On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “No, no, no, you will, that I know. That I’m not even telling you about. I know you’ll write the real story, you won’t let us down. You’re not gonna put any garbage in about me because I am not garbage. And you can quote me. I want respect because I give it.”

  Beattie leaves Ratso at the threshold and runs over to the dresser, returning with a handful of sucking candies. “Do you want some candy, honey? Here take it, it’s OK, take it all, I don’t want it. Just make sure to get that message to Sara for me, darling. See you tomorrow, OK. Please put that under the door or give it to Bob to give to her or something. OK, dear?”

  Ratso waves and takes the elevator down to the bar, spotting Dylan inside. “Hey Bob,” he approaches the singer, “T-Bone, McGuinn, and I made a tape of ‘Combat Zone’ the other day.”

  “Great,” Dylan grabs a handful of peanuts and wolfs them down, “I’ll listen to it later.”

  “You going to the gig?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan grabs some more nuts.

  “I’m gonna tell Cohen and Jerry Rubin and some other people to come.”

  “You tell ‘em, Fatso,” Bob cheers.

  “Fatso?” The reporter jumps. “Ratso, not Fatso.”

  “You’re gaining weight, man.” Dylan pauses, then wonders, “Can you call Cohen and get him on the phone for me. Can you go do that?”

  “Sure, let’s go find a phone booth.”

  They start down the lobby accompanied by Charlie, one of Bob’s bodyguards. But after fifteen yards, a young girl comes up and stops Dylan. “Hi,” she manages, her hands quivering, “I’m a dancer downstairs and I just wanted to say that we’ll dance for you tonight …”

  “OK.” Dylan seems amenable.

  “… Since we can’t listen to you sing.”

  “What kind of dancing is it?” Bob wonders.

  “Jazz, jazz dancing.”

  “Modern dancing?” Bob rocks on his heels.

  “Yeah, jazz, lots of things. We think you’re fantastic. We’re gonna do dances for you tonight.”

  “What time does your last show end?” The singer seems interested.

  “About quarter to one.”

  “Fuck your concert,” Ratso says impishly.

  “OK, you stay here, Fatso, and check out the dancing,” Bob snaps. “Fatso, isn’t it?”

  “Ratso.”

  “Fatso? Fatso Slocum, right?”

  “I’m gonna go back and hang out with your mother. She’s much nicer.”

  “Get Leonard please,” Dylan gets serious. “I got some people to see.”

  Ratso walks over to the booth and dials Cohen’s house. After a few rings the poet picks up. “Leonard, this is Larry, how are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Leonard replies and Ratso remembers his work and laughs at the irony.

  “Are you coming to the concert?”

  “I guess so,” Cohen says in his world-weary monotone.

  “You’re so coy, Leonard.”

  “Is it gonna be crowded?” the poet worries.

  “You won’t have to deal with the crowds, we’ll zip in the stage door, Leonard,” Ratso reassures him, as Dylan keeps nudging the reporter, trying to grab the phone. “Tell him to come through the back door,” Dylan whispers in Ratso’s ear. Ratso frowns and hands Dylan the phone.

  “Leonard? Yeah, how you doing? Can’t complain, huh. Well I could but I won’t. You wanna come to the show? Fatso can pick you up.”

  “Ratso, not Fatso,” the reporter pokes Dylan, “but he doesn’t know me as Ratso.”

  “Yeah, Larry’ll pick you up. You got four people? Sure, easy, hey, if you wanna play a couple of songs that would be all right too. Pardon? OK, whatever you feel like doing. We’re gonna hang around for a few days, we got some film to shoot. We’re also making a movie so we’re gonna be shooting tomorrow and the next day here. Maybe after the show we can get together if that’s OK with you. OK, man, Larry’ll pick you up, see you later then.” Dylan hangs up and the trio starts back toward the bar. Again they get about twenty yards before an elderly woman approaches Bob. “Can I have your autograph?” the sweet old woman proffers a piece of paper and a pen.

  “Do you know who I am?” Dylan seems amazed to be recognized by a geriatric groupie.

  “Bob Dylan?” the woman’s beginning to hesitate.

  “Who told you that?” Dylan’s eyes narrow to slits behind his dark glasses.

  “Because I think so.” The woman is near total confusion, looking over to Ratso and Charlie now for a clue. “My nephew’s going to your show.”

