Like a Rolling Stone

"Like a Rolling Stone." Bob Dylan and My Irish Bartender

I was sitting in a bar in Cologne Germany, surrounded by people but alone, drinking a whiskey, neat. I liked the cool rush on my lips, the sharp clink of ice cubes against glass, and the bite of the hard alcohol. The rough edges of my life were about to be smoothed over, even if just for an evening.

I spoke English first, pretty good Mandarin, and no German.

The bar had a live musician, but he was on break. He was French but mostly played American songs. A one man show, just an electric guitar, a harmonica, and pretty good vocals.

Between sets, I tried to eavesdrop on the people around me. There was an older British trucker across the bar, talking about the "chunnel," his complexion was ruddy. Not my people.

Next to me was Crutches (the nickname in my head). He was young, under thirty, and probably German. He had an obviously broken leg wrapped in a thick neon green cast. Seemed pleasant enough, but I wasn't sure he spoke English.

Everyone else seemed very German, except the bartenders.

I took another sip of and shut my eyes, breathing deep the caustic edge of whiskey.

It had been almost two months since I had a real conversation in English. I was twenty-eight. My career was going great. I was solving supply chain problems, arguing, fighting for deadlines, learning something new every day.

Most of all, I traveled. America to China to Germany to France back to China. I was rarely in America, never stopping long enough for the jet lag to completely wear off.

It was challenging and exciting. I had insane opportunities professionally and personally. I was learning Mandarin and Chinese Culture, touring ancient German cities. I took vacations in Shanghai and Taipei.

That was where I met Anna. She was German living in Taiwan. A little bit older, accomplished in her field. She was reserved at first, but all she needed was a long runway and Anna would get going. Once you got her talking, about semiconductors or government, about Taipei and Beijing, she would unwind, start talking with her fingers then her hands then her arms. Her brown hair never settled, even on absolutely still days it would ripple on a breeze.

That relationship was never going to work, but I was too naive to understand. I spent a decade being too busy, studying then working then traveling. I never took the time to stop and figure dating out. I was approaching thirty but still "young" when it came to women.

We spent a weekend together in Shanghai, staying at the Grand Hyatt on the 86th floor of the Jin Mao tower. Anna only wore clothes to greet room service, and even then just a robe.

Anna leaned forward against the window, naked, always naked. She tried to look down on the city. I stared at her pale ass and her lean back. Her auburn hair was wild and sweaty. The weather was overcast, stormy. We didn't have a proper view of the city, but what we did have was lightning periodically arcing across our window. The storm was at eye level, because we were in the clouds.

A crash of thunder hit us, and we were flash blinded by light. Anna jumped, turned to me, smiled. She skipped back to bed and slid her body close to mine. I reached around her ass and pulled her tight.

Our encounters were sporadic and unscheduled, but we made the most of them. I ran my hands up her body to her breasts. Anna's nipples were large and pale, with no clear definition to say exactly where nipple ended and breast began. On lazy mornings, I would lick and nibbled around them, kneading and flicking and teasing. Anna could come from her nipples alone, but it took time.

That night I sped things along. I kept my mouth on her nipple while ran my hand up her thigh. She moaned. I pressed against her, then sliding just along the edge, finding her wet. I used her body to lubricate my fingers, then slid up to the nub of her clit. She arched her back. I kissed the edge of her lips then looked in her eyes, my fingers stroking. Her eyes were already distant.

"Inside?" I asked.

She nodded. I moved one finger down, sliding inside of her. Then another. Her right hand strayed to her breasts, a hard nippled. My mouth found the other. I left two fingers inside of her, stroking soft flesh, focusing the rest of her body with my lips. She preferred it this way, wanting my lips and my tongue as much or more than my dick. I didn't mind.

Anna moaned, writhing her hips against me. I felt her body clench from the inside as I moved from her nipples to her neck, licking and kissing up to her ear, interrupted only by breathy whispers, calling out the details of her wonderful body. The storm outside was blinding light and crashing sound, but we barely noticed.

The relationship with Anna didn't end with a bang. It just kind of dried up. We were rarely in the same country. Every relationship eventually needs proximity, small comforts, convenience. She was beautiful and smart and a good person, but it wasn't enough.

