1978

Wanted Man


Timothy Chisholm was born and raised in a Chicago suburb and currently teaches at a middle school in Southern California. He can be contacted at tchiz@snowline.net.

It's not a story I tell often. Like describing a secret handshake to the uninitiated, I feared cheapening the experience by retelling it to those unable to comprehend its significance. It's been a secret treasure in my trunk of memories for 20 years. I expect, however, that anyone who purchases this book, or even takes the time to browse through it, is probably interested enough to appreciate the value this story holds for me. It's all true, and until now, it's been all mine.

Saturday, October 28, 1978. I was a student at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. Halloween was being celebrated in an outrageously wild fashion of long-standing tradition. It was also Homecoming, which added to the festive atmosphere. The town was overflowing with costume-clad revelers. It was Mardi Gras in the Midwest. It was crazy. It was the day Bob Dylan came to town.

It seemed everyone I'd known since kindergarten was there. Some I hadn't seen in 10 years. They were there to party, but they were also hoping to get a ticket to that night's historic concert. I myself had camped out in front of the arena box office for three nights before tickets went on sale. I wound up with 20th row, grateful to at least be on the main floor. But I had a surprise coming.

A good friend named Julie Szeszney worked at the box office, and unknown to me, managed to secure two tickets front-row, center. I'd been a renowned Dylan fan for years, and Julie was genuinely pleased to give those tickets to me. I'm sure she knew no one who'd appreciate them more.

So when Dylan took the Carbondale stage, a stop on his Street Legal tour, I was there with high-school chum Dave Dewey at the foot of the altar. My first Dylan concert had been just two weeks prior in Chicago, where I was a ceiling fan somewhere high in the nosebleed section. This was much different. Dylan was just 10 feet away, and that put me over the top.

The moment Dylan hit the stage, I was on my feet. I stood on my chair the whole show, dancing, cheering, singing every word. I played imaginary guitar and contributed my own percussion. Friends seated way in back told me later they spent as much time watching my performance as they did Dylan's. If I had known, or been in any condition to think logically about it, I would probably have toned it down a bit. I certainly didn't want to disturb or distract anyone else from enjoying the show. It wasn't premeditated, wasn't conscious at all. I was in my own world, transported by music and lyrics I knew so well, which meant so much

Except for a brief glance at the audience around me, wondering how they could possibly remain seated at a time like this, it was just me and the music - me and The Man. I didn't notice anyone else.

But Dylan noticed. He finished his first set with a scorching harmonica solo to close “It's All Over Now Baby Blue.” Then, in slow motion, Dylan stepped to the edge of the stage and tossed his harmonica to me.

I was unprepared and caught it in self defense; it would've hit me in the face. Immediately, a surge of fans leaping for the sacred artifact crushed me. I was on the floor, buried beneath a pile of hopeful lunatics. Dave frantically pulled the disappointed mob off and stared at me. At first, I thought he was concerned for my physical well-being. But the look on his face conveyed an understanding that a simple twist of fate had just propelled me into history. He couldn't have been more awed if the Pope himself had just handed me his pointy hat.

Dave reverently asked if he could see it and touch it. Not wanting to seem possessive or greedy, I gave him the harmonica. I was concerned for its safety, and wondered about its whereabouts for a bit, but soon I was back in the music, oblivious. I had a camera I'd snuck in under my jacket, and I squeezed off some shots. But I didn't like the way it distanced me from the show.

The rest of the concert flew by. The band was tight and the music was red hot. But it was when the main concert ended, and Dylan and his band came out for an encore, that events turned toward a most memorable meeting. The audience knew this was the final song, and they pushed past security. The front of the stage was packed with screaming fans trying to get as close as possible. People were shouting for their favorite songs. Someone near me kept screaming "I Want You!" It seemed everyone had a particular song they wanted to hear.