  “Who told you I was Bob Dylan?” Dylan keeps up the game, adjusting his hat.

  “I guessed so,” the woman points to the hat, “by your flowers.”

  Dylan cracks up and signs the paper. “Oh, this is for my granddaughter, she’ll be so happy.”

  “What’s her name?” Dylan asks.

  “Josie.”

  “Josie,” Dylan tries out his best French accent.

  “Oui, Josie LaFleur,” the grandmother beams.

  “LaFleur?” Ratso screams, “is she related to the hockey player?”

  “Her father is Guy LaFleur,” Grandma smiles proudly, collects her autograph, and hurries on down the lobby. Dylan walks on, then slows down to browse through some of the lobby stores. He walks into one boutique and picks up a necklace. “How much is this?”

  “Fifty-five dollars,” the saleslady replies.

  “Hey Fatso, you got any money?” Dylan asks straight-faced.

  “Fifty-five dollars? I think that’s a little bit high,” Ratso frowns.

  “Yeah, I think it’s too high too,” Dylan agrees loudly.

  “How about forty-five dollars and an autograph?” Ratso bargains with the lady.

  “Who are you?” the lady peers at Ratso.

  Dylan turns to Charlie. “This guys too much,” he smiles and heads for the next shop, a clothing emporium. Ratso follows them in. Dylan heads over to a rack and fingers a pair of pants. “That’s smart,” the unctuous saleslady rushes over, “those slacks are very smart.”

  “Are they for a man or a woman?” Ratso asks.

  “Oh they could be for both,” the lady smiles her saccharine smile.

  “Tacky,” Ratso advises Dylan, but Bob is already off to the side, looking at a red feathered shawl and a jacket. He carries them both to the counter. “How much is this alone?” he holds up the shawl. “One hundred twenty dollars,” the lady assesses. “All right, I’ll buy this one too. What is this material?”

  “That’s quiana.”

  “Quina?” Dylan seems incredulous. “What is it, like plastic or something?”

  “It’s jersey like. Like silk. It’s washable, doesn’t shrink. It’s synthetic.”

  Dylan begins to pore through his pockets for cash and he pulls out a roll of bills and starts counting. “I can pay for both of these, if you can trust me for a minute I’ll go get some money.” He starts to grab the garments but the lady snatches them back.

  “Do you have cash now?” Her tone gets a little bitter.

  “Sign for it,” Ratso urges. “He lives here, we’re staying here.”

  Dylan searches through untapped pockets.

  “How much do you need?” Ratso offers.

  “It’s OK, Ratso, I got it straight,” Dylan collects all his cash.

  “Here,” the reporter offers a twenty-dollar bill, “it’s your money anyway.”

  “It’s my money? Huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s per diem.” Ratso holds out his offer.

  Dylan ignores Ratso and counts his money out onto the table. “OK, twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five, er, what’s the total? Here’s $129.60, how much more do I owe you?”

  “Ninety-five dollars,” the saleslady is sweet again.

  “OK,” Dylan grabs the two garments, “I’ll take these with me and come back with the ninety-five dollars.”

  “Where are you going?” the woman shrieks. “Leave this here.” She grabs the partly-paid
-for merchandise. “Here, take back your money and come back when you have the complete sum.”

  “No, I need it,” Dylan mopes. “I’m gonna keep this stuff. I’ll leave you my coat, it’s worth more than the other thing.” He starts peeling off his leather jacket.

  “Come back,” the woman raises her voice, “come back with the money then take it, that’s how we do it.”

  Dylan’s about to offer some more collateral, but Charlie comes up with the necessary cash and Bob hands her the bills.

  “Nous avons besoin d’un reçu” Ratso suddenly breaks into his strange French facsimile.

  “What you say?” Dylan peers at the reporter.

  “I said we need a receipt,” Ratso snaps.

  “Sure,” Dylan gives the saleslady a who-is-this-strange-guy-talking-French-with-a-Jewish-accent look, “we need a receipt.”

  The singer bundles the two garments in his arms and they head for the elevator. Ratso waves good-bye and rushes out at his floor. He takes a quick shower and calls Rubin Carter before leaving for the concert.

  “So what you doing, you snake you, you getting any pussy?”

  “More than you, you black bastard! I saw that thing in the paper with Hawkins offering Artis clemency to rat on you. What is that shit?”