Another sip of whiskey.

The breakup was rational. Calm.

Years of travel and tight deadlines had broken my coworkers. All of the people around me eventually started acting irrational, picking the wrong fights or fucking the wrong person. Each time they self immolated I got a promotion, more money, and more responsibility.

It seemed I was the only one who knew the secret to staying sane. I had cracked the code. The secret was my absolute refusal to make major life decisions while jet-lagged.

It was a good rule. Over the past year, my life was two constants. Work and travel. Travel and work. Along with those constants came stress and loneliness, deadlines, flights. Never enough sleep.

The deals never quite went through as planned, but there was always just enough to salvage and keep going anyway. It never stopped.

My emotions were all over the place, but I was wise enough to see it. I was on tilt, like a poker player who takes a bad beat. I was forcing myself to sit a few hands out, waiting for a time for things to be "normal."

"No major decisions while jet-lagged," was my rule. The breakup was necessary, but I just felt stupid and guilty. She was a little bit older, ready to settle down, and I had stolen something precious from her. Time.

After Anna, I added one more rule. No long distance relationships. I was done stealing time from innocent women.

Since then, there had been no romantic partners or even prospects. Hell, since Anna there weren't even any friends. The breakup was more than sixth months ago.

I signaled the bartender for another round. She was younger than me, probably twenty five. Short, her blond hair tucked behind round ears. Freckles and dimples. A quick smile and gray, cynical eyes. She was petite and frenetic, bouncing from order to order. She spoke German but wasn't. Her accent was a bit off. Maybe British? Not American at least.

The uniform was a green and white checked polo shirt that didn't seem to fit quite right. She made the most of it, leaving the collar unbuttoned, showing off a lightly freckled chest with a hint of cleavage. The shirt was tied on the side, causing it to hug tight across her mid drift, paired with dress slacks that were almost skin tight. I could see the outline of her panties gripping a tight butt when she walked away. When she dropped off my whiskey, I saw the glossy, soft pink of her nails matched her lips.

Cute girl. My rules were smart. Logical. I'm a logical guy. But they also didn't work, not really. I failed to take in to account the soft edges of humanity, refused to acknowledge that logic isn't always enough.

The musician was in to his set. He was pretty good, but I hate live music. It gets in the way of communication. I am honest with myself. I was an average guy: height, weight, build, hair. My only real edge was my brain and my wit. I was better at dancing with words than feet.

The musician was playing some middle career Paul Simon, but it was winding down, transitioning to... Bob Dylan?

Yeah. Dylan. I was almost certain. Even though the guitar was electric, I could still hear the strings. The melody was raucous, bouncing like an acoustic. Turbulent flow, not laminar. Then he started to sing:

Once upon a time you dressed so fine

Threw the bums a dime in your prime...

Didn't you?

Dylan for sure, "Like a Rolling Stone." He wasn't a favorite of mine. I knew plenty of people found substance and meaning in his music, that it was important. Songs that impacted art and culture. It just wasn't for me.

I never got past the rambling vocals and the odd tone. Difference in taste. The musician kept singing:

Now you don't... talk so loud.

Now you don't... seem so proud.

I sighed, releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding. The song was well tread, I knew most of the lyrics already, but tonight something was different.

I've found moments in life, usually after too much sun, when I'm tired and the defense of an overactive internal monologue is just a little weaker, when things can get in.

As Cover-Bob rounded toward the chorus, something went wrong. My chest felt tight. My heart was racing, some animal part of me was shouting.

"Get off that stool and run. Run before it's too late."

My vision was... off. I could see the people in front of me, the musician or the bartender, but I could only see one thing at a time. I whipped my head around, struggling to breathe, to form a thought.

Cover-Bob kept going:

About having to be scrounging... For your next your next meal.

My head hurt, a dull pain that made me want to vomit.

"You OK?" the bartender asked, her voice barely carried above the music. I ignored her.

The music swelled, the guitar a staccato mix of rhythms and melody.

How does it feel?

I was on a roller coaster. Not just metaphorically, I could feel the pull in my body, acceleration and a floating stomach, not imagined. Real.

How does it feel?

He sang it just like Dylan, drawing out syllables, building and crashing, line by line. Taking his time. An eternity passing before what came next.

