I was having a drink with Bob Dylan. It probably seems like I have drinks with Bob Dylan a lot because of how much I write about it here. But we just have drinks occasionally and I write several essays about each time we do.

Anyway, we were pretty thick in it with Cognacs. Bob looked up from his snifter and said “I was thinking of retiring to Becketwood.”

Becketwood is a retirement home on the Mississippi River here. I mean, it seems very nice, but not the sort of place one would go if one had, for instance, two hundred million dollars.

“It seems really nice.” I said. “But it doesn’t seem like the sort of place one would go if one had, for instance, two hundred million dollars.”

“I don’t have two hundred million dollars.” Bob said a bit sullenly.

“A hundred fifty million then.”

Bob had no counter to that. 

We sipped cognac.

“I don’t think you’ve dealt with the wage slave service industry so much, uh, lately.” I observed. “You might prefer a more bespoke assistance when you, um, er, get older.” I suggested gently to my 80 year old friend.

He took it in stride with a begrudgingly accepting nod.

I took a sip of Cognac. “You have a hundred and fifty million dollars?” I asked in a hushed voice.

He didn’t answer. But a couple weeks later he sent this fantastically beautiful $7,000 bottle of Cognac to me.

I saved some to drink with him the next time we were together. We were sitting over it when I said “You know what my favorite cover of one of your songs is?”

All Along the Watchtower?” He guessed.

Sign on the Window by Melanie.” I said.

I played it on my phone as he took a sip of the deeply colored and subtly scented Cognac.

“Not bad.” He said admiringly.

But I did not know whether he was referring to the Cognac or the song.



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