'The Third Man' thread' reminded me of it, with it's Touched By an Angel-like anecdotes of Dylan's unexpected visitations. Nearly all banal, but rather sweet for that. And sometimes a little sad and scary.
some excerpts:
Lawrence, from 1974:
...
As we were heading home, I decided to drive down the street where I thought Dylan lived. I’d studied some of the Weberman photos and thought I could figure out the location. As we were driving down MacDougal Street, Dylan suddenly materialized in front of our car. I swear, I almost hit him. I could just visualize the headlines: “Near Miss of Premier Musical Poet.”
Gathering our wits, we pulled up next to him, where he was just standing (rather intoxicated, it seemed) in the middle of the street. Through her open window, my girlfriend said, “Hiya, Bob, we’re really big fans. Nice to see you.” He mumbled something incomprehensible in response.
Slowly, I started to drive away, still shaken by our near-miss minutes earlier. I looked in the rear-view mirror, and he was still just standing there in the middle of the road. Hell, he was going to get hurt. We backed up, and I rolled down my window and asked if he needed a ride.
Chuckling, he replied, “You know, I sure could use a ride right now.”
I told him to hop in, and he jammed himself and his guitar into the back seat, which was packed with my own guitars since we’d just that evening returned to the city from a two-week vacation. The entire scene seemed surreal. On the dashboard of my car were stacks of Dylan albums and my harmonica holder. In the back seat was Bob Dylan himself, squashed in amongst our dirty laundry bags.
My girlfriend immediately tried to sell me as a session musician, bragging about what a good guitar player and songwriter I was. Needless to say, I was mortified. I quickly turned around to shake his hand and tell him we’d seen him at the Bottom Line earlier that evening.
He seemed surprised and said, “Oh, you guys were there? What did you think of the show?”
I responded positively and told him that I thought Little Feat were great. “Yes, they certainly seem to know what they’re doing,” he agreed.
We drove a few more blocks, and he asked to be let out on Barrow Street, just past Seventh Avenue South. As he walked off into the night, he turned around and gave us a nice little wave, as if to say thanks for the ride.
Veronica, 1985:
...
Once again, I called out, “Bobby,” and once again he looked my way. I couldn’t believe it as he began walking toward me, just as he had two years before. My legs felt like they were going to give out.
When he approached me, I said, “Bob, I have a letter and a gift for you. Will you accept them?” His bright blue eyes bore right into mine. “Yes, I will,” he said. “Thanks a lot, honey.”
As he reached out to take them from me, the bodyguards who’d been sent to keep an eye on me stepped in and tried to block me from giving the items to Bob. Good old Bob just shoved them away and held out his hand to accept them, which annoyed the guards incredibly.
Once again, Bob Dylan held my hand for a few seconds, and I was able to stroke the softness of his skin and gaze into those amazingly intense eyes. I felt such empathy for him at that moment. He looked so tired and lonely—a prisoner of his own fame, a bird trapped in a cage.
I feel so privileged to have met Bob Dylan not once, but twice. I’m just sorry that I’ll probably never get to know him. I imagine he must be a very special person to have as a friend.
Lee, 1995:
The date was October 11, 1995. The place was Atlanta’s Fox Theater. After arriving at the theater, we had a hassle with the ushers because of my friend Jenny’s wheelchair (she’s quadriplegic). We had front-row tickets, and by gosh, we were going to sit in the front row. After much grumbling from the staff, we made them move a chair and put her wheelchair in place, which placed us about four feet from the stage.
Bob came out dressed in a gold shirt with the tail out, a black leather belt with conches, black pants with stripes down the sides, and square-toe boots. When he began to play his sunburst Fender Stratocaster, electricity ran through our blood from just being that close to someone we admired so much. For the first four songs, he never looked up from his guitar. Then he stepped back, took a long drink of water, and looked out at the audience. We caught his eye immediately, and for the remainder of the concert Bob looked directly at us on numerous occasions.
As the show wound to a close, the previously vigilant ushers (who’d been so concerned that everyone was in their proper seats) allowed everyone to rush the stage. We pushed our way up to the point where Jenny’s footrest was flush against the front of it. Bob broke into “Seeing the Real You at Last,” and the band locked into an intense groove. There were so many people in the orchestra pit that the wooden floor began to bounce furiously. During the frantic finish, I had to throw my arm across Jenny to keep her from bouncing right out of her wheelchair.
