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It was a good thing, a miracle even, that there happened to be no cameras around to prod and poke at what was going on. Sure would’ve been quite a sight, though, one designed specifically to be splashed across headlines the whole nation over - genius folkstar Bob Dylan, hurling his guts out in a potted plant in a hotel lobby. The receptionist was far from pleased to be a witness to such a spectacle, poor lass, watching in horror from the desk as he dashed to the pot and bent his big frazzled head over, and Neuwirth stood by him cackling madly around his cigarette, apparently finding this ordeal hilarious.
“Get it all out then, Bobby, go on!”
If John had wanted to escape that bloody claustrophobic limo, well, he might’ve gotten his wish, but it still did nothing to stifle the nerves zinging round his belly. Tom pulled over as quick as he could, the good lad, and finally, fucking finally, Donn had lowered the camera that John felt was practically shoved down his throat. He didn’t magically stop being a Beatle without a crowd of squawking schoolgirls or press vultures scraping inside his eardrums - he still had to sit there and maintain his polished image, so polished the bastard squeaked, pretending that he and Bob hadn’t spent the previous night blasted out of their minds. But not to worry, oh no, since the giddy haze buzzing in his mind gradually gave way to paranoia, growing with every second trapped with that damn camera trained on the pair of them in the backseat. There was nothing obvious about it, though, was there? Nothing blatantly anxious about his laughter, his awkwardly forced jokes, his stiffened posture as he prayed for the hotel to come into view before dear old Bobby spewed all over the floor?
Well, it probably didn’t matter how brilliantly he was hiding his discomfort - not with Bob yammering away incoherently before hunching over groaning about his stomach. Jesus Christ, what a circus. Served him right to take part in this experimental documentary or whatever nonsense it was. Avant-garde clusterfuck, more like. He couldn’t sneer enough at this fancy-pants hipster scene, and not just because he couldn’t fit into that kind of world either. After all, singling out a world he did fit into was another issue entirely.
“Come on, let’s get him upstairs,” John said, hoping they weren’t being recognised despite how empty the lobby currently was.
“Sharp thinker, you!” Neuwirth stopped his hooting long enough to clap a hand onto Bob’s shoulder. “You heard Lenny, up up up you get. There you go, worry about the cleaners later when they hunt you down.”
Only a sickly moan burbled out of him in return, but that seemed like a good indication the git was still alive. Neuwirth hauled Bob up with both arms wrapped around his waist (he could’ve managed to snake them round four times like rubber tubes with how thin he was, the noodly fucker), nearly stumbling over his feet as he dragged an uncooperative Bob towards the staircase, Tom behind them swinging both the car and hotel room keys, John following close, Donn at the end of the conga line struggling with holding his film equipment and waving cheekily towards the receptionist at the same time. John ducked his head when he did so, wondering again how the hell he got himself here.
He was still asking himself that question as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows on his knees, hands clasped to his cheeks, feeling a mixture of boredom, vague disgust, and slight concern as he kept vigil on a pallid and clammy Bob slumped over the toilet. Fighting the urge to check his watch for the umpteenth time, he sighed and rubbed his eye as Bob reached up for the lever after yet another bout of nausea. Above the sound of flushing echoing off the bathroom tiles, John could hear the others chatting amongst themselves in the adjoining room. Cigarette smoke drifted through the crack in the door.
“Nice of you to play doctor, John,” Bob said, voice croaky and dry. Christ, the boy had surely seen better days - his curls hung in matted clumps around his sweaty face, and his smile was faint as he turned his head weakly towards John.
John shrugged. If he had his way he would’ve scampered out of this hotel like an electrocuted mouse. He had other places to be, better things to waste his time on. Definitely didn’t plan on being swarmed by sycophants when he had enough of ‘em at home, or to sit around acting like a designated caretaker to a spoiled brat. A fantastically talented brat, yes, so talented it nearly made John’s head explode with jealousy (he had Bob’s latest record shipped to him, gushed and raved and lambasted it in equal measure afterwards), but a brat nonetheless. Hey, it wasn’t a put-down or punch-down or what have you - as far as he knew, he was in the exact same boat. Too much excess in money and booze and pills, and look where it got you. John was only speaking from experience here. Besides, his annoyance towards this whole situation had slowly melted away into exhaustion, and he usually got pretty reflective during those times. At least as far as his conscience would allow, perhaps.
“Used to do the same to the lads in Hamburg, when they’d get bladdered after a show,” John said, letting out a small chuckle at the memory.
