dylan acts real coy and joins Neuwirth.

  “Howdy,” he smiles.

  “Are you new in town?” Neuwirth leers in a heavy accent.

  “Yeah,” Dylan leans over the table.

  “Looking for anything?” Neuwirth sips his drink.

  “Yeah,” Dylan enthuses, “Isis.”

  “I heard about her.” Neuwirth nods.

  “The same one?” Dylan marvels.

  “Could be. Maybe I can help. I’m Ted,” Neuwirth offers.

  “I’m Jerry,” Dylan replies.

  “Ted the Head,” Neuwirth corrects.

  Dylan cracks up. “I started this place four years ago as a hot-dog stand,” Neuwirth continues, “I understand you’re looking for a truck stop.”

  Dylan nods. Neuwirth snaps for the waitress and Lola rushes to the table. “Take this back,” Neuwirth throws a dish and Lola returns promptly with a plate with the lobster tail on it. “What’s written on that lobster tail?” Neuwirth asks Dylan. “There’s more here than I can see.” Dylan grins. Neuwirth lights Dylan’s dangling cigarette and picks up the bone. “The secrets are only a foot away. Take this with you, don’t let anybody see you, carry it, show it to the man at the front desk. Just show it to him.”

  Dylan takes the carcass and fingers it gently. “You’ve been real helpful. We came thousands of miles.”

  “Take that,” Neuwirth urges, and sends Dylan off. Lola comes in. “There’s a gentleman named T-Bone waiting to see you,” she tells Neuwirth. Neuwirth leans back, smiles, and snaps his fingers. “Play it again, Tony,” he shouts.

  “CUT,” Johnson yells and Dylan, Neuwirth, and Shepard huddle, discussing the take.

  “Good,” Meyers shouts. “One more time?” Dylan wonders.

  “What was that, four minutes? Let’s do it once more to cover it. Any suggestions, Sam?”

  “Get heavy with each other,” Larry Johnson suggests.

  “We can do it once more,” Neuwirth agrees.

  The camera rolls again and Dylan sits down. “I’m looking for this heavyset dude, with an earring in his left ear and a scar.”

  “What do you want him for?” Neuwirth’s accent is getting thicker by the minute.

  “I know he can change water into wine,” Dylan gushes. “I can make a trade. I got bread from North America, a couple of red blankets, and a buffalo skin.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m staying at the edge of town. Route 52.”

  “Near the Howard Johnson’s?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

  “Go to the Howard Johnson’s, go to the kitchen. Ask for Lafcadio. Tell him what you want. If he says OK, call me here. If you’re not the right person we won’t see you aga
in.”

  “That sounds fair to me.” Dylan shakes hands and leaves.

  Neuwirth summons Lola. “I want that gentleman followed.” Then he gets up and rushes out of the room.

  “OK,” Shepard jots on his clipboard. “We can pick up the exterior with him falling down the street.” They decide to shoot the last line again, so Neuwirth sits down and Lola enters. “I want that gentleman followed,” Neuwirth growls.

  “What was his name?” Lola ad-libs.

  “I have no idea.” Neuwirth shakes his head.

  Dylan, standing on the side, grins.

  The lights get doused, the crew starts breaking down, the clientele is buzzing about the stars and the movie, and Wally turns to Ratso. “The unrehearsed minute is the best,” he smiles sagely. “You can’t relive it.”

  The concert is due to start in about an hour so the performers group to ride back to the hotel. Dylan comes over to Wally to say good-bye. They shake hands and Wally sizes him up. “So you’re Dylan.” He smiles, peering into his face. “You look healthy enough. Pretty myopic, though.”

  Ratso sits down and joins some of the film crew, who since they’re not shooting the concert have time for a leisurely dinner. He sits next to Johnson who seems to be pissed off. “That was shit,” Johnson moans, “those parts were real pretentious. They were doing schtick.”

  “It was art,” Ratso mocks.

  Johnson rolls his eyes. “Great, let’s see it, that’s the test. We did a great scene last night though, Joan on a bed with a picture of her kid. Joan’s a great lady.”

  “Did you like this place?” Ratso modestly asks.

  “Don’t worry,” Johnson semisneers, “I told Dylan you set this one up. Look Ratso, I don’t personally care whether you live or die, you’re great for the film, that’s what’s important. You’re a caricature of Rolling Stone, you’re where Ben Fong Wrong went right, a speed-freak fanatic, a man of the people. Look, Meyers and I have been together for eleven years, shot some of the best documentaries ever made, did Neil Young’s film, Cocker’s Mad Dogs tour. Meyers is sixty-four you know, and you brought us that kid in Springfield that sang that Rolling Thunder song and then charged right for the camera at the end. That made our top-ten list of greatest sequences we’ve ever shot. That’s why I like you.”