On the Road with Bob Dylan (37 page)

Kinky sips his cold coffee as the band bleats to a halt with “Jazzman.” “Once again, I have to say every time we’re about to do this next song, we have to fill up this room with about sixty violins, fifteen trumpets, fourteen French horns,” the jarring Las Vegas-honed voice of the M.C. washes over the pair. “This is Stevie Wonder’s ‘All in Love is Fair.’”

“Eiiiiii,” Kinky screams and then loudly belches. “Jesus Christ, this is unpleasant.” He looks down on his plate, picks up his napkin, and looks frantic. “I lost my mint, goddamn it.” Kinky signals the waitress. “Can I get dessert or how about just one of these mint boogers, I lost mine.” Ratso sacrifices his, Kinky is placated, and they head back to the room.

Kinky rushes into the room and turns on the TV. “I like watching those movies about giant ants attacking the earth.” He pulls off his boots and plops down on the bed. “Hey Rats, I got the limo taking me to the airport at 5:30
A.M.
but I could cancel it though.”

“What are you gonna do, tennis-shoe the bill?” the reporter’s known Kinky too long.

“I’m gonna tell them there’s somebody else up here. Don’t worry
about it, then you’re just gonna leave. I’m gonna have to leave before you do. Fuck, I’m not gonna tell them anything, just leave.”

“There’s not supposed to be another party in here,” Ratso has visions of holding the bag.

“They don’t know that there is.”

“They’ll wake me up. What if they hassle me?” Ratso frets.

“Look Ratso, I’m sorry you’re here but I’m not gonna do it any different than the way I always do it.”

“How do you do it?”

Kinky frowns. “Look, I can’t explain it. Why don’t you ask Abbie Hoffman? You read
Steal This Book
,” Kinky snaps, “you know so much about all that shit. Do what he would do.”

“Why don’t you tell them to bill it?”

“I’m not telling them a single thing, hoss,” Kinky pulls a handkerchief over his eyes, his own version of a Robert Mitchum beauty-sleep. “I have one of several options: 1) go to jail, 2) pay them cash, 3) pass off some credit card if I can, or 4) try to get them to bill. I always try to get them to bill first.”

“I hope they won’t wake me up,” Ratso worries.

“They’re not gonna call you at seven in the morning and wake you up,” Kinky shouts indignantly. “If they do, it shows very little class. If they call just say, ‘What? You woke me up to tell me this? Of course I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it later this afternoon, I’m checking out later today.’”

“Then I sneak out,” Ratso moans.

“You don’t sneak out, man,” Kinky lectures. “You leave.” He pulls the bandanna off his eyes and stares at the now blank TV screen. “Is there another movie on TV?”

Ratso gives up, gets up, and heads for the door. “I’m going down to the coffee shop, want anything?”

“Bring me back a nice waitress,” Kinky drawls and goes back to the movie.

Downstairs, Ratso settles into a booth and starts reading a paper.
But he suddenly notices that the talking in the booths around him has become muted, and when he sneaks a peek, most of the teenagers at the tables are staring and whispering excitedly. Last night’s groupies, Ratso flashes, looking for some thunder. With only Kinky and him to provide it, a shame. He says hello to the blonde in the next booth.

Her name is Eileen, and, Ratso surmises after two minutes of conversation, she’s a stone groupie, from her platform shoes to her mood ring to her pseudo-cultivated British whine.

“I had an affair with a nightclub singer, a married man,” Eileen is confessing to Ratso after three minutes, “all Mafia. Bodyguards, that scene. We screwed, we got off pretty good. We’re both Pisces. He offered me a job.”

“Is that Kinky Friedman, the underground artist,” a voice floats from the next table over.

“He’s with Bob Dylan,” Eileen snaps back at the local kid.

“Tell him I want to meet Mick Ronson,” the kid screams back.

“Who are these guys?” Ratso asks.

“Douche bags,” Eileen spits, “just schmucks. I wouldn’t advise talking to them.”

Ratso wanders over to their table anyway, and a few minutes later ambles back to Eileen’s booth. “I heard you’re a cockteaser, from those guys.”

“Tell them to screw it because they’ve never been in my pants,” she flares.

“Well, look, me and Kinky are into very kinky sex, Kinky’s orthodox and he’ll only fuck with a sheet with a hole in it between him and the girl. And I like to make it in linen closets, something about the smell.”

“Well, I’ve made it in cloakrooms, baby,” she smiles and they head upstairs.

Ratso bursts into the room with Eileen in tow, finding Kinky engrossed in the movie and not particularly thrilled with the
prospect of a strange, young female, with an affected accent at that. Eileen immediately makes a beeline for Kinky’s snakeskin boots, examining them as if they were moon rocks. “What do you have these tips for, to kick people with?” she giggles obnoxiously. Kinky just ignores her. “I think he finds me rude,” she says loudly.

