I picked up the other R at his office on a sunny Friday afternoon. After partaking of Nathan’s fast food and an herbal remedy to combat the length of the Greyhound ride, we boarded a four o’clock bus from Port Authority, full of high spirits and expectations. At seven o’clock we were still on the Turnpike. An infant began to howl in misery, and I asked R to get the pint of bourbon from the overhead rack. At five to eight we pulled into the Sands, all thoughts of checking into our hotel and dining at the Virginia City buffet abolished by the most horrible traffic I have ever had the displeasure in which to sit. We raced to the chips counter to cash in our vouchers, raced to the box office to get our tickets, and then I held up my sign that said "Dan K. I have your ticket".

"Hope you like Bob Dylan", I said the other R as we heard "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Columbia recording artist...". And we raced into the Copa to be seated by the maitre d’. Stumbling over our luggage and winter coats, we practically fell into our seats. Although my feet were on my overnight bag and I was holding my coat, I was wildly happy as the band broke into the delightful strains of Roving Gambler. The show must have been sold out because there wasn’t an empty seat in sight. The audience was really whooping it up and I grinned wildly at the other R and our table-mates.

"I miss Bucky Baxter," I thought to myself as the band began Mr. Tambourine Man. I also thought, "I’m parched, I have to pee, and a cigarette wouldn’t be too bad either." Stone Walls and Steel Bars was next, and all my earthly needs were forgotten as Dylan sang the lines of this beautiful old tune. Desolation Row was next, minus a few verses, I think. Mama You Bin On My Mind ended with an incredible harp solo. Dylan was smiling and dancing and having a great time, and the audience was thrilled.

When they played It’s Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding, I got up to use the ladies' room and have a smoke. Since we were sitting pretty far away, I walked as slowly as possible back into the Copa, and as I ascended the stairs I turned and smiled at Dylan. I don’t think he saw me, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

The waitron came over and we ordered some Heinekens. I toasted the other R as they began to play Tomorrow Is A Long Time. This was the highlight of the show for me. It’s one of my favorites. Masters of War was next, and then another one of my faves, One Too Many Mornings. Don’t Think Twice was also wonderful, and even the inevitable Tangled Up In Blue caused my heart to skip a beat.

When R came back from the men’s room, he asked if there would be an encore. "I hope so. He’ll probably play some electric tunes." R loves eighties music, and I was anxious for him to hear some electric Dylan at his first Dylan concert. The encore began with a sublime Blowin’ In The Wind. Then, as they broke into Not Fade Away, some chick jumped on stage.

"What’s happening?" asked R in astonishment. "What’s this?" I explained to him that girls sometimes jump onstage and that Dylan has a lot of groupies. "He usually lets them dance around for a few seconds and then security chases them off." Suddenly, people were climbing all over their tables to jump onstage for their fifteen minutes of fame. Security finally shooed them off stage, the curtains fell, the lights went up, and I looked at R and my table-mates.

I shrugged. "Well..." At a dollar a minute, I wasn’t sure if R understood how much I loved the show. "He usually does a few more songs for the encore. I feel like we got cheated!"

"Those people, how come they let them do that?" asked R. Irritated with these idiots, I explained that usually a few chicks will jump up and bop around for a while, and Dylan doesn’t seem to mind so much. But I could tell R was having trouble understanding how the notoriously private Dylan could allow people to jump onstage. "I know he’s rather old and so forth, but a lot of women would like to sleep with him," I said as we stumbled out of the Copa.

We checked into our hotel, had some whiskey on the rocks, and went down the beach for a bit of wading and an herbal remedy. I convinced R to stand by the payphones outside the Copa so I could hear some of A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall and a smokin’ Maggie’s Farm. But security chased us away, so we went to the restaurant upstairs and had some sandwiches. Then we went back to our room and fell asleep. Saturday was spent walking up and the gorgeous Atlantic coastline, searching for shells to line the bottom of R’s aquarium. Exhausted, sunburnt, slightly hung over, but wildly happy, we boarded the bus back to New York City at sundown.