Bob Dylan's Fear originally appeared on this website in worse form. This is a heavily revised version I sent in for a contest. As it was not selected, I am free to share it here.
December 13, 1963
A pop in Bob Dylan’s head woke him up. It was painful and surprising, like his brain got sprained. He yelped and shot up in bed, panting and jamming his fingers in his ears, expecting to dig out a roach. But there was no roach. There was nothing. It could’ve not happened at all.
Then Bob Dylan realized the phone was ringing. Flustered and agitated, he twisted himself out of bed and into the kitchen where the phone was, walking across the freezing hardwood on his heels so as to spare his soles.
“Bob!” yelled the phone when namesake picked up. Obviously Grossman.
“Yes.”
“How the hell are you?”
“Was sleeping.”
Grossman kept talking as if Bob Dylan wasn’t there, hadn’t said anything. “Do you remember the thing I told you about last month? The thing I wanted you to do?”
“No, of course I don’t. And what thing couldn’t have waited?”
“An award, Bob. You’re receiving an award tonight. It’s all set up. The Americana Hotel at seven o’ clock.”
Bob Dylan groaned. Dressed only in his pajama briefs, he shivered pathetically. “An award? From who?” In the low light of winter pre-dawn, the familiar landscape of his kitchen was rendered in black-blue silhouettes. Out the window above his sink was the neverending gray of snowy, rolling Woodstock, as dormant and huge as a sleeping giant. It was surreal for the little phone to be penetrating the natural silence. It felt like violation.
“It’s from the…” Rustling papers could be heard through the phone. “Civil Liberties Committee. Sorry, the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee.”
Bob Dylan winced. “What the hell’re they giving me an award for?”
Grossman smacked his lips and adopted an affectless monotone: “Every year the ECLC presents the Tom Paine Award to an individual that we deem exceptional in their distinguished service in the fight for civil liberty. It sounds like the award is for your distinguished service, Bob. I’d be flattered if I were you.” There was the flick of a lighter.
Bob Dylan did a spot check for his own cigarettes, but found none in his kitchen. “My god.” He ran his hand through his dense hair and down his smooth face. Some mucus clung to his fingers and he wiped it off on his dining table. “Tom Paine. Who's that?”
“He wrote the Declaration of Independence.”
“That was Jefferson.”
“Same difference.” Grossman let out a guttural cough that suggested he, too, was grappling with an amount of mucus. “Be at the Americana in Manhattan tonight to receive the award; seven sharp, please.”
“Is there a way I could not?”
“What’d you say, Bob?”
“I don’t want to, Grossman. You’re my manager; you don’t own me.”
“Be there at seven or I’ll be extremely unhappy.”
Bob Dylan slammed the phone back in its cradle and went back to bed. He slept until noon, when was awoken by the arrival of Mairi, Henry, Clark and Edith, who let themselves in, calling out for ‘Bobby.’ Bob Dylan put on a robe and was greeted with a cheer when he met them in the living room.
“There he is.”
“Just waking up?”
Bob Dylan sat down on the couch and pointed at the pack of Marlboros on the coffee table. “Is that anybody’s?” he asked the room. Mairi said she had brought them but it was okay if he had one. Bob Dylan lit up, inhaled deeply, and began to rant about his morning: Grossman and the ECLC, Tom Paine’s award, even the pop in his head. The matter of the pop drew the most concern from his audience.
“Shit, Bob!”
“Does it still hurt?”
“Aren’t you worried it’s cancer?”
“No,” said Bob Dylan. “Not cancer. I thought it was a roach, but it’s not that, either. I would’ve felt it keep crawling, but I didn’t feel anything like that. So it’s not cancer or roaches.”
“Would you go to the hospital, Bobby?” Edith asked, softly and with great concern.
Bob Dylan recrossed his legs and sat on his hands. “If I don’t go to this dinner tonight, Grossman would kill me quicker than cancer could. So we don’t need to talk about it anymore.”
