A queue is building up in the corridor. There are familiar raddled Manhattan faces like Andy Warhol and Ric Ocasek alongside the newer Hollywood generation represented by Timothy Hutton, Debra Winger and Maria McKee. Judy Collins, who hit Greenwich Village at the same time as Dylan, is there, looking faintly matronly and talking about Farm Aid II and “the movement” as if it were still 1962. She is charming, well-mannered and completely lacking in the mystique that helped her old friend “Bobby” make it to where the air is rare. Everybody – Tom Petty, Ronnie Wood, even Dylan’s girlfriend Carole Childs – waits to be admitted to the presence. They all have one thing in common – they’re all scared of him.
BACK AT THE SPEAKEASY the party is in full swing. Some misguided soul has embarked on an ill-advised version of When The Ship Comes In and the crowd up by the bar are making their own entertainment.
“Goddamn, you’ll never guess who’s in the bathroom!” “The legendary Bob Dylan?” “How’d you know?”
“Excuse me. I’d like three Heinekens and a gin and tonic for the Frewheelin’ Bob Dylan...” “Hey mister. Did anybody ever tell you you didn’t look a bit like the enigmatic Bob Dylan?” “Could you call a cab for the spokesman of a generation?”