Episode 2:  “She Belongs to Me”—Bob Dylan

Foreshadowing is always obvious in retrospect.

The summer before I turn 15 is weird.   My mom is getting her fourth divorce.  She has  met a new boyfriend during a stay in the psychiatric ward, and he lives with us.  He has a tendency toward labeling all of the food in our refrigerator with strange adjectives like “silly” and “old-fashioned.”  He writes candle wax notes on all of our mirrors.  In fact, my mom has collected a large set of strange friends from her recent hospitalization. One guy has Tourette’s.  Another is vaguely paranoid.  I suspect one of the women is narcoleptic.

I spend most of my afternoons at the Mt. Wolf Park, devouring books and recreationally abusing my migraine medicine.  One day, while reading The Catcher in the Rye (of course), I hear a male voice say, “Hey, I like your hat.”

I look up.  It is this guy I knew vaguely from school.  He is older and allegedly really, really weird.

I assume he is teasing me, because well, everyone has been laughing since I had dyed my hair black and became “alternative.”  The hat is actually a way of disguising my bad dye job.

“No, I mean it,” he says.  ”I like you whole outfit, actually.  But that hat is extra cool.  It reminds me of this one Bob Dylan is wearing in this book I have.”

I am wearing one of my grandpa’s cast-off dress shirts and a pair of silk men’s pajama pants; it’s not exactly the standard Mt. Wolf uniform.

He sits down next to me.  ”You seem like a pretty cool girl.  You obviously have good taste in books.”

I shrug my shoulders.  This guy is a junior, and therefore, intensely intimidating.  Furthermore, he is really, really cute.  A grungier, younger Luke Perry.  Swoon.

“Where do you want to go to college?  I know you’re a smart girl, because I’ve seen you around school, taking advanced classes.  And people are going to start asking you this question soon, so you better have some answers.”

Um. “Well, maybe I will got to Smith, like Sylvia Plath.”  I’m too young to realize what a silly, cliche statement that is.

He shakes his head.  ”No way, you can’t learn to live in place like that.  You need to live in the big city.  Me, I’m going to go to NYU, I think.  Live in the Village.  Walk the same streets that Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg have walked.”

I’m pretty impressed.  I’m guessing that NYU is in New York City.  I’ve never heard of anyone from central PA moving to Manhattan.    I’ve been to Boston once.  Washington, DC on a field trip.  Countless family outings to Baltimore.  That’s about it.  I’m a country bumpkin without cable television.

He continues.  ”You should come over to my house some time and listen to some records.  Meanwhile, get yourself a copy of the Village Voice and listen to some Bob Dylan.  It’s going to change your life.”

That night, my mom’s Tourette’s friend gives me a bunch of Bob Dylan tapes after I express some interest.  ”You’re the prettiest girl ever. It’s an honor to give these to you.   This music really will change your life.”

In the future:  I lose my virginity with the cute junior boy, because it turns out that I occasionally like to be bossed around by boys.

 I go to NYU.  It really does change my life.

One day much later, I name my daughter after Bob Dylan.