Clark piped up: “Could we come with you? I’m sure the guest of honor is allowed a plus-one-or two, yeah? Then it would be fun!”Clark was always a little drunk, but Bob Dylan liked his idea because it meant he wouldn't have to go to the ECLC dinner alone.
“Sure, Clark.” Bob Dylan nodded. “That’d be swell.”
Time passed and soon it was time to go to the dinner. Actually: they were already late by the time they decided to leave. Outside it was pitch-black and the cold of the day had turned from mean to menacing, a more clear and present threat. Being out in it reminded you why the phrase is ‘the dead of winter;’ the conditions were most reminiscent of the stillness, the non-feeling of a corpse.
Mairi, Henry, Clark and Edith were going to ride together in Henry’s Ford, the way they came, while Bob Dylan opted to ride solo on his Triumph T100, a small red motorbike splattered with the winter mud of his last ride. He said he couldn’t leave until his bike was cleaned, so his friends waited inside for the thirty minutes it took. They talked about Bob Dylan:
“I love Bobby—“
“Of course. We all do.”
“But he’s a little dim, no?”
“Really has trouble conversating.”
“Good songs, though.
“And now this brain-pop thing…”
“Oh brother.”
“I think it’s for attention. Even if he himself doesn’t know it’s for attention.”
They went back outside when they heard a rev. Bob Dylan was perched on his Triumph, wearing only a leather jack to keep him warm. “If you lose me, it’s the Americana Hotel on West Thirty-Eighth,” he called, and sped off. When Henry started the Ford, its headlights illuminated Bob Dylan’s fleeting silhouette, casting stretched shadows along the driveway that made Bob Dylan out to be much taller than he really was.
Bob Dylan and co. arrived at the Americana Hotel in Manhattan around nine o’clock, two hours late. Bob Dylan dismounted his bike slowly and with great discomfort. He was completely numb. He kicked his feet and windmilled his arms to get warmth back into his extremities, which caused strange, boiling pains to emerge in the places where hot blood clashed with cold flesh. Then he saw the fliers posted on the doors of the Americana:
Dinner
by the
EMERGENCY CIVIL LIBERTIES COMMITTEE
celebrating
The Bill of Rights
on the one hundred seventy-second anniversary
of its ratification
Six-Thirty O’Clock, Friday, December 13, 1963
Grand Ballroom, Americana Hotel
With a quote from Thoreau at the bottom:
There will never be a really free and enlightened State until the State comes to recognize the individual as a higher and independent power, from which all its own power and authority are derived, and treats him accordingly.
Mairi, Clark, Edith, and Henry giggled and pointed. “Holy shit!” cried Clark, and took a swig from his flask. “Has it been a hundred and seventy-two years already?” Everyone laughed except Bob Dylan, who murmured something unintelligible.
“What’s that, Bob?” asked Edith.
“I said I wish I were dead,” he repeated.
“Condolences, Mr Dylan.” It was the doorman, appearing as if out of nowhere at Bob Dylan’s side. He was burly and wearing a black pea coat, had stubble and furrowed brows, and held himself like a pragmatist. Pragmatists are hard to get around. “Welcome to the Americana,” he intoned. “They’ve been waiting for you in the ballroom.” He surveyed Clark, Edith, Henry, and Mairi. “And who’s this with you?”
Bob Dylan looked back at his crew with a look like he wasn’t totally sure. “They’re friends of mine that I’ve invited to come with me.” As if he were reminding himself.
“I’m sorry Mr Dylan,” the burly doorman purred, visibly not sorry, “but I’m afraid I can’t let your friends in; only you.”
“What the hell, man?!” Clark slurred. “We not proper enough?”
“Surely there’s room for us,” Mairi pleaded. “It’s freezing out here!”
“Tell him, Bob,” Henry said, jutting his chin out at the doorman. “As guest of honor, tell him that we gotta come with you.”