“Bladdered, huh?” Bob asked, sounding dreamy; John watched as he lowered the toilet seat with a dull clank and lay his spindly arms atop it. “That’s a new one to me. Means drunk, right? Fucked up? Like me?” He laughed wearily, resting his head in the cradle of his arms. “Feel okay now, though. You guys got some groovy terms in England, man.”
John felt like they had this kind of conversation before in the car. But he bet if they rewound the footage they’d find nothing but a babbling Bob wired out of his skull, so he reckoned he wasn’t going to get his answers from there. He sighed again, scratching absently at the side of his nose - remnants of the coke from last night popping and fizzing in his system, little jerks that continued to flash every now and then - when Bob laughed again.
“And what would happen when it'd be you all twisted round the bend? They’d take care of you?”
“Aye, they would - but it was probably double the effort,” John said. It was strange how he felt saying that, bitterly amused or something, though if it was directed to the boys or to himself, he couldn’t tell. Most likely a bit of both. That’s normally how his resentment worked, bleeding out from within and drenching near everything in its path.
“Triple the effort,” Bob laughed playfully (John wondered if he was going to start retching again with how much laughing he was doing). “Don’t act like you can’t fall off the edge too, John. Remember last night? You’re a fuckin’ party animal, man.”
John offered a half-hearted smile; he didn’t feel like arguing when he had little trouble admitting his own indulgences, but bloody hell, at the very least he wasn’t gobbling on pills by the bucketload. His days for downing Prellies like sweets were long gone, preferring a nice, lazy lie in with a lysergic tab more often than not. He liked to duck and cover from reality, sure, but the way Bob got hopped up on substances he was nervous to even touch, swooping high with the ensuing crash steep and merciless… well, the man had a problem, simply put.
“But at the end of the day,” Bob murmured, all hushed, almost uncertain if he was talking to John or to himself, “you gotta be the leader, you know, John? Gotta take that responsibility. Cause there’s too many people counting on you, man. Big job.”
A television had been switched on in the next room, canned laughter and muffled conversations wafting through the walls, a clinking that might’ve been a bottle pouring wine in a glass. John wondered what Paul and George and Ringo were doing at that exact moment. He wondered what he himself was going to do the second he could leave, and how one could possibly take care of others when they couldn’t even take proper care of themselves.
“Hey, man, can you do me a favour?” Bob asked. “Shut the door if you don’t mind. That cigarette smoke ain’t doing me a lotta good.” When the door was closed, John plopped himself down on the floor instead, leaning against the wall beside the toilet. Bob fixed him a gaze, half inquisitive, half humoured. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”
John smiled sheepishly and gestured to nothing in particular. “Don’t have anything else on the schedule.”
“God,” Bob moaned, and for one, somewhat terrified second John thought he was about to puke again, but he merely scrubbed a hand over his face. John couldn’t help but stare at his freakishly long, spidery fingers, those unkempt nails, his frizzled up ball of fluff for hair. Forget a different planet, he came from a whole other bloody galaxy, this one. “Lucky cat, wish I was you. Can we swap places?”
John chuckled, light and sharp all at once. “What, being the people’s poet descended from the heavens not cutting out for you, son? Saviour of the world from the humans to the germs?”
Bob shook his head, the implied insult either missed or ignored. “The fucking questions they ask, all that hostility… God, you know what it’s like. Getting all these crazy ideas in their heads when it’s got nothing to do with you.”
John nodded sympathetically; no need to fester in his envy or initiate a competition where they battled for who was the richest whinger when they shared the same struggles. What was there to be jealous of anyway? John read the papers, saw the concert footage, heard the boos and scolds and protests. It was no wonder Bob got plastered the way he did.
Sudden laughter rang out from next door, loud and braying - Donn’s voice telling some kind of ludicrous story, the others chiming in.
“They help, don’t they?” John said amicably. “Robby and those lot, your entourage? It’s always better to have people around to calm the madness down, aye?”
Tilting his head on the toilet seat, almost like he was confused about who was being referred to, Bob gave a watery smile. “Oh, well, sure. Sometimes, yeah. But”- his fingers slid into his damp coiled strands, his eyes nearly crossed as he watched them glide through - “I’ll tell you something, John, it really starts to piss you off after a while. Agreeing with everything you say, clustering around you like spiderwebs. That’s how you get all the other parasites stickin’ to you. Cause it’s a prison of your own making, that’s the thing. It’s that dependability, man. But all you really wanna do is tell ‘em to grow a spine and go away.” With a wry smirk tugging on his lips, Bob finally flicked his gaze to John. “But you can’t exactly do that, can you?”
