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Bob Dylan Is A Miserable Bitch
Brad! | | | | | |
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It was odd seeing Bob Dylan there in the 3 am moonlight of my front porch,
but I didn't ask questions. I just accepted it. This sort of thing doesn't
happen everyday, at least not to people like me. All I could think to do was
to invite him in.
"Come on in out of the cold, Mr. Dylan. You must be freezing."
"I really wish you'd call me Bob, and thanks."
He sat down on my couch and started flipping through the channels while I
went to the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on. I don't drink coffee, but I
figured he did. I had to find the directions that came with the coffeemaker.
That's how inept I was at making coffee.
I want to think it turned out alright, but he took one sip, grimaced, and
took out a pack of cigarettes.
"Uh, Bob, my roommate kinda has this no-smoking rule in the house, and it's
really his place. I just live here."
"It's cool, man." He kept smoking and flipping through the channels.
We sat there watching some kung-fu movie for about thirty minutes, neither
one of us saying a word. I dozed off twice only to be jarred awake by the
realization that I was watching late night television with Bob Dylan in my
underwear.
"Where's the facilities, man?"
I pointed down the hall. It sounded weird for him to ask it like that. I'd
always thought that if I ever had to tell Bob Dylan to walk down the hall to
the second door on the left it would be prefaced with "Where can I take a
leak?", but instead he was quite the gentleman about it.
I heard him coughing into the sink and then I heard the shower come on.
Surprisingly he didn't sing in the shower….not that I heard anyway.
At 7 the next morning when my alarm went off, I was lying on the couch. Al
Roker was telling what a beautiful day it would be in "my neck of the
woods", and I had a headache. I went to my room, woke Bob up, and got in the
shower. I had let him sleep in my bed. He didn't even have to persuade me.
He asked and I said okay.
When I got out of the shower I smelt breakfast cooking in the kitchen. I
walked in there to thank him for cooking breakfast, but he wasn't there. It
was just my roommate.
"What are you looking at?"
"Have you seen Bob?"
"Bob who?"
"Duh, Bob Dylan."
"Was he the one who smoked in the house last night. You know how I feel
about that. Your mom called last night while you were out, by the way."
"Oh. Okay. See ya."
I thought maybe I'd see him walking down the streets on my way to work, but
I didn't. I could've given him a ride to wherever he was heading. He
could've at least thanked me. The bastard.
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