Bob Dylan hesitated. His face for a moment spasmed into a look of great doubt, then great contempt. “What can I do? If you can’t come in you can’t come in.”
Bob Dylan’s friends shared a knowing look. “Thanks for the effort, Bob,” Henry said flatly. Sensing it was time to move on, Bob Dylan turned his back on the situation and ducked inside, following the hotel’s signs and signifiers that led him to the closet set of double doors that acted as the entrance to the Ballroom, above which Ballroom was written in ornate lettering. There at the threshold, alone in the hallway, Bob Dylan took little, shallow breaths in and out through his nose, his mouth sealed shut and stuck in a curdled position of discontent. He slapped himself in the face, hard, three times in rapid succession, then opened the doors to the Ballroom. A genial smoke filled the air, mixing with the conversation and swirling lazily upward. Dirty plates and half-eaten dinners lay on the dozens and dozens of circular tables situated about the room, and people were either invested in the company at their own table, or were wandering about to chat with neighbors. Spindly old women had mink coats draped over their shoulders and jewels decorating their necks, bought by their bald husbands who wore gold wristwatches and agreeably absent expressions.
A call rose above the chatter: “Aha! Mr Dylan!” One of the bald men was approaching Bob Dylan with a large smile and arms outstretched in enthusiasm. He had a soft, intelligent face and glasses that magnified his energetic countenance. Clasping Bob Dylan’s hand in his and shaking it vigorously, he introduced himself. “Well met, Mr Dylan! I’m Corliss Lamont, founder of the ECLC. Thank you so much for coming tonight, such an honor. Everyone is thrilled.”
Bob Dylan faltered. “Sure. Sorry for the lateness, hope I didn’t ruin things.”
Corliss Lamont dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “Don’t mention it. You didn’t miss a thing. What’s important is we saved you a plate, if you’re hungry. Now if you would follow me, there’s a seat for you up front.” Lamont took off in long strides that Bob Dylan had to be quick to keep up with, following him to a long, elevated table with a podium in the middle that faced out towards the crowd. Lamont gestured to an empty chair and sat himself to the right of it, placing himself between Bob Dylan and another fellow who introduced himself as John Henry Faulk and looked like Lamont but younger. Immediately Bob Dylan informed both men that he wasn’t hungry and would instead prefer a strong drink. Lamont pulled a waitress aside and asked for a bottle of red wine, then turned to Bob Dylan. “So Mr Dylan,” Lamont started, “How are you tonight?”
Bob Dylan tried a smile. “All right.”
The waitress returned with an open bottle and poured three glasses. Per Bob Dylan’s request, she left the bottle on the table. Lamont reached for his glass and called for a toast.
“To you, Bob. For making it.” Bob Dylan clinked glasses and drained his in one gulp. He poured another.
“I’ve long been an admirer of yours, Mr Dylan,” said Lamont.
“That’s very kind of you to say.” Bob Dylan was speaking to the tablecloth, which he had pinched between his fingers. He drank more.
“Your songs have done more to inspire and motivate this country’s progressive youngsters than most politicians I’ve seen. It’s phenomenal, the messaging you’re able to fit into a folk song while still being able to make it come out lovely.” Lamont then leaned in to produce a conspiratorial, teasing effect. “Surely I’m not the first to compare you to Mr Guthrie?” A sweet grin was on his face. He smelled like cologne and mothballs.
“Actually you’re the twelfth.” Bob Dylan offered a tight-lipped smile before drinking more and going back to studying the pattern on the tablecloth. Lamont guffawed generously, way out of proportion with the quip.
“And if I may ask, as a decidedly un-creative person myself, how do you write your songs? Where do you start? With images? Feelings?”
Bob Dylan drank more and seemed to seriously consider the question. “I write songs that I think people will like. It’s hard for me to put pen to paper unless I’ve already figured out how whatever song I’m trying to write will appease Dick or Jane. Or how it will get them to vote Democrat in the next election. That’s really all there is to it. Anyone could do it if they just decide to, and that’s what I did.” He drank more
Bob Dylan’s response put a confused, but still genial, expression on Lamont’s face. “Surely that can’t be the case.”
