A Freewheelin' Time (25 page)

Habits

In 1964 the surgeon
general had delivered the dictum on the dangers of smoking cigarettes and I decided it was time to quit. In fact, I spent another five or six years quitting before I finally managed it. During the interim I dabbled in several methods, and the very first was the decision not to buy cigarettes anymore.

The Beat poet Gregory Corso was in New York City from San Francisco for a reading or to show a film he had made about death; I don’t know for sure. I met him casually through people I worked with building sets for a theater production. He had inserted himself into a group of mutual friends as we walked toward my apartment on Avenue B. We were talking about something or other and at some point Gregory asked me for a cigarette. I told him I had quit—or was trying to—and had decided not to buy any. If I wanted to smoke, I would have to mooch from friends, and that would be awkward after a while, I figured; therefore I would quit by attrition.

Gregory listened attentively to my reasoning and then, for some perverse reason, tried to talk me out of quitting in the first place. He began an animated riff about the pleasures of smoking but somehow covered the history of the world, too. Then he veered off down the street in search of a place to buy a pack. By then we had reached my door and I waved good-bye and went upstairs.

After a few minutes I heard Gregory calling me from the sidewalk. He had bought two packs, he yelled, one for me and one for him, and because he didn’t want to climb all those stairs he was going to throw mine up to me. I leaned out as far as I could from the fifth-floor window, but it was impossible to catch it.

He seemed to enjoy the game. The pack took a beating. He left it for me inside the front door, but when I got down-stairs—which wasn’t right away—it was gone. Off I went to wherever I was going. Pondering the merits of Gregory’s richly expressed opinions, I bought a pack of cigarettes on the way.

O
ne night maybe as much as a year later, I went to a party given by the photographer Jerry Schatzberg in his loft near Union Square. A few of us went by car. I think Bobby Neuwirth was driving, but I am not sure. We picked up others on the way, including Edie Sedgwick, who was part of Andy Warhol’s Factory and starred in his films. She squeezed in next to me in the front seat and offered me a cigarette. I said, No thanks, maybe later.

At that time I was rolling my own. I was still trying to quit and still thinking up diverse ways to do it. For a while I tried weaning myself from cigarettes by smoking a pipe. My father smoked a pipe, so that was an added allure. I combed stores that sold smoking paraphernalia of all kinds until I finally found a “lady’s pipe.” It was beautiful, with a fine curve to the stem and a small rounded bowl carved from cherry-wood. Sylvia Tyson had given me an antique miniature meerschaum pipe in a leather case lined in gold velvet. It was a gem. When a fire broke out in my Houston Street apartment in late 1965, along with many other treasures, the pipe was lost.

I figured that the more complicated it was for me to have a cigarette, the easier it would be for me not to smoke one—the logic of the procrastinator. I patted myself on the back for refusing Edie’s offer of an easy smoke. One less.

I had bought a funny blue metal contraption about the size of a cigarette case that worked like a mini-cigarette-making machine. Loose tobacco was sprinkled in a compartment at one end, a cigarette paper was slid in the other, the case was snapped closed, and out popped a fully formed cigarette. There was more involved in this operation than just ripping open a package of ready-mades, and it was also a bit of fun. I got involved in the pleasures of buying loose tobacco, sampling many flavors and mixes until I settled on a Turkish blend similar to the harsh Nazionali brand I had smoked in Italy.

When we arrived, groups of people from the party were milling about on the sidewalk and I started to roll myself a cigarette. The second after I licked the paper and put the finished product to my lips, I was surrounded by cops who asked me for the contraption and the cigarette. I handed them over.

As one of them smelled the cigarette, I smiled and told him it was filled with tobacco, then showed him my little packet of Turkish blend. Someone found Jerry Schatzberg, who swore up and down to the police that I rolled my own tobacco-only cigarettes. I can vouch for her, Officer, he said. She uses tobacco, nothing else.

Nobody moved or spoke. We waited for the verdict. The situation was tense and the police took their time. OK, said the cop finally, giving me a look that told me I was lucky this time. He handed back the little machine, but not the cigarette.