“No, just tedious,” Kinky sighs, “I don’t find anybody rude.”

“This dude is obnoxious,” she sneers to Ratso.

“No, he’s sweet,” the reporter smiles.

“Hey baby I’ve been around,” she glares at Kinky, “I know what it’s like.”

“We are gonna go look for a linen room,” Ratso smiles at Kinky, “Eileen likes to fuck in cloakrooms.”

“Well, ’bye baby,” Kinky sneers.

“I don’t give a fuck about you,” Eileen snaps back.

“I don’t give a fuck about you either, sweetheart. You can come and go. I just find you a little bit tedious.” Kinky frowns.

“You are calling me a tease …” Eileen’s incredulous.

“You’re not hearing very well, I said tedious.”

“What does tedious mean? I’ll call the news service right now and find out what tedious means.”

“Good,” Kinky dismisses her.

“Why don’t you go play in your band and get off on your guitar and screw it up your hole,” her accent is beginning to fall apart under pressure.

“What are you doing?” Ratso screams at her. “You alienated my brother. He’s very sensitive.”

“I’m sorry, I apologize, sweetheart,” she says to Ratso.

Kinky gets up and starts packing. “I just want some slack, man.”

“You want what?” Eileen prods.

“I’m not talking to you,” Kinky rolls his eyes.

“Then who is he talking to?” Eileen asks Ratso.

“Look,” Kinky explodes, “you’re the most obnoxious slit I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Slut!” Eileen turns white. “Did you call me a slut?”

“Slit!” Kinky screams, “Slit! Slit! SLIT, you’re an obnoxious slit.” He’s roaming the room, waving his hands in the air.

“Hey baby,” her accent is back, “you can cram it up your ass sideways and spin it.”

“Good line. Good line. I see you been watching Gabe Kaplan on TV tonight too.”

“I don’t like you,” Eileen says with finality.

“I don’t like you, I don’t like you,” Kinky parrots, “I think you’re a mean, vacuous little slit.”

“That’s how you gotta be around here baby if you want to get somewhere.” Eileen gives Ratso a knowing stare.

“I’m gonna go get a hamburger,” Kinky starts to leave.

“Please leave,” Eileen begs.

“It’s his room,” Ratso yells.

“That’s right, it’s his room and I’m being rude,” Eileen laughs.

“You’re not succeeding in being rude, I mean you’re not even rude.” Kinky pauses, grabs Ratso and pulls him into the bathroom for a conference.

“It’s a funny stupid room, why don’t you leave? We don’t need you,” Eileen is screaming from the bedroom. “What are you saying about me? Hey screw you, cowboy. Put it up sideways. I hope you gag on it. I hope you gag on your hamburger. I hope you get the clap …. You can kinky it up your rear end.” In fact, Eileen’s still shouting obscenities as Ratso escorts her to the door and dumps her in the hall, where she stands like yesterday’s room service, waiting to be picked up.

It’s about 4
A.M.
now and Kinky goes back to packing, but Ratso is totally wired from the confrontation. “Look, 86 the limo, I’ll take you to the airport, we’ll tennis-shoe this together.”

So they plot the escape, drawing little maps of the corridors and the exits on the motel stationery, then grab a half-hour’s sleep. Promptly at 5:30, Ratso peeks his head out into the hall, and tiptoes to the elevator, followed closely by Kinky, their arms full of luggage
and a garment bag. The elevator slides open, and Ratso cautiously peers down toward the front desk, then scoots down the hall. Kinky follows. They screech to a stop at the end of the corridor.

“OK, now we only have to sneak past that one last closed-circuit TV camera that guards the rear door,” Ratso whispers to Kinky, pointing to a fire-alarm system on the ceiling. Ratso digs into his bag and emerges with some Gillette Foamy. He tiptoes over to the alarm and sprays it with a solid hunk of shaving cream. “OK we’ve neutralized the TV lens. They’ll just think it’s snowing hard at the desk,” he chuckles and they rush out to the Monte Carlo. Five minutes later on the highway they breathe easier.

Ratso drops off Kinky who has to catch a plane to Texas, and then spends the rest of the day driving up to Maine. It’s a beautiful day, clear, cold, a light layer of snow coating the countryside, and Ratso is feeling good, despite the lack of sleep. The Monte Carlo hurtles north, toward Fenway, the surroundings getting bleaker and less and less populated, until finally when he falls onto the concrete carpet called Highway 95, Ratso is beginning to think he’s in Alaska. It’s never looked this dark out before.