Dave and I were pressed against the edge of the stage, and we agreed that this screaming scene was ridiculous. It's hard to explain our thinking; I guess we weren't. We were giddy, even hysterical with laughter. We knew Dylan couldn't really see or hear anyone. He was squinting into the lights, and the noise was deafening. Dave and I decided to have a good time shouting along with the crowd, screaming our own ridiculous lines at Dylan from 10 feet away. It was a joke to us. We thought we were making fun of the Dylanmania around us.

As Dylan and his band launched into a rousing encore of “Changing Of The Guards,” I was shouting, "Hey Bob! Look at me, man. It's me, Bob. You can look at me." Dave thought that was funny. Pushing the limits of hilarity, he began shouting, "Hey, Dylan! Fuck you, man." That cracked us both up. After all, he couldn't hear us. I'm sure the fans around us thought we were insane, but that just made things even more hysterically funny to us.

When the song ended, Dylan waved to the crowd and was gone. Along with some other friends who’d made their way to the stage, we hung around until the house lights went up and it was obvious Dylan wasn’t coming back. Then we headed for the exit.

I made it to the lobby and was heading out the door when someone I knew stopped me and said there was a man back inside looking for me. I didn't question it. Perhaps I'd lost my wallet and someone was trying to return it. It didn't occur to me that I never had a wallet. I was floating, unquestioning, as I made my way back inside.

There was a small crowd gathered in front of the stage, everyone looking wide-eyed as I approached. A young man behind the security partition pointed at me and told me to follow. He handed me a pass and led me to a gate in the partition off to the side of the stage. I was thinking that the roadies were looking to invite a few locals to some post-concert party, for color, you know? But as he opened the gate, I realized he wanted me to follow him backstage.

Suddenly I was nervous. What was this all about? Everyone was staring at me, slack-jawed. I grabbed the arm of the nearest person, Kevin McGugan, another high-school friend in town for the festivities. During the concert he been seated well in back, but he was here now, and I said, "He's coming with me." Kevin was handed his own backstage pass, and we followed our guide. The SIU arena is where the basketball team holds court. Our guide never said another word to us. He signaled us to wait, then disappeared down a long corridor, at the end of which was the men's locker room.

I was uneasy, scared even, but Kevin was looking around like a kid at Disneyland. I don't know why I was so apprehensive, but I knew something important was happening. I told Kevin, "Stick by me, man." Kevin understood. He spoke the only words he uttered the whole time we were backstage. "Don't worry, Chiz. I won't let anything happen to you."

Our guide stepped out of the locker room and motioned to us. There were a handful of people loitering outside the locker-room door. As we approached, I heard one say, "Oooooh, a command performance."

I still didn't get it. I should've known what was coming, but my mind couldn't wrap itself around the idea that Bob Dylan had requested to meet me. I truly had no idea as we stepped into Bob Dylan's dressing room for the evening.

Dylan is standing there with his shirt off, and it's obvious he's just washed the stage makeup off his face. I'm struck by how remarkably wide he is. I mean, he's lean - not an extra ounce on him. But his shoulders - they're so, well, wide.

Now my mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to make sense of this situation. There's Bob Dylan. Right there. A thought flashes through my startled brain. This is so perfect, a dream come true. It's like one of those last requests granted by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. That's it! I must be dying of some insidious blood disease or a brain tumor or something. Yeah. And only my mom could know such a thing and keep it from me. I'm dying and my mother has somehow set up this meeting with my idol.

The thought is gone in an instant. I step forward, and Dylan holds out his hand. As we shake, I ask, "Why are you doing this?"

"You really added to the show tonight," he says. And that's it. I have nothing further to accomplish in life, nothing more to live for. I start to tell him how fantastic the concert was. I loved it. What a great show.

Dylan says, "I don't know what your one friend's problem was."

In retrospect, it's obvious he was talking about Dave and his shouting, "Fuck you, Bob", laughing all the while. An hour later, I knew what Dylan was referring to. But at that moment, I honestly couldn't guess what he was talking about.

"Who?" I say. "The guy on my right? That would be your left."

"No," he says. "The guy on your left, would be my right."

I try to picture it, but I have to shake my head in confusion. I look to Kevin for help, but he's just watching this scene with a transcendent grin.

