It was our five-month anniversary, an accomplishment for us both. I woke up with a pain in my gut that only got worse as the unusually humid San Diego morning pushed in from all sides. I waited for her, her dad and stepmom to pull up. Five hours north to Santa Barbara to see Bob Dylan—our first road trip together. Our first double date too, such as it was. It had been my birthday a few days before. I was 34. In a month she would be 23.
“There’s no air in the car, hope you don’t mind!” her stepmom said as I climbed into the backseat. A cartoon version of me appeared, waved, then quietly died of asphyxiation. There was no way this would end well, but I smiled and settled in, for what else can one do?
“Let’s go!” her father said and started the car. I’d never heard a car backfire in real life and I jumped as the explosion echoed through the alleyway.
Twelve hours earlier I had been in LA with my sister, seeing my brother-in-law’s band pack a mid-sized venue and so had had little rest. Sleep deprived and on a family road trip that wasn’t with my own family. Heat exhaustion took root and began to build. My head wavered and throbbed, my stomach hurt. On top of my initial gut pain I had over ate for breakfast and it sat, dragging me to earth. Seeing my deteriorating condition, girlfriend suggested we stop to use a bathroom. My head down on a pillow, drooling, I mumbled agreeable tones to the best of my ability. Los Angeles for the second time in 24 hours. It was a beast to get off the highway and when the car stopped I tumbled out into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. Figuring that throwing up would put a damper on things, I bought a soda to settle my stomach. Carbonation and chemicals work short-term magic sometimes, later ramifications be damned. The suffering we bring to ourselves is easier than the suffering we bring to others. Rough, body concurrently rejecting and craving more hollow, nutrient-deficient calories, I filled myself with the swill, put my head back down and let the blackness come.
“Incoming!” her father shouted as the car swerved. We were thrown against each other and I woke with a start. A short distance ahead an 18-wheeler was hobbling to the side of the road, sparks shooting out of the back where a tire continued to shred, sending us through a trail of vulcanized shrapnel. Her father righted the car and I put my head down.
The rest of the journey was uneventful and we pulled up to their hotel around three. Ours, degrees cheaper, was a mile down the road. Complete with full kitchen, the room was run down but huge, bigger than the studio apartment I’d had in Chicago. Our first time playing house but we were both too exhausted to do anything but set the scene. After a restless nap and decent Thai food we headed towards the venue, paid $15 to park at a high school, and began climbing the steep hill to the amphitheater. Having injured my foot several weeks earlier, (I’d spent three weeks unable to walk), I didn’t know how I would fare but there was no turning back.
A youth spent at dingy punk rock shows left me feeling out of place and isolated. Sitting during a concert—what a novelty! 1963 Bob Dylan walked up beside me at the merch booth and we shared a laugh over $45 t-shirts and $100 hoodies. When no one else laughed he shrugged and went off in search of a new sound.
The lights went up as the sun faded behind the stage. A cluster of blue serge suits emerged as one, then split in all directions to take up their respective instruments. After a pause 2016 Dylan emerged in a similar but distinctive suit and white hat. Legs spread wide, hand gestures below the waist, he moseyed to the microphone, looking like a gunslinger itching to pull his six-shooter.
The first song ended. Applause. The second song began.
“She’s got everything she needs, she’s an artist…”
This man, this legendary vagabond hobo, was real. I flashed back to high school when my friend John handed me his copy of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. John and I were in a punk band at the time and he put out a black and white zine called Teenage Genocide. I’d never listened to Dylan before and hadn’t asked to borrow the album. After high school John fell out of my world, joining, I believe, the merchant marines. I couldn’t tell you where to find him now. Playing acoustic guitar on a street corner somewhere, I hope.
The song ended. Applause. Then came Sinatra and Irving Berlin songs, piano and crooning—nothing else old and he never touched a guitar. We conjectured that it wasn’t even him, that maybe he’d died years ago. Strange songs and strange arrangements—Blowin’ in the Wind was nearly half over before it was recognizable—and always that moseying, gunfighter stance. The weary crowd, confused and dazed, filtered out in near silence. A few blocks away we came across a scraggly man in a parking lot playing It’s Alright, Ma on an acoustic guitar and harmonica.
“You should’ve been on stage in there!” someone shouted and we all nodded.
Feeling conned and victimized, we crawled out of the packed high school parking lot. 30 miles to the hotel, 30 miles to digest what had taken place. When we finally made it and locked the door behind us we were again too tired to do anything but sleep. My girlfriend slid under the covers and drifted off. I was crawling in when my phone buzzed.
“Have I been a good friend?” the text read. We hadn’t spoken all that frequently in recent years but I’d known him for a decade and even lived in his house for a while. Never once had I thought him a bad friend and it caught me out of the blue.
“Hey man,” I typed, “worn out and about to turn in. I’d love to talk soon but for now let me just say I measure a good friend by whether I feel they’d be there for me if I needed them and I’ve always felt that way about you. You’re my brother and always will be.”
“Thanks, Brother,” the reply read. “You gave me just what I needed right now.”
“Anytime, the truth is easy. We’ll talk soon.”
Sometime in the darkness my phone buzzed again. Then again. Then again. “Man, I told you we’d talk soon,” I said as I turned the damn thing off and went back to bed. When I woke hours later I found it wasn’t him.
“17 of your friends in Orlando have checked in as safe.” Safe? Safe from what? Hoards of obnoxious tourists? Buildings with giant wizards and animals on them where down on their luck locals sell shitty souvenirs that no one in their right mind would buy?
My girlfriend’s alarm went off. She hit snooze and rolled over. The headlines screamed.
“The worst shooting in U.S. history.”
“50 dead, 53 wounded in Orlando nightclub.”
“Possible terrorist ties to Orlando shooting.”
In the closet that doubled as a hotel lobby I took two styrofoam cups from the stack and filled them with coffee, or coffee flavored water, rather. The liquid concentrate dripped out of the machine and ran down the side of one of the cups. As I stepped outside I licked it to keep it from running any further. The taste was of brown, but not of coffee. There was no sound in the u-shaped courtyard of the hotel and no cars passed on the street. The only movement came from several crows fighting over what appeared to be the body of a dead rat.
Our room, despite the full kitchen, didn’t have any pots or pans or coffeemaker or anything to heat water in so I dumped the hot brown liquid into my instant oatmeal. While it sat I turned on the TV and hit mute to keep the morning quiet. Images of bodies being carried out of the club recycled on every channel and the same people had to be rescued over and over again, much as they would need to be for time immemorial.
“Hey,” girlfriend said in a half-asleep whisper. Wiping my eyes I turned around. She was sitting up in bed, reading the local paper.
“Do you want to hear your Free Will astrology?” she said.
“Free will? Sure, hit me.”
# # #
Gregory T. Janetka is a writer from Chicago who currently lives in San Diego. His work has been featured in The Birch Gang Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Gravel and other publications. He is terribly good at jigsaw puzzles and drinks a great deal of tea. More of his writings can be found at gregorytjanetka.com.
Photo: Richard Mcall