John nodded again, feeling like it was automatic - and it probably was, that effortless agreement between them, that spark of acknowledgement, the understanding, the possession they had of the key to unlocking the whole secret to this fucking business. It was more than just wanting the bouncy boyish Beatle image intact for the limo ride; Christ, it had to be intact for life, always expected, always flawless, people hounding them for answers with questions both stupid and profound. But since when did he have the answers to fucking anything? Nobody sane would go begging for life’s solutions to someone stranded, tossed in an alien environment like a fish out of water. John gave a jeering scoff in his mind; not very original, that. He wished he was more concise in expressing how he felt, communicating the unexplainable. But all that digging into the soul… well, he’d already had enough of blinding spotlights being aimed above him.
“Reckon what you should do, Bobby?” John asked as he leaned forwards, arms stretched out on his bended knees. When Bob quirked up his brow, John shot him a cocky grin. “Completely disappear. Make up a plan to get away from all the pressure, get a chance to finally breathe, you know? Find an excuse to drop off the bloody face of the earth.”
Slowly, Bob raised his head from the toilet seat, amused and intrigued. “Yeah? You think so? Just pack my stuff in a rucksack and head for Hawaii or something wacky like that?”
“Aye, why not?” John punched him cordially in the arm (though really, he should’ve known better, the sod was a walking twig ready to snap) and laughed. “Just make it somewhere the bastards won’t expect to find you.”
A peculiar smile crossed Bob’s face. “You thought about this yourself, Johnny? Running away, starting anew?”
“Once or twice, maybe,” John admitted, unsure whether to feel embarrassed.
“Well, I won’t lie to you, man, I’ve considered it too. A kind of trick or something. If I can pull out of this goddamn tour… cause, Albert, he’s just - I mean, I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but when you’re pushed to your very limit, that temptation…” He was like a door opening and shutting; if you didn’t slip in while you had the chance you were gonna be locked out. John felt like that was how he came across to the uninitiated, like a goddamn mystery box - you could pull out endless nick-knacks and still be left with half the puzzle pieces missing. Bob’s smile dropped momentarily from his lips, before it was replaced with a broad, wild grin. “You ever feel like a lunatic, John? Like you’re married to your own misery?”
John could only lift his brows in response. You don’t know the half of it, son.
“Cause I’m just so fucking tired, man. Fucking myself up, facing all the chaos alone - cause really you’re on your own at the end of the day…” Bob paused again, blinked, swallowed with a languid movement of his throat. “I don’t think I can keep doing this, man, that’s the thing. I might just end up - I mean, if something doesn’t change here, if I can’t get a grip on the carousel…”
John thought of himself, aimless, desperate, scrambling for shelter, visions of German exploits and Liverpool brawls flickering through his mind, vivid and acrid. He knew it didn’t matter what haven he fantasised about sprinting to when everything got too much to bear - he was always going to feel out of place, like he didn’t belong, soul too lumpy or misshapen or something. All wound up and nowhere to go. Maybe calling himself a fish out of water was more than a clumsy cliche after all; certainly, it described the breath being choked out of him, flopping about on stage in hopelessness. In complete, wretched vulnerability, waiting for the wolves to slice him apart.
“And he’s so goddamn little, the first time I saw him.” John blinked out of his own private gloom to find Bob staring off into the distance. His voice had slipped into a cloudy murmur; his smile, strangely forlorn. “Like a grain of sand, you know, John? I mean, the most absolute smallest thing you can ever imagine.”
Something both soft and sharp pierced John in the chest, and he scruffed the back of his hair. He’d only heard about the arrival of Bob’s son from others, discussed in jaunty but brief conversations, never once mentioned by the man himself. He didn’t know if the topic was off-limits or what, too intimate or close to home, but… the embarrassment melded together into something sweet, and he found himself grinning.
“He’s got your hair, has he? Curls for days and a nose like a pelican?”
Giggles streamed out from Bob’s lips, and - was that a hint of pink blooming on his cheeks? “Well, we gotta find out!”
“Aye, well, let’s hope the poor bugger takes from his mum - look how you turned out, bloody terrible specimen.”
“Hey, fuck you, man!”
They laughed until it alerted the others from the living room, and a small knock on the door sounded before Tom poked his head through. “Everything alright in here?”
“Groovy, groovy,” Bob sang, and waved him off back outside. When the door was closed again he spread his legs along the floor, knees creaking from how long they’d spent in a crouched position. He looked much better with some colour finally back on his face. Approachable, like. “See, that’s what I mean.”
“What, all your privacy gone down the drain?” John replied, still chuckling away.
“Nah, like… I gotta find out, I gotta be here. When he’s older, when he…” As he twisted the sleeve of his shirt between his fingers, Bob sighed, low and wistful. “It’s like when Julian came into your life, right?”
