It had to be in the late fall or early winter of 1978 or maybe ’79. I was standing at the bar near the front door of the Lone Star Café on 5th Avenue at 13th Street in Manhattan, waiting for my dinner date, a fine young model/actress I was attempting to put a move on. I’d met her earlier in the day at an audition for a theater company and was impressed with her talent, as she was with mine.
Talented people tend to gravitate towards each other, and I was deep into the “thespian” stage of my life during these years.
When she (for the life of me I can’t recall her name) agreed to go to dinner with me — it wasn’t hard to get her to say yes — I’d asked her where she wanted to go, and she demurred by saying, “Anywhere you want to take me.” I liked that.
Now this could have been taken a number of ways: Most actors, during their salad days, are as broke as the Ten Commandments, and the young woman perhaps was just being courteous, not wanting to name some place too expensive for my wallet. Or, it could have been that she just wanted to see what kind of restaurant I would select. She seemed impressed and a bit surprised when I made my suggestion.
The Lone Star Café had been my hangout for at least the previous six months: The food was excellent, the music was topnotch (everyone from Jerry Lee Lewis to B.B. King played there), and the prices were high enough to keep out all but the wealthiest of tourists. The doorman/bouncers made sure that no riff-raff got in.
By that point I was a considered a regular, and got the best tables and treatment since I was a very good tipper. During those years the street life was paying off like a rigged, well-oiled slot machine.
It must have been about 7:45 pm, since I’d reserved a table for 8, and I was chatting with the bartender when he looked at the front door and almost dropped his bar towel. In walks Bob Dylan, who was in one of his cowboy periods since he had on a funky cowboy hat, replete with a long feather, a suede fringed buckskin jacket, a pair of well-worn jeans and expensively tooled alligator cowboy boots that must have set him back at least a thousand bucks.
The place was still half empty; there was only a few other people standing down at the far end of the bar, while I was positioned closer to the door. Some early diners were already seated at their tables.
Dylan walked to within five or six feet of me and stood at the bar. When the bartender went over to him, he ordered a double Jack Daniel. When his drink was poured he sort of faced down the bar, lifted his glass slightly and saluted no one in particular, downed the bourbon in one smooth gulp, slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, turned on his heels and walked out, probably very pleased that he had been left to have his drink in complete faux anonymity. After he left, to a person, we all made an unspoken compact: We all pretended that Bob Dylan had not come into the Lone Star Café that night.
From Cool Cleveland correspondent Mansfield B. Frazier mansfieldfATgmail.com. Frazier’s From Behind The Wall: Commentary on Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate is available again in hardback. Snag your copy and have it signed by the author by visiting http://NeighborhoodSolutionsInc.com
3 Responses to “MANSFIELD: The Night I Sorta Met Bob Dylan”
Andy Lukac, Jr.
Wonderful moment captured with the counter-culturish edge which only the savvy would really appreciate. Mansfield Frazier, I toast and salute your acumen and genius in staying in the moment. Truth, so incredibly hidden in the contemporary. The feeling of community responsibility rather that immediate gratification was prevalent in those weird and beautiful times. Glad, you were there and still here, to share
Billy Williams
Nice! I like the phrase “as broke as the Ten Commandments.” I can relate to that!
Mike
Nice story, and the Lone Star was a great venue. Caught NRBQ there a couple times. (Or was that the Annex?)