A
ndy Warhol dogged Dylan the whole night, hanging on to his every word. Warhol seemed to enjoy being battered by Bob, who was in high hipster mode. In their pitch-black shades, Bob and Neuwirth, who was even sharper than Bob at times, could wipe the floor with anyone who came within their orbit.

Neuwirth had a wry sense of humor. He could turn anything around to mean something else, so being with him required being on your toes. He was guarded and knew how to protect himself; he was a survivor. I liked him, even if he was scary at times. I guess after being with the original scary guy, everything else was everything else.

Dylan, Neuwirth, and Albert Grossman were a very special trio. They were very different people and they weren’t really a trio—more like two duos with Dylan in common. What they shared was the ability to silence all conversation or unwanted questions with a blank stare. The look could be interpreted as condescension, a mask to hide behind, or complete indifference, depending on who delivered the look and the situation at hand. Any version from any one of them was guaranteed to unnerve those on the receiving end. With Neuwirth, it was less intimidating only because he wielded less power than Albert or Dylan, but he still could put someone on notice with his display of attitude.

Albert used his inscrutable expression in business deals or whenever he thought the situation required it. He was an astute and wise businessman who drove a hard bargain. He didn’t talk much, and when he did he could be very enigmatic. As a result, he was often misinterpreted.

He was a controversial figure in the music world. He emphasized the word
business
in music business, but he was the first manager to present his musicians as “artists,” demanding respect for their work from club owners, record companies, and music publishers.

Personally I never saw any reason to bad-mouth him—quite the contrary. And I have no knowledge of what happened between Bob and Albert in later years that led to Bob breaking his management contract. I will always remember Albert with affection. He was a good bear of a man.

S
ometime around 1964, I believe, Albert bought an apartment on Gramercy Park. He had parties there and it became another stop-off location, albeit a more upscale one. It was also a refuge for Bob, who stayed there now and then. I remember the apartment as having beautiful parquet floors and very little furniture.

One night after some party or other, when Bob and I were still unable to definitively separate, we ended up back at Albert’s place. Bob wanted me to stay. I refused, and instead of leaving it at that, I continued to talk a lot of shit while he sat listening on the bed. I don’t know what got into me that night but I couldn’t stop myself—I needed to hurt him.

When I turned to make my dramatic exit, I discovered I had lost my wallet. I sat down, feeling very foolish. When the phone rang, it was Ronnie Spector, lead singer of the Ronettes, who had found my wallet at the party. Bob gave me money so I could take a cab and go get it.

A
round the time Albert moved to Gramercy Park, he bought a wonderful big old house in Bearsville, outside Woodstock, New York, with fireplaces in every room and a pool on the grounds. After Albert and Sally got married, they lived there. Sally is the elegant woman in a red dress on the cover of
Bringing It All Back Home.
The photo, by Dan Kramer, was taken at the house.

One weekend at the Grossman home in Woodstock we were sitting around the table enjoying ourselves when Albert received a frantic call from the New York management office asking if he happened to know where Dylan was. Bob was scheduled to play a gig in Cambridge or Boston and hadn’t shown up. Rumors were flying that he was drunk in a bar somewhere or holed up at someone’s apartment. Fans were out scouting for him. Stories that he had been kidnapped or worse were already circulating.

Albert hung up the phone and returned to the table with that look on his face. He explained the call and said with a shrug it must have been a scheduling mistake. Either that or Bob and Albert had simply forgotten. There was nothing to be done, so Bob had to laugh. Cigarettes, not all of them filled with pure tobacco, were lit, and speculation began about the new tales that would be added to the Mysterious Dylan Legend.

Part Three

I’ve got child eyes, yes,

but an old mans brow

and I’m just scribbling around

to find out which is coming out my mouth

(NOTEBOOK ENTRY, 1964)

Restart

I was in pretty bad shape
after the breakdown I had gone through earlier in the year. A friend of my mother’s gave her the name of a psychiatrist: it was only a consultation, I was told, but I was feeling so lost and sad that I would have accepted anything anyone suggested.

In the doctor’s waiting room I was surprised to see one of the actresses from
Brecht on Brecht.
No doubt I said something flip about life’s difficulties because, looking at me closely, she replied: Yes, but life is good.

I was thankful she’d reminded me.