Dylan lets it go.

I tell Dylan how much I enjoyed the new versions of his old songs. I want to thank him for the harmonica, but I don't know where it is. Dave told me when the show was over that he lost it. Dave is just screwing with my mind. He has to have it, but I can't be sure, so I don't mention the harmonica to Dylan. (He did have it, I confirmed later.)

I'm incredibly cool. No way am I gonna act like a hysterical school girl. I don't ask for an autograph. I don't question him about the meaning of obscure lyrics. Hell, I even have a camera under my jacket, but I have no intention of asking him to pose for a picture. This is a notoriously private man, and I don't want anything to threaten this perfect moment.

Dylan asks, "So is there anything you want? Anything I can give you?"

As he says this, he gestures with his arm, a casual motion. For the first time, I look around the room and notice all the food laid out. I'm not sure if Dylan is inviting us to eat something.

"Oh no thanks, man. You've already done more than enough."

In my mind, I'm thinking what I'd really like is to go have a beer with him and Hang out together. Let him get to know me...become friends. So I say, "There's not really time for what I'd like."

It's a strange thing to say, but Dylan nods his head in understanding. We both look at the floor, and then comes the moment I treasure most...shared silence. He's not trying to get rid of us. There's no anxious need to fill the silence with pointless conversation. We simply stand together. Dylan taps his toe, not with impatience but in time to the music in his head.

We look at each other.

Dylan nods his head.

I nod back.

Cool.

Then reality comes rushing back in. There are dozens of people outside who will never believe this. I need some concrete proof so I say, "Well, since you asked, how about some tickets for tomorrow night's show?"

"Yeah? Where is it?"

This elicits a giggle from Kevin.

"St. Louis," I say.

"How far is that from here?"

Kevin and I both laugh at the idea that he doesn't know where he is or where he's going.

"Oh, it's a couple hours."

"You'd go that far?" he asks.

"Are you kidding? That's nothing. We drove twelve hours round-trip to see you in Chicago."

Dylan looks impressed. "Sure. Okay," he says. "Just ask the guy outside the door. He'll take care of it."

And that's our cue. I thank him for everything. As Kevin and I head out the door, I call over my shoulder, "God bless you, man."

Back in the corridor, we're greeted by questioning stares from the group loitering outside the dressing room.

"He told us to ask someone out here about tickets for tomorrow night."

A fellow steps up with a small note pad in his hand. "How many you need?” Boy, that's a good question. Everyone I know is in town. I'm sure they'd all like a ticket, but I don't want to overdo it.

"Uh, six?"

"Six!? Why don't you ask for six dozen?"

I've seen Don't Look Back a few times, so I'm aware of the tendency for mind games exhibited by Dylan's inner circle. Is this guy one of them? Is he trying to give me shit? Well, I'm unflappable. Tonight, I'm bulletproof.

"Hey, he said to talk to someone out here about tickets," I say. "But if it's going to be a problem, just forget the whole thing." I turn and walk off down the corridor. They're all caught off-guard, even Kevin who scurries to catch up. It takes a moment, but the fellow with the note pad chases after us.

"Hey! Okay, okay. Six tickets. What's your name?"

"Chisholm."

"Okay." He writes it in his note pad.

"So what's the deal? Are there gonna be tickets or what?"

"Yeah, yeah." He says, "At the box office."

And he wasn't lying. Six tickets were waiting under my name at the box office in St. Louis the next night. Another great show, although I'd lost my voice by then and was two days without sleep. In fact, I was in a fog for at least two weeks after meeting Dylan. I skipped a lot of classes and spent a lot of time grinning, reliving that once in a lifetime experience. I find it extraordinary that such a private man would reach out and make a public connection in such a personal way.

Twenty years later, accepting his Time Out of Mind Grammy, Dylan told of being 16 or 17 and seeing Buddy Holly at the Duluth National Guard Armory. "I was three feet away," Dylan said, "and he looked at me."

Yeah. I know just how that feels.