On the Road with Bob Dylan (63 page)

Ratso thought about the other persons he had encountered who had been blessed or cursed by FAME, senators, movie stars, sports idols, other musicians and artists, and he realized that if Dylan was protected by armor from human interchange, then these others were walking around in masoleums. And Ratso smiled to himself,
and then a chill ran down his spine as he remembered the public performances of this man fame had grappled with. He remembered Plymouth Rock, and the Halloween show when Dylan tried to sing with his mask on, and the big halls, and Waterbury, how could he ever forget that night, when the singer dedicated one of his favorite songs to him.

And he recalled Burlington and that furnace of a gym and the makeup streaming over Dylan’s sweat-soaked face. The list could go on and on, but in the end Ratso knew that Dylan was right. He had never let the reporter down onstage, never. And Ratso peered out through his dark glasses at that little genius, who was downing tequila after tequila, alone in a crowd, celebrating privately in public, and he thought about all the great songs over the years, the songs that shook empires, the songs that made men weep, the songs that turned around so many people’s visions and ideals and aspirations, the reporter himself being one of the many who were rescued by “Like a Rolling Stone.”

And then, as if by magic, that song started playing, the majestic Bloomfield guitar filling the stale bar air, and then that voice, that icon of pride and rage and torment and despair and, yes, hope. “How does it feeellll?” it asked, and Ratso looked to the creator for an answer. Dylan just slumped down a bit more in his chair, pulled his hat over his face, and downed another shot.

“Hey, schmuck,” the would-be accountant leaned over to the superstar, “listen to this. You didn’t do your best songs on this tour either.”

Dylan shot up and peered at Ratso. “Well, what about you? You didn’t do nothing on this tour, man. I didn’t read one article you wrote. Why don’t you go home and write, man? Produce something. Do it, man, go home and write.”

And with that, Dylan and the Thunder stragglers moved out to the camper and piled in. And Mooney took the wheel and headed up Bleecker Street, toward Lexington Avenue and the Westbury,
hitting every pothole for spite, the real rolling thunder, on their way home.

And Ratso just stood there out on Bleecker Street and watched as the Executive slowly passed from his early-morning sight and then the reporter slowly made his way home. To write.

A
nd Larry wrote, and gradually began settling back into his old routine. Until he picked up his mail at his post-office box a week after they had all gone. He spied a letter from Lisa, postmarked West Dover, Vermont. He pulled the ruled paper out of the envelope and started reading the handwritten letter.

I was particularly interested when Gurdjieff said that the same performers would have to act and dance in the “White Magician” scene and in the “Black Magician” scene; and that they themselves and their movements had to be attractive and beautiful in the first scene and ugly and discordant in the second.

“You understand that in this way they will see and study all sides of themselves; consequently the ballet will be of immense importance for self-study,” said G.

I understood this far from clearly at the time, but I was struck by a certain discrepancy.

“In the notice I saw in the paper it was said that your ‘ballet’ would be staged in Moscow and that certain well-known ballet dancers would take part in it. How do you reconcile this with the idea of self-study?” I asked. “They will not play and dance in order to study themselves.”

“All this is far from being decided,” said G “And the author of the notice you read was not fully informed. All this may be quite different. Although, on the other hand, those taking part in the ballet will see themselves whether they like it or not.”

“And who is writing the music?” I asked.

“That also is not decided,” said G He did not say anything more, and I only came across the “ballet” again five years later.

—P. D. O
USPENSKY

In Search of the Miraculous