Bob Dylan nodded. “It is. Woodie was able to do it from within himself–that’s not me, I’ve learned, that’s not what I do. You know I met Woody?” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, but didn’t expand on his rhetorical question until prompted by Lamont, who replied, no, he didn’t know Bob Dylan met Woody Guthrie. “Yep. Important day. The kind of day every man should have.”
“I should say so!”
“Well, Mr Lamont, meeting Woody–I met him before he died, when he was in the hospital. Meeting Woody taught me not to have icons anymore. To not worship men. Nothing against Woody. He’s deserved his merit. But I went to him for help, some kind of guidance, and that was a mistake. He couldn’t help me. There’s no way he could. And that’s alright.” John Henry Faulk, who so far had been disengaged from the conversation, was looking at Bob Dylan like he’d grown a second head. “But what it also taught me, then,” Bob Dylan continued, “is that if I can’t help people, I might as well give them what they want, so that’s been my goal ever since. That’s how I write songs.”
To Lamont’s credit, the ensuing stunned silence didn’t last too long, and he kept his manner polite and measured. “Alright, then. I’ve bothered you enough with my chit-chat. Do you feel ready?” Bob Dylan thought he was being asked whether he was ready to leave, so he nodded ‘yes,’ but instead of leading the way to the exit, Lamont approached the podium and tapped the microphone. “Hello, everyone, friends. I trust you have been enjoying yourselves. Things are winding down, but before we call it a night, we have one more speaker–our star speaker, in fact, who, despite delays, was able to make it to the Americana tonight to accept his prestigious award and share a few words with us all.”
Bob Dylan’s attention snapped to Lamont, bloodshot eyes bulging, incredulous at this sabotage. He turned to Faulk. “No one told me I was gonna have to speak. What’m I supposed to say? What should I say?” His words were slurred and spoken in a disjointed tempo. “What’re they expecting? Was I supposed to know?”
Faulk shifted in his seat and re-crossed his arms. Not even swiveling his head to respond, he replied, “Say whatever you’d like, Mr Dylan.”
“Why did no one tell me to bring my guitar? I’d’ve played a damn song.”
“Just keep it simple, Mr Dylan. No need to worry.”
“But…what do they want? I’ll say it, just tell me, please.”
Faulk looked at Bob Dylan with disgust. “To hear you tell it Mr Dylan, you should have no problem giving the people what they want.” Bob Dylan turned red and looked at his hands. Then he grabbed the bottle of wine, drained what was left, then got up to leave. Head down, he scurried towards the exit, sticking close to the perimeter of the ballroom. Lamont was still speaking and Bob Dylan could hear murmurs sprouting in his wake, murmurs that turned into playful shouts of “get back in here!”, like he was a wayward puppy. He’d made it to the double doors when a man, just some random attendee of the dinner, actually grabbed his arm to stop him. “Come on, now, don’t leave yet,” the man said. “Just give us a few thoughts, we’ve been waiting all night!” Soon it became a matter of dignity not to struggle anymore. Bob Dylan sulked back to the podium to the sound of sarcastic applause.
“The unpredictable Bob Dylan, ladies and gentleman,” Lamont announced, like this had all been staged, “This year’s recipient of the Tom Paine award!”