  “Oh man,” Rubin moans. “You see, we are dealing with snakes. A political system of corrupt—”

  “No speeches now, you fucking schwartze, I gotta pick up Sara and go to the concert.”

  “OK brother, take it easy, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  Ratso rushes upstairs and Sara lets him in. She goes back to applying the final touches to her eye makeup, which gives the reporter a chance to survey the room, which still hadn’t been made up. He sees a slew of mystical iconography on the dresser, including a huge Tarot card of the Empress, the symbol of doom. Over by the bed, Ratso spies a worn copy of Vogue. On the nightstand, he peers at some books, one by Gary Snyder, one by Mallory, one by Victor Coleman. “Great books,” Ratso shouts.

  “We’re intelligent people, Ratso,” Sara yells over the din of her electric hair dryer. “I’m using all that makeup you got me in Toronto,” she smiles. “You look great.”

  Ratso notices a beautiful necklace dangling on her chest.

  “What is this?” He grabs the medallion.

  “It’s Isis,” Sara says softly. “I designed it. Should I take the tape recorder? I misplaced all those reggae tapes.”

  Ratso grabs the recorder and drags her out into the hall. They head for the car. “Now remember, it’s our job to get Leonard to play,” Ratso lectures. “First we gotta get him drunk, then we gotta make sure that if he gets on stage—”

  “He doesn’t fall off?” Sara blinks her eyes innocently.

  Ratso waits two minutes but the car still hasn’t been brought up from the garage so they hop into a cab. “I liked Leonard’s last record.” Sara settles back as the cabbie heads toward Dominique. “My favorite song was many men have loved the bells that you fasten to the reign.”

  “That’s mine and Leonard’s favorite too,” Ratso marvels.

  “We have similar tastes,” Sara smiles, “we both like Bob.”

  “Yeah,” the reporter chuckles, and starts humming. “You angel you, you’re as fine as fine can be …”

  “You’re as light as a feather, you’re as bright as the moon,” Sara sings. “I love the moon. She rides the moon, Ratso.” Sara fingers her amulet.

  “Who?”

  “Isis. All of them.”

  “Did you read Lawrence’s The Man Who Died?”

  “It’s the same thing love, the same trilogy. It’s his mother. In the picture I have in my room of Mary, who’s the virgin of Guadaloupe, the patron saint of Mexico, she stands on the crescent moon.”

  They settle back into silence, the cab speeding up a main avenue, lined with expensive shops. Sara stares out the window.

  “I’m dying to go shopping. I’m not spending a lot of money. I want to check out the antiques. Was this thing expensive, the thing I got on now?”

  “For me it was,” Ratso nods, “for him it wasn’t.”

  “I have no idea how much it could be. It’s French.”

  “Guess” Ratso prods.

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “More than double that.”

  “One-hundred-twenty dollars.”

  “Exactly,” Ratso beams.

  “I want to buy a super dress to wear in New York,” Sara salivates.

  “Wait a minute,” Ratso shouts, “you gotta wear a Hurricane T-shirt. It’s a benefit.”

  “Well, if there’s a party afterward, I’ll change. I want a fancy dress.”

  “It’s nice for Rubin if everyone wears his shirt.” Ratso puts his feet up on the front seat.

  “Yeah, but I’m not one of those T-shirt chicks. I want to get something elegant.” She peers out the window. “I’m excited, there’s a whole other world outside the hotel. Today’s the first day of my life that I woke up at six o’clock. I’m exhausted.”

  “Beattie’s right,” Ratso warns. “You better get some more sleep. Take some vitamins. Did you eat anything today? No, huh? Look at you, you’re as skinny as a rail.”

  “I had eggs benedict,” Sara says feebly.

  “And you ate them?” Ratso says suspiciously.

  “It’s really hard, love, I’ve never been on the road before. You know, you present me with a great problem, Ratso. I don’t like reporters. I can’t believe you’re really a journalist.”

  “Why don’t you say that to the film crew?” Ratso protests.

  “It’s not the same. I have some kind of character in that context. But here …” The driver pulls up to the house and Ratso runs out in mid-sentence.

  Cohen’s house is a tiny affair, located in the heart of old Montreal, a student, foreigner, bohemian ghetto. Ratso shivers as he walks up the block looking for the address. He finds it, and knocks on the door. Muffled sounds but no answer. A few more knocks. No response. Suddenly the reporter notices the door is slightly ajar and he throws it open.

