“Why is Dylan wise beyond his years while the rest of us are losers?” asked Brad. He meant no disrespect toward Dylan, but he needed to know the precise reason the man he had spent the last four years following as a surrogate deity apparently viewed him as a pathetic lump of shit.
“Dylan is a wanderer, a seeker, someone who sacrifices to obtain spiritual knowledge,” Dean patiently explained. “You and your friends are runners, people who have nothing and plunge themselves into the Poorboy Shamans rather than try to create something. You’re a high school dropout, aren’t you?”
Brad, who had graduated at the bottom 10 percent of his class, bristled at this suggestion. “No way, I’ve got my diploma,” he boasted. “And none of that GED bullshit, either.”
“Congratulations,” exclaimed Dean, clapping in mock applause. “Four of the best years of your life locked away in a school that probably felt more like a prison than this place, all so you could head into the world and keep grease out of the fry-o-later.”
Rock star or not, Dean’s attitude was wearing thin on Brad. “So I’m not a multimillionaire like you,” he shouted, forgetting about the goon squad that lurked a short distance down the hall, waiting for a disturbance they could quell. “You’re also about 10 years older than I am. What were you doing at 19?”
“About the same as you’re doing now,” admitted Dean. “Dropping acid, smoking weed, hanging out at Phish and Ratdog shows. The difference is, even back then I didn’t go anywhere without my acoustic six-string or a notebook to write down song ideas when they hit me. Half the tunes you heard tonight I wrote before I turned 22. What will you do in the next three years that might change your life forever?”
Brad desperately tried to think of a response to Dean’s challenge that wouldn’t be a smartass remark or a total lie. He usually didn’t plan three days in advance, never mind three years.
“I’m not trying to bust your balls or make you feel miserable, kid,” Dean said softly. “I’m trying to wake you up. I appreciate the support, but don’t wrap your life around me. I don’t need it.”
Brad slowly digested Dean’s advice. How was he supposed to respond? How would Dylan respond in this situation?
“Your silence tells me you listened at least a little bit, which is good,” said Dean. “You ain’t figuring anything out tonight, kid. When this tour ends, take a little time and really think about where you want your life to be heading.” Dean paused. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know when this tour ends, would you?”
“October 31, special Halloween show at Moscone Center in San Francisco,” Brad snapped automatically.
“Right, right, Moscone,” said Dean. “Good venue. We should do more indoor gigs next fall. It gets cold out there after Labor Day.”
Brad laughed in agreement. His denim jacket that had been unbearably warm three weeks ago was now leaving him thoroughly chilled by the time a typical show reached the encore. Maybe Dean really was as cool as he appeared on stage. Then Dean said something that confirmed it.
“What are you in for, anyway?” he asked. “I’m assuming you didn’t kill anybody.”
“Drunk driving, having a little booze and dope in the car,” Brad said with all the nonchalance he could force.
“Hell, that’s a night off for me,” said Dean. “Your bailout can’t be more than a few hundred bucks, then.”
“Five hundred, actually,” said Brad, feeling faint pride at recanting his misdeeds for a bona fide rock n roll outlaw.
“What if I covered your bail?” offered Dean. “Are your friends coming to pick you up?”
Brad couldn’t believe his good fortune. Dean had gone from arrogant superstar schmuck to righteous rock god in a matter of minutes. “Dylan and Skyler took the car to pick up some cash from a buddy of Dylan’s in Rhode Island,” said Brad. “It will probably be at least another hour before they come back.”
‘And those two lovely ladies are all alone and defenseless at this time of night?” asked Dean, a hint of sarcastic disapproval in his voice. “Tsk, tsk. Guys like me are running loose out there.”
“They have a place to stay,” Brad said hurriedly. He didn’t want a chick magnet like Dean Morrow to think he couldn’t take proper care of his lady. “We’ve all got a room at the Shuteye Station Motel.”
“Right at the border,” said Dean. “I know it well. We didn’t always stay at places with movie channels on the cable. Anyhow, my lawyer should be here with a briefcase full of cash and a chauffered limo inside of five minutes. What if I sprung you from this rathole and gave you a ride back to the no-tell motel in style.”
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