When it was my turn to see the psychiatrist, I was feeling pretty shaky. No matter how I presented myself I assumed he would sense my condition, so I didn’t say much. He looked at me with a concerned expression; he was too busy to take on another patient, he said, and then he gave me the name of a colleague.

By the time I went to see the colleague, I was better at masking my broken insides. The colleague was sitting at his big desk in a big dark room with thick drapes on the windows and a rug with a complicated pattern on the floor that held my attention. I sat in the stuffed armchair across from him.

He leaned toward me and said I should consider this a consultation. I should think about it, and when and if I felt ready to talk, I could call his office and make an appointment. It was up to me.

He smiled, and added that I appeared to be doing well. I was surprised he couldn’t see past my levelheaded, wise-beyond-my-years exterior to the smashed and broken bits inside. If he were worth his salt, he would have, I concluded. I smiled back, shook his hand, and left.

Halfway to the subway, I realized I had left my bag. When I went back, I joked with the receptionist: I left my bag. What could that mean?

She smiled kindly. I never called.

I hid out in Hoboken with my mother and Fred a while longer, listening to the Beatles, reading and drawing. They pretty much left me alone. Time heals, after all—although the clock that marks that kind of time has no hands.

Letter from Bob, April 1964:

I made you an easter egg man out of eggs an things…. it is fastly done but tied firmly…. altho I put it together with you in mind, I was too lonesome t send it. so it sits on my shelf. an keeps me company. (if he talked I’d probably throw him out).

I have ridden the motorcycle thru the roads around here…. I have rode alone tho thru the hills on backroads an have discovered all kinds of magic places. an great sweepin views…. the only person I’ve spent any time with is father francis at his church on the mount…I wish that we’d of gone up last year when we first heard of him.

yes that was me in life
[Life
magazine]. That was me there with the cigarette. did you get a look at my bodyguards. god damn them screamin girls. geno nailed two just after the picture was taken. albert rubbed his beard against a few…. they got immediately infected.

At last I was living alone on Avenue B and feeling much better for it. I was amazed that no one saw through my mask and instead complimented me on my “ability to pull through.” It was a little disconcerting, but after a while I believed that I had managed, after all. Life actually was better without Bob and his entourage.

Once a week I went to the School of Visual Arts to draw from a model. Mr. Potter, the instructor, was a galvanizing character, a tall, muscular man who strode into the studio wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt and black pants and sporting a shaved head.

I focused on drawing what was in between objects. I would draw just the outline of something—a person in a chair—and then draw with obsessive detail the things next to, in front of, or behind the figure, with everything on the same plane. As we drew from the model or a still life Mr. Potter had set up, he encouraged us to see what was in the negative space. He strode around the room and spoke with drama and flourish: Don’t stop with the model! See the surroundings! See in between the space! Draw that! He amplified my instinct to work the space between. He was inspiring; I loved going to his class.

As usual, I was freelancing, and one good job I found was working for the stage designer Ben Edwards, making a model of the set he designed for a Broadway production of
Hamlet
starring Richard Burton and directed by John Gielgud. The play was to be performed in casual dress and the set was austere. I was making the model of the castle of Elsinore and had to cut many bits of board into very small pieces and glue them onto the façade. I liked the peaceful monotony and the close attention to detail that the work required.

For the World’s Fair of 1964 in Flushing, Queens, I was hired to make props for a show to be presented at one of the U.S. pavilions. Though most of the props were easy enough to make, one was troublesome. I had to construct a pitcher that could break apart into three pieces and then be easily reassembled. I really wasn’t sure how to go about it. I hired my friend Gordon, an artist I’d met at the School of Visual Arts, but we got nowhere and I was very relieved when the show was canceled. For once I didn’t get upset that a job had fallen through and I hadn’t been reimbursed for the supplies I had bought.

Though the Avenue B apartment was quieter for a time, things picked up again at the end of May. Friends who had been away at college and showed up in the Village only during school vacation were in the city all the time now. The worlds of politics, poetry, music, art, and theater all rolled in and out of the apartment.

Despite the worries we had about the world and what to do about it, we were having a good time. The Beatles had crossed the Atlantic and had been on
The Ed Sullivan Show.
Their music had taken over the airwaves and our lives; folk music wasn’t what it used to be.