Following the encore, Bob picked up a bouquet of beautiful spring flowers at his feet that someone had thrown onstage. He walked from one end of the stage to the other, holding them high in the air and taking his bows. When he reached our side of the stage, he strolled up to Jenny and looked her directly in the eyes. Gesturing with the bouquet in his hands, he said, “Would you like to have these?”
Jenny, smiling from ear to ear, vigorously nodded her head and screamed out, “Yes.” Bob handed me the bouquet to pass on to her and gave me a high-five. Jenny yelled out, “Thank you, Bob.”
At the close of the second encore, Bob once again strolled the stage taking his bows. Just as he was walking off for the last time, he turned to look and walked back toward us again. Grabbing my right hand, he shook it firmly and said, “You’re all right, man.”
As the houselights came on and people began milling out onto Peachtree Street, several concert-goers came up to Jenny, saying, “Wow, Bob Dylan gave you flowers. Congratulations.”
Jenny brought those beautiful flowers home that night, and, after taking a quick snapshot of her holding them to her chest, we hung them up to dry. Only then did the impact of what actually took place begin to sink in. Those flowers now hang in Jenny’s bedroom as a reminder of that very special evening.
Bob Dylan seems to speak of feelings we all have about life, death, and the bitter sweetness of love, and we somehow find comfort in his words. For us, it was an experience we’ll never forget, and Bob Dylan will never realize the impact he made on Jenny’s life that night.
Deborah, 1997:
It was a scraggly man in old jeans and a hooded sweatshirt who walked into Wuxtry Records in Athens, Georgia, on Monday night, October 26, 1997. Although Wuxtry is well-known in the states and internationally, it maintains a charming “mom and pop” feel. I suppose that’s part of the reason that Bob Dylan did a “pop-in” on the evening before his first Athens show.
The man didn’t look much different from some of the normal clientele, so I went about my computer work in the back of the store as usual. Immediately, the man sniffed out the store’s great vinyl section, where he spotted a Buck Owens LP on the display wall. Unable to read the price tag because the album was too high up on the wall, he came to the front of the store to ask a clerk. Summoned to answer the stranger’s question, I brought a step stool from the back. It was obvious it was going to be a real task to move record crates just to get a look.
So, I said to the stranger, who was flipping through the country LP crates with his back turned to me, “If you’re really interested in this thing, I’ll get it down. But if you’re just curious. . .”
Just then, the kid working with me came to the back and volunteered to climb up and check the price of the record. Naturally, after all that, the album was unmarked. The stranger mumbled something to the effect of, “Aw, that’s all right, don’t go worrying about it,” and went on flipping through the records.
Some 15 minutes later, I took a break and joined my co-worker in the front, where he quietly whispered, “Deb, did you get a look at that guy? I’m not sure, but I think it might be Bob Dylan.”
The instant he said that, I looked over at the man and realized he was right. That explained the pulled-up hood nearly closed around his face and why he didn’t turn around and talk to me about the Buck Owens record. And the voice was unmistakable. We left Dylan alone in the back with the LPs, where he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. Out of respect, we kept folks away from him and did not intrude ourselves. Eventually, he emerged and walked to the front of the store, where he met us head-on.
Inside the hood of his sweatshirt was that face that could only belong to Bob Dylan. He was very friendly and inquisitive about our merchandise, and he wanted to know where we kept the CDs and LPs of Georgia blues artists. We talked about some of the records we had in stock, and I showed him a “Barbeque Bob” record that got a chuckle out of him. Not because he found “Barbeque Bob” to be a joke, but because I had used the name Bob. I’m sure he was aware I knew who he was, but he might have been a bit perplexed because I wasn’t nervous or freaking out on him. I said the name “Bob,” and we both knew that’s who he was.
I knew that talking about music with Bob Dylan was an important event in my life, but at Wuxtry we’ve all experienced the famous musician shopper at one time or another. We like to take the respect angle rather than the star-struck one. He was just so comfortable with us, which I found very unlike anything I’d ever heard about Bob. He came to the front counter, and leaning over the glass display case, began to ask about the new Jim Mathus release (the guy from the Squirrel Nut Zippers). We had a promo copy, so I put it on for him and we listened to a good part of it. He commented on the recording quality, saying it was “old-timey sounding.” He studied the cover art and asked questions about who had played on the record. All the while, he was petting the store mascot, Bentley, a 15-year-old poodle. At one point, Bob winked at him and said, “You’re okay, old man.”
I offered him the promotional CD, but he declined, saying he might come back for it. He thanked us for playing it and wished us a good evening. Then he nudged back the hood of his sweatshirt just enough to reveal his face in the light, flashed a big grin, and walked out into the night.
