The Real Thing

I watched him from the door but wasn’t sure. His general build was about right. The changes were those you would expect in a seventy-year-old: a slight stoop, a waistline that had gone from concave to convex, the chin a little saggy. In that he resembled his replacement—his most recent replacement, if you side with those who argue that there have been several. His hairstyle was different from his twenty-five-year-old self, but his nose looked much the same, the tip perhaps a bit droopy. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I suspected they would have lost the shine they’d had the second year at Newport. It happens to us all.

Not much to go by, you say, and you are right. In fact, I’ll level with you. I wasn’t exactly on a pub crawl, but I’d had a few. I may not have been the best judge. And the scene wasn’t one where you’d expect to find someone like him. In spite of its name, The Star was hardly a place for stars, nor former stars, who I suspect might be even more particular about their surroundings. And why England? Mexico would have been more likely. At the same time, the whole thing seemed fated in a way. I’d never set foot in the pub before, but someone happened to throw the door open as I left its neighbour, The Dark Horse, so I walked in. One last stop, I’d decided, on the spur of the moment. Once inside, I noticed him right away, up by the counter, and then not even wild horses and so on and so forth. He was on his own, his shoulders raised—shielding his identity, was the impression I got—both hands around the glass. He was nursing his beer.

That threw me. Was beer his drink? What came to mind was burgundy, followed, perhaps, as in the song, by the harder stuff, but then people change. With Keith Richards you could most likely bank on Jack Daniels, but not everyone is so set in their ways.

“Another one,” I said to the barman as I reached the counter. I steadied the stool before it fell. “Bitter,” I added.

“Jawohl.” I could have sworn he clicked his heels together. “Coming up.”

Why did he take me for German?

Then I turned my head to get a better view. I could be wrong. A man and a woman hid much of him, but as I said, his general build, his waistline, his chin and nose were about right.

Of course, most of those who see today’s version as a copy would not have given him a second look, being convinced that he died in that motorcycle accident in 1966, but I never thought so. McCartney, yes. It’s common knowledge that there was friction between him and the others in the band. When he walked out of the studio and got into his car, it must have been obvious to them all that he was about to quit—which would have put an end to everything. An educated guess says that if he did, he had to be gone for good. The look-alike that was available must have made things easier. But Dylan? No way. There would have been no need for drastic action. If he’d decided that he’d had enough, he would hardly have objected to someone else stepping into his shoes. He would probably have seen it as a good joke. Being Dylan must have become quite a burden. If you don’t believe me you should check the film of his 1965 tour. “God, I’d hate to be me,” he says, or something like it, reading what the papers have written about him. Discarding the Dylan identity must have been a relief. He would be free to do anything. Who knows how many lives he’s lived since then?

In a way I pity those who bought the official story. How much less exciting must it not be to believe that he had simply taken time out and then returned with new energy. Mind you, it suits their narrow-mindedness and that is presumably why they react with such hostility if I pass a slighting remark on the Dylan of today. “It’s not him,” I might say. “Can’t you see? It’s not him?” But how convince them? They simply dismiss my arguments as “nothing but conspiracy theories”. Nothing but! As if there would be conspiracy theories if there were no conspiracies! One goes with the other, right? Then they bring up the moon landings. “You think they were a conspiracy too?” they say, as if Dylan and McCartney and the moon landings were all of a kind. They should check the evidence on the Internet.

No Bear

Lynn shakes her head. “Not that I envy him.”

“Your father?”

“Well, him neither. But it was my brother I was talking about. Hugh.”

“So you were.”

“Things have always fallen into his lap.”

“I know what you mean.”

Both raise their glasses, regarding the half-empty room—Mondays are quiet in this part of town. Colleagues rather than friends, they have reached the stage where they begin to exchange confidences.

“I hadn’t heard from him for ages. Then he sent me this photo.”

“Of himself?”

“That would have made more sense. No. His son had given him some sort of fancy camera.”

“His son? You didn’t tell me he had a son. How old is he?”

“What difference does it make? Anyway, the camera had an infrared sensor, to take pictures in the dark. He fixed it up outside his weekend place in North Carolina.”

A gesture from Sue indicates that this is going too fast.

“Your brother has a house in the States?”

“Two. He moved there … oh, years ago. Best place to get ahead, he claimed. Quite different from here.”

“What does he do?”

“Something related to finance. He never said. I never asked. I bet you can’t guess what the picture showed.”

“Was this by a lake?”

“No. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“The cabin’s on a mountainside. He goes there to relax.”

There is a long pause. The people at the table next to theirs get up to leave. Chairs scrape against the floor. They both watch them.

“Indians?” Sue suggests.

“No.”

A short pause.

“Well, what?”

“A bear.”

“He sent you a picture of a bear?”

“He did.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“He was boasting, of course. ‘See what looked in on us the other night? Beat that if you can!’”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t even got a son.”

“No.”

“And if I did, I’m bloody sure he wouldn’t buy me a camera.”

“Well …”

“Why should he?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“All right, he might. But then, if I were to rig it up outside my door, what could possibly set it off? You know my area.”

“I do. No bear.”

“No bear. Probably a Peeping Tom. Or a flasher.”

“Yes.”

They hear the call for last orders. Staring vacantly in front of them, they finish off what is in their glasses.

“Shall we have another one?”

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“It’s so unfair. If I were a man, life would be so different.”

“You’re right there.”

They shake their heads in unison.

No bear.

Photo: K J Knoespel

Moe

The tiger holds her, its eyes cold, distant. Mesmerized, she blocks the man’s way, paying no heed to the rush-hour crowd around them. ‘Truly amazing.’ Her words come in a whisper. ‘So lifelike. So in control.’ Due to the man’s tan, even the colour is right. ‘Where did you have it done?’ With his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing most of the tiger’s head, the question doesn’t feel intrusive.

“You like it?”

She confirms that she does.

“It was either that or a wolf.”

“I’m a cat lover myself. Dogs I can do without.”

“So you’d have picked the tiger, too.”

She hesitates.

“A cub, perhaps.”

His is full-grown; it needs a chest twice the size of hers. Three times. She casts a quick glance at the man’s face. He’s neither wolf, nor tiger. His hair, unkempt, might turn into a lion’s mane if left to grow, but is a little dark. He has a drawn look.

But if he’s tired, he isn’t the least bashful. There’s a pub around the corner, he says. How about they drop in? To her surprise, she accepts. And though they split after one drink, they exchange not only names but phone numbers. Elaine. Gene.

So it goes.

Engrossed in thoughts of the tiger, she arrives home, checks her mail. None. Miriam welcomes her, while Alice and Misha hang back. “Salmon today,” she tells them, having stopped at the Co-op on the way home. She takes her shopping into the kitchenette, cleans the cats’ tray to get rid of the smell, feeds them.

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe had been their names when there were four of them, but having lost Moe, she renamed the others so as not to be reminded constantly that her favourite was gone. Now, in spite of that, the children’s counting rhyme comes to mind — catch a tiger. Catch a tiger by the toe. But will Gene’s tiger really have toes?

If it does, they’ll be down by his knees. She sees them move with each step he takes, as he walks along a sunlit beach, and giggles.

Alice, aka Eeny Miriam, aka Meeny Misha, aka Miny