Scene 1: Bob Dylan sits on top of an old, worn-out tire. Just some piece of junk he found in the backyard of an old automobile salvage yard. His bare feet don't even touch the ground. Slumped over in the traditional pose of "folk guitar player", the pick he holds in his right hand, when strummed across the strings, causes vibrations that end up all together in the A minor chord he holds in his other hand. There is an angelic, prayerful expression on his face. A light of inspiration glowing from the inside out. He ain't singing about Johnny mixing up any medicine. "Forever Young", likely.
Scene 2: Bob sits in a smoky pub, smoking pot with Paul McCartney, who is sporting some of the grooviest sunglasses ever to hide a pair of bloodshot eyes. Paul seems to be yelling something to Bob, not really being heard over the noisy (and slightly inebriated) crew at the bar. It looks like everyone there is toking doobies, even Mickey Dolenz, who hides directly to the right, almost obscured behind Macca's head. No matter what any of them might tell you...the stone cold fact is that every single one of these trendsters (J.P. McCartney right along with 'em) are only here for one reason:
ZIMMY.
B.Z. slouches unconcerned, his eyes riveted to the big screen television that sits on a shelving unit directly above the Restrooms. Noone seems to care about what he so intently watches.
More fool them.
It's the seventh game of the World Series and Robert's got $500 in his pocket that said the Yankees would pull it off. There is a certainty, if that money lied, that Dylan might actually have to resort to crashing at McCartney's pad. Or if that proved too difficult perhaps Mr. Dolenz would oblige. That would sure give him something to talk about when he hooks back up with Mike, Peter & Davy on the first day of shooting 3 new episodes of the show.
Yeah, Dolenz it will be. Dylan thinks it over and decides against even asking Paul if he can spend the night. He doesn't like Linda much, anyway.
Scene 3: Young Bob has ditched the entire pub lot, having decided not to attempt to procure rooms from any of his hangers-on. Instead he walked two miles out of town until he found an old, white house with a beautiful picket fence all around. He's not sure if he actually knows anyone who lives here. If he does he's forgotten long ago.
Everything turns to black and white as he knocks on the door. He is perfectly willing to do whatever must be done to secure a room for the night. Maybe a few vittles for his growling stomach to boot. Anything at all for some grub, up to and including premeditated murder, if the situation calls for it. He actually kind of hopes it will come to this. It has been a long, long time since Dylan last killed. It wouldn't hurt his reputation one bit to add another notch to that belt.
Alas, none of these opportunities present themselves. It is a young boy who answers the door and first sees the lanky stranger with the big nose. The kid can't be much older than six or seven. His hair is tassled and long. It falls across the back of a loose white t-shirt. The shirt looks like it's been worn a lot of times.
"Howdy, feller," he says to Bob Dylan as he takes him in. "Is there something I can do to ease your weary load?"
An old soul, no doubt. His frank words of compassion are disarming.
"Well, son, what I really need is a place to hang my head for the night. A soft goose down piller if you've got one. My head's heavy and I've just come from a congregation of followers who would think they were dreaming if they saw me here begging for a room from a little tyke such as yourself. It drags on me, I tell you. It pulls hard. But it must be done. If you want me to cut to the chase, I will...I'm tired and I'm hungry."
"I guess I could fix you a sandwich or something."
"Sandwich would be just fine, if that's all you've got. I mean, that's the only choice I have. I would prefer something that would stick to the old ribs better than a pithy sandwiche, but if that's as close as I'm gonna come to bein' fed, well, mister, slap some 'o that mustard on a couple of pieces of bread." Zimmy starts to contemplate the possibility that, for all his bitching and moaning, a sandwich actually doesn't sound half bad. Maybe a nice pastrami with Swiss, or a thin sliced honey ham on Rye with 4 or 5 bread and butter sliced pickles. Provolone cheese. Maybe even some lettuce and tomatoes if such extravagences were not out of the reach of this kid's obviously impoverished family.
"Kitchen's in here. You gonna have to fend for yourself"...and with that he hurls a small bundle of foodstuffs at Bob. Everything anyone might need to make one fine sandwich. A tasty sandwich, the likes of which even Bob Dylan must shout the praises of. French's classic yellow mustard. Miracle Whip. Various slice meats including corned beef, roast beef, salami, bologna as well as the afore mentioned pastrami and honey ham. Oh, and there was turkey, as well. Bone dry white meat turkey that would be impossible to eat without some kind of side dish, like instant stuffing or between two condiment drenced slices of toast.
A fit feast for a king.
It wasn't too long before the sandwiches were made and not too much longer than that until they were gone to crumbage. A decent scrap of eats chased down with a can or two of Schaeffer's beer.
"Here, kid...have a brew," says Bob Dylan, tossing a cold can at the youngster's head.
He snatches it from it's trajectory before it beans his forehead and cries out, "I can't! I can't, you devil. I am only seven years old. It might make me sick. My dad would kill me."
"Where IS your dad, if I may be so bold to ask?"
"He's gone our drinkin' to the Hammer Head...the last time he done that he didn't come home until 9:00 o'clock the next mornin'."
"Well, then. What's the big deal? Bottoms up, you fiesty little whipper snapper."
And with that he forces the can to the child's mouth and pours it's acrid, piss yellow contents into his mouth. With much spurting and gagging the boy finally swallows the last gulp and Dylan lets him go, watching as his jelly-bellied body lightly thumps to the ground.
"I'm gonna be sick, sir. I'm gonna be real, real sick."
"Bite the bullet, you little bastard. If you're gonna dine with me you're gonna act like a grown up. You're gonna swill that beer like a pro. You're gonna guzzle until the time comes when guzzling doesn't feel like guzzling anymore. Do you like my hat?"
"Ughaugha....kachoooo...gurg...pfipt...you're...uhuhuh...claccccc...your hat, mister?...gggaaaaagg...spitoo-ee...what about your hat?"
"I ask you if you liked it."
"If I like it?"
"Oh come now, ostentatious youth. How can I make myself any clearer than that? My white hat with the swoosh back brims. The one I stole from John Lennon the night he came over and asked for a light. I thought it was a beautiful hat the first time I ever saw it. Yoko had it on her head and it made her look positively regal. I said at the time, 'I've got to have that hat. I've got to make it mine.' I tried offering him money, but he wasn't having any of that. 'This hat's not for sale," he says. So I punched him with a broomstick, knocked the wind right out of him. He dropped this hat, you see, and the rest is history. It's ownership passed hands at that very moment, and now I'm asking you, knowing what you now know of it, if you LIKE it."
"You want to know...now let me get this straight...you want to know if I LIKE that hat on your head...the one which, it may be serendipitous to add, was at one time owned by one of the biggest legends of all time? Now that it's perched on your head you want an outsider's opinion of just how retarded it makes you look?"
"Hey, I was a rock and roll legend, too, once. I just want to know if you dig the hat, that's all."
"I guess it's fine," the kid said. "It's not really your style, though."
"Well who's style is it, then?"
"I don't know. Might look good on another retard."
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