  And steps into a sea of sound, the harmonicas, spoons, kazoos, and spirited voices washing over him like a funky Jacuzzi. Cohen is ringleading, playing the harmonica, stomping his foot on a chair, leading the vocal to a French chanson. “How are you, my friend?” Leonard ushers Ratso in without interrupting the music. “This is Hazel, Suzanne, Armand, and Mort. Pull up a chair.”

  “We gotta go, Leonard.” Ratso remains standing.

  “C’mon,” the poet urges, “we have time for one more song.”

  “But Sara’s in the cab.”

  “Bring her in.” Cohen gestures expansively and alcoholically. “Here, have a quick sip of wine.”

  “Leonard, we really have to go,” Ratso stresses.

  “OK, troops,” Cohen calls to the others, “bring your instruments to the car.” Cohen pulls a topcoat over his charcoal gray suit, a suit that Ratso has seen him wear for four years.

  “Leonard, you’re still wearing the same suit.”

  “It is my suit,” he says with dignity. “It’s my suit.”

  Suddenly the other four have revolted and start a jig around the living room, whooping and hollering and waving their hands in the air.

  “Can you put your coats on while you’re dancing,” Leonard requests, and a minute later they’re all piling into the cab. Introductions are made.

  “Leonard,” Sara breathes, “are you gonna sing?”

  “No, are you?” Leonard shoots back.

  “Me? No, they’ve been asking me to but I refuse.” Sara smiles coyly.

  “Leonard, you gotta sing one for me and Sara,” Ratso implores, “that one ‘hungry as an archway.’”

  “OK,” Leonard whips out his harp, “here we go. Get your spoons out, Mort.” And they break into a cheerful French folk song.

  “If anyone asks you, you’re all Leonard’s backup band,” Ratso warns the others, “there’s not supposed to be anyone backstage toni
ght.”

  “That means Leonard has to go onstage,” Sara prompts. Cohen frowns.

  They go into a three-part-harmony French song. “C’mon Leonard,” Ratso whines, “you promised ‘Take This Longing’ … I’ve been so patient sitting through all these foreign songs.”

  Cohen whips out his harp and blows some melancholy notes and then he starts to sing, in his low dull-razor voice, “While we’re apart, oh please remember me, soon I’ll be sailing far across the sea/While we’re apart oh please remember me, now is the hour when we must say good-bye, soon I’ll be sailing far across the sea.” Armand joins in on another harmonica and the two wail away as the cab pulls up to the Forum.

  The party scurries inside from the frigid night, Ratso leading them in. Joni, who had just finished her set, comes running up and hugs the poet. “Joni,” Leonard sizes up his Canadian counterpart, “Joni, my little Joni.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, I just came off, though.”

  Cohen looks disappointed. “Well, we just heard the greatest music I’ve ever heard, the greatest music I ever heard we just played on the way here.” By now, Neuwirth and Ronee have come over to pay respects, and Dylan, who’s about to follow Ramblin’ Jack, trots over.

  “Leonard, how you doing?” Bob warmly greets the Canadian. He points over at Ratso. “Hey, do you know this character?”

  Leonard rolls his eyes. “This man has plagued me for the last three years.” They all laugh.

  “Hey, Leonard, you gonna sing,” Ratso pleads.

  “Let it be known that I alone disdained the obvious support,” Cohen chuckles. “I’m going to sit out there and watch.”

  “Why not sing?” Joni begs.

  “No, no, it’s too obvious,” Leonard brushes off the request and looks to Ratso for guidance. He leads them out to the sound board where some folding chairs have been set up, just in time to see Dylan do his first set.

  And what a set. The band is blistering, Dylan has regained the momentum that began to sag during Quebec, and every song is like a sledgehammer pounding away at the overflow crowd that has filled every seat, nook, cranny, corner, penalty box, and aisle of the cavernous Forum.

  By the time Stoner ends “This Land is Your Land” with a torrid bass run, everyone—fans, ushers, concessionaires, even Bob’s own security crew—is on their feet, in a screaming rollicking standing ovation. Ratso rushes back to Leonard’s party and escorts them backstage, worming their way through the crowds, stepping over the huge rolls of toilet paper that were thrown from the rafters by the enthusiastic audience.