Bittersweetness kindled in John’s heart as he gave an awkward shrug. If Bob was looking for someone to share wisdom and insight on the parenting experience, he was sure as hell better off asking a complete stranger in the street. But there was hope in Bob’s gaze, and John couldn’t remember him the last time he looked so… gentle. Just thinking about his own son climbing on the living room couch, leaping off into Cynthia’s arms with nothing but trust and a burst of gleeful laughter, sent a rush of something else other than the sadness that usually accompanied thoughts of Julian. It was a gateway of sorts to an alternate version of himself, perhaps. A better version.
“Sure,” John began, hesitant, resisting the rising tide of discomfort. “When you have something like that, something… special, you want to… be there for them, I suppose. Take care of them, make sure they’re happy. If you can’t make yourself - I mean, you can… you know, find that one thing to keep your balance. Help you face the day and what have you. Depend on them the way others depend on you.”
Feeling the wave of embarrassment swell inside him, John kept his eyes focused on the tiled floor beneath him. As he unfortunately became aware of the burn singeing his face, an image of someone else floated from the depths of his mind. An ache settled in his chest; it seemed like he hadn’t seen him in ages. Some stupid argument in the studio he couldn’t even recall had made them keep their distance, conversations stilted, smiles vacant. But he knew there was no argument worth driving a wedge between them. Hell, he doubted if there was anything that could. Not when he’d long been imprinted in John’s writing and songs, in his head and heart. It was curious to miss someone like that. It was the sort of pain he’d rather choose to feel over, and over.
“Exactly, exactly,” Bob was saying all the while, lost in his own contemplation. “That’s why I gotta stick around. For the both of them. Fuck, I can’t just leave her behind. Who else is gonna understand? Nothing else matters when it’s that important, when you wanna…” As his voice grew soft, he suddenly raised his fingers to his eyes and began to rub them vigorously. “Oh, God.”
“What’s wrong?” John asked, glancing back up. Worry had snapped him away from his thoughts, snuffed but sparkling like dust in the air around him. “Feeling sick again?”
“Nah, man, I almost wish.” Bob swept his hands back down his face. He looked slightly stunned, ponderous. Then he started to laugh, shoulders shaking against the wall. “That’d be easier to explain, wouldn’t it? Instead of all this…” He darted his eyes around and circled his hand to nothing, to everything, and John gave him a knowing smile.
Yeah. All this.
“But” - Bob interrupted himself with a whistle like a gust of wind, hands returning to his hair to brush it back as he caught John’s gaze - “this is good stuff, man.”
“Aye,” John agreed. “Heavy.”
“Good, heavy stuff.”
It was recognisable, that whoosh, those words, though in a much different setting, in more illicit and rowdy circumstances. But instead of giddiness, there was a moment of tranquility, pure and white as crystal, that John couldn’t remember obtaining from something other than a blotter in months. So strong and tender it was, the fragments were still in place after another knock rapped against the door. This time it was Neuwirth who popped in, sunglasses off, chewing rapidly on a piece of gum.
“Sara on the phone for you, Bob,” he announced, jerking his thumb behind him before disappearing.
“Oh, yeah?” Bob sounded more than gloriously surprised, like he was ten years younger all of a sudden, and John watched, with some fascination, as he hoisted himself off the floor, like something grabbed him by the back of the collar. He’d seemed to have regained his strength, wavering just a tad on his feet before he padded to the door left ajar for him. “Hear that, John? It’s for me,” Bob said, voice dippy, charged with something shiny and bright as though he’d morphed into a lightbulb, and John managed to catch the twinkle of his eyes, the gentleness of his smile, as he slinked out of the room. He was just as gentle saying “hey, babe” into the receiver a few seconds later before he shuffled off, the rest of his words drifting away behind the click of a door.
Sitting on the floor alone for a moment longer, his own radiance tipping round in his head as he juggled with his thoughts, John finally got up, turned off the bathroom light, and walked into the living room. Smoke lingered in the air and the television was still blaring, suit jackets draped casually over couches.
“Got another phone in here I could use?” he asked.
“Uh, think so,” Tom said, scratching his ear distractedly as Donn and Neuwirth fretted about something on the screen. “In the bedroom on the right, I believe.”
When John headed there and found the phone sitting on the nightstand, he dialed in Paul’s number, and as he took a seat on the bed, waiting with bated breath and listening to it ring and rehearsing his apology once again in his head, he told himself Kenwood would be coming up next. He deeply missed hearing Julian’s voice too, he realised.