He finally pulls into the Fenway Howard Johnson’s around 5, picks up his key and newsletter, unpacks, and wanders into the bar. One of the guys from the film crew is there and tells him that everyone’s filming across the street at a gas station. Ratso scurries out.

At the station, Dylan and Sara and Sam Shepard are in the middle of a scene, under a car on racks. Ratso rushes up and pulls Jack Baran, the assistant producer, over. “What’s going on?” he whispers.

“Just a subplot,” Baran answers, and Ratso inches closer to the action. “There’s too many people in here,” Meyers decides, turning around and surveying the four or five onlookers. Mel Howard hurries out, but Ratso tries to blend into a pile of tires. “There’s too many people in here, Sloman, outside! I don’t want to see your face.”

Ratso and Baran stand outside the station, shivering as a heavy snow begins to fall. “It’s snowing hard,” Baran notices. “Good. Maybe the snow’ll bring this thing to a total halt.”

“Then we can sit down and have a Thanksgiving dinner,” Ratso hopes.

Baran smirks, “We’ll probably get an instant turkey pill.”

The mere mention of food sends Ratso into the office of the gas station. He stares at the candy machine, pondering Snickers, Crunch, $100,000 Bar, Peanut Chew …

“Are you using that machine?” It’s Dylan, who’s stomped into the office, trailed by the camera. Ratso looks up into the lens.

“You look really familiar. I know you from someplace,” Dylan peers at the reporter’s face.

“You too,” Ratso goes along. “You want some candy?” he asks Dylan.

“You’re first,” Dylan says.

“No, no, go ahead,” Ratso does Alphonse to Dylan’s Gaston. They each get some candy. “What are you doing here?” Dylan’s eyes narrow. “You trying to steal some thunder?” Ratso shrugs. “I’m going to have to think about that one,” he smiles, and Dylan stomps back to the garage area, trailed by the camera. Ratso follows them.

Dylan walks back over to Shepard, who’s playing a garage mechanic, and Sara, who’s playing Bob’s companion. “Where can I get another car?” Dylan asks Shepard. “I’m going to Mexico.” Sara tightens the shawl around her shoulders. Shepard asks what Sara does.

“She is a typist, that’s her gig,” Bob smiles.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight, we’re going to Tucson.” Dylan starts peering at the underside of the car.

“That’s a hell of a run,” Shepard drawls.

“What happens around here?” Dylan wonders.

“The weather changes,” Shepard chuckles.

“Hey, I’ll buy the car offa ya,” Dylan offers.

Just then, a kid tries to enter the office from outside. Ratso blocks the door. “Hey, let me in. I own the place. I think I got a
right to come in.” Ratso apologizes and lets the owner in. “You guys are all fucked up,” the kid shakes his head. Inside, the scene has petered out and Dylan and Sara walk out into the cold snow-filled air, arm in arm, trailed by the ubiquitous Meyers. He’s ahead of them now, backing up, filming all the while, heading straight for the gas pump, when he suddenly trips on the concrete and sprawls on the ice. Ratso catches up to Bob and Sara.

“Hey Ratso,” Dylan looks solemn, as Meyers is back on his feet filming, “ask Kemp to tell you what he told me.”

“Huh?”

“Just ask Louie to tell you what he told me,” Dylan repeats enigmatically.

“Let me ask you one question,” Ratso buttonholes Bob, “I’ve always wanted to know this. When you say in ‘Sad Eyed Lady’ that ‘my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums,’ is it two distinct separate images, ‘warehouse eyes’ and ‘Arabian drums’ or is it using eye as a verb, you know, ‘my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums.’”

Dylan looks befuddled. “Yeah,” Sara tugs on his arm and smiles, “I’ve always been curious about that, too.”

“Eh, uh,” Dylan’s at a loss for words, “oh man, you always catch me at my worst, Ratso.” He tugs Sara toward the motel.

Ratso follows into the Howard Johnson’s and notices kids running around the lobby, being chased by a silver-haired lady and a middle-aged black woman. They’re cute kids, loud, obnoxious, shy, and just generally normal. They’re Dylan’s kids, the reporter discovers, and that lady is Dylan’s mother.

Ratso gets a ride to the gig with Larry Johnson, who’s traveling to the Augusta date in his friend’s van. Outside, the temperature’s approaching zero, as the reporter shivers in the rear of the van.

“Do you know how they named the band?” Johnson asks. Ratso feigns ignorance. “Remember the Cambodia invasion, when Nixon bombed Cambodia? The bombing mission was code-named ‘Rolling Thunder.’ Scarlett told me that, she’s very political. And get this. The planes that attacked Cambodia, the flights originated from the
U.S. base in the area, which is Guam.” Johnson pauses for dramatic effect. “Heavy, huh?”