Flashes went off as pictures were captured. The light hit Bob Dylan like a slap to the face. He blinked a lot and was wobbly on his feet, gripping the railing of the podium as he ascended. Lamont put his arm around Bob Dylan’s shoulder and they posed for a few more pictures, the latter smiling so pathetically the photographers wished he hadn’t bothered to try. Then Bob Dylan was handed a portrait of a man who must have been Tom Paine, who was depicted as having a gentle face and deep, sad eyes. Bob Dylan was transfixed by those eyes. They seemed to understand him. They made Bob Dylan feel so lonesome that it gave him vertigo. And it was at that moment that there was another pop in his brain, just as before, same sound, same instantaneous pain. Bob Dylan disguised his reaction as a couple of sneezes, which generated a few “bless you”s from the audience. He couldn’t believe it had happened again, that it was real. His heart pounded against the confines of his skinny chest as he attempted to gather himself. To break the silence and buy time, he said, “I haven’t got any guitar. I can talk though,” which earned a chuckle from the audience, who luckily interpreted Bob Dylan’s noticeable resentment as a joke. “Um.” He couldn’t think straight. To do what must be done went against what every cell in his body was screaming at him to do. All he could focus on was the necessity for speech, so he spoke without restraint.
“I want to thank you for the Tom Paine award in behalf…everybody that went down to Cuba.” A smattering of applause. “First of all because they're all young and it's took me a long time to get young and now I consider myself young…And I only wish that all you people who are sitting out here today, or tonight I mean, weren’t here and I could see all kinds of faces with hair on their head.” Bob Dylan wiped his nose and quickly added, “You should be out there and you should be swimming and you should be just relaxing in the time you have to relax.” Bob Dylan drunkenly expanded on his thoughts regarding youth and old age for a little while longer. He wished another pop would come to end his suffering permanently. People’s expressions were bafflingly kind and receptive to his inane speech. How could they stand for this?
More words tumbled out: “I’ve read history books, but I’ve never seen one history book that tells how anybody feels. It’s all just plain facts. And it don’t help me one bit to look back…Though I do wish sometimes I could have come here in the 1930’s like–I used to have an idol, Woodie Guthrie, who came in the 1930’s.” The crowd applauded obligingly at the familiar concepts.“But it has sure changed in the time Woody’s been here and the time I’ve been here. It’s not that easy anymore. People seem to have more fears.” His last sentence sent a hush over the crowd. “I…” Bob Dylan wet his lips. He had everyone’s attention. Lamont looked on in anticipation. “I’ll stand up and get uncompromisable about it, which I have to be to be honest. I just gotta be.”
Bob Dylan was telling the truth when he said he was being honest, but he’d meant the remark to function as a warning. Honesty is not an inherently valorous trait. Most of the time it’s actually the easiest thing in the world to do, as easy as eating too much ice cream, as easy as pissing yourself–you just let go:
“I got to admit that the man who shot President Kennedy, Lee Oswald, I don’t know exactly where–what he thought he was doing, but I got to admit honestly that I too…I saw some of myself in him.” The energy in the room shifted distinctly. “I got to stand up and say I saw things that he felt in me…” Boos and hisses erupted from the crowd. “Not to go that far and shoot! You can boo but booing’s got nothing to do with it!” The sounds of dissent built to a roar, but Bob Dylan was almost done, anyway. “It’s a- I just a- I’ve got to tell you man, it’s Bill of Rights…is free speech…and I just want to admit that I accept this Tom Paine Award on behalf of Philip Luce and the group he led to Cuba.” Bob Dylan grabbed the portrait of Tom Paine and turned to flee, almost knocking over Lamont, whom Bob Dylan didn’t see was right behind him, hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Bob Dylan cried. “I am. I can’t speak. You shouldn’t have made me.”
“You’re right, Mr Dylan,” said Lamont, a sad smile on his face. “My mistake.”
Bob Dylan escaped from the ballroom of the Americana with ill-wishes and threats trailing behind him. He walked briskly past the doorman and to his motorbike across the street, which he mounted and rode without rest back to his home in Woodstock. For the whole ride he wrote words in his head that he did not want to forget.
Back inside his house around midnight, Bob Dylan made his way through the dark to his desk, turned on the lamp next to it, sat down, and began writing a letter:
to anybody it may concern…
clark?
mairi?
philip?
edith?
mr lamont?
countless faces I do not know
an all fighters for good things that I can not see
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