To be without a home

Like a complete unknown,

Like a rolling stone

Then the harmonica played, loud, rambunctious in my ears, elbowing in to my brain. I could feel my heart, not just in my chest, but in my neck, fingers, eyes. Each beat was a spot of gray on my vision. I was on the edge of something.

Enlightenment?

I needed space to breathe, room to think, to give my body orders, for it to follow. But it was impossible, my head was filled with something else, no thoughts, just emotion.

Cover-Bob kept going. I was mainlining Bob Dylan in a way I had never experienced music or media of any kind, overwriting memories and associations, writing it in to my body, to my DNA, a coded message of loneliness and desperation, no friends, few lovers, a nothing at best, a time thief at worst.

Sitting in a bar in Cologne, having a panic attack, I found enlightenment.

I was going to die.

Death was right here. A physical thing. If I didn't talk to someone, in English, make a friend or at least a connection, I would die.

I tipped the glass of whiskey to my lips. It was empty, just cold ice sliding down to my dry lips.

I signaled the bartender.

Cover-Bob kept going. I was both the victim and the perpetrator in the song, lonely and unmoored, stealing time from a woman, Anna. I had a rapidly rising bank account but nothing to show for it.

The bartender didn't come back until the song was done.

"One more," I croaked.

I looked to my right. Crutches was watching the musician, his bum leg propped up against a stool. Death was on my shoulder.

I hate small talk and friends of convenience. It didn't matter.

"And one more for him," I said. "What are you having?"

--

Crutches was German, under thirty, and a regular. He broke his leg skiing in the Alps. It wasn't very clear what he did for work. He could have been unemployed or independently wealthy. It didn't matter. He spoke English and humored me.

The bartender came back with our drinks.

"Two whiskeys," she said.

"I can't place your accent," I said. "British?"

"Irish," she said.

I smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

"I'm Irish too," I said.

"All you Americans come in here, and every one of you is Irish," she said.

"Look at me," I said. I had freckles and light skin, hair a brown that was borderline red. "I'm more Irish than you are. For all I know you're the one faking it."

She studied me for a moment. Then she dug in her back pocket, small hands on a small butt, pulling out a photo ID.

"How do you pronounce that?" she asked.

The ID said "Niamh." I couldn't even fake a guess. I would have been much better off in Chinese.

"You got me," I said. I introduced myself then asked, "How do you pronounce it?"

"Nieve," she said. My cute bartender was Irish and called Nieve.

"What are you doing in Cologne?" I asked. I saw a flicker in her gray eyes, boundaries being re-established.

"Working," she said. Then she was off, taking orders and filling drinks.

—

I drank with Crutches for the rest of the night. Nieve was working, but she never made it back to our area. Another young bartender named Thomas served us drinks.

In my normal life, per-Enlightenment, Nieve's disappearance would have thrown me in to anxious analysis. Did I cross a line? Was I a bore? Why was I talking to some mid-twenties dude when I could be talking to a cute girl?

Not tonight. Every moment was an opportunity. I talked to people as they were. No expectations, only looking for a crack to get in, to understand, to listen.

I had the impression that Thomas was trapped. The bar wasn't well run, the owners were never there. He was the one working, just to send all the money to faceless partners or share holders. But he was learning and saving where he could.

I'm not so sure Thomas liked me, but he tolerated me. How many people listen to the bartender's troubles?

"Hey, the bar is going to close soon," Crutches said. I felt something, not panic but disappointment. I had staved off death tonight, but how long would it last? "After hours, some of the bartenders get together and have drinks. You want to come?"

Yes.

—

"Hiya Irish," Nieve said to me. A smile. Sarcastic? Probably, but I would take it.

Thomas and Nieve joined us at the next bar. I don't know if Crutches invited them or vice versa, but it felt nice, affirming I wasn't completely repulsive.

Nieve was reserved, guarded even. Any empty moments where she might have opened up, Thomas filled with talk about his future plans. Even so, I gathered that she had ended up in Cologne chasing a boy, that it had ended badly, and that was about it. When I tried to steer the conversation back to Nieve, more out of politeness than romantic interest, Thomas would circle the conversation back to him.

Nieve and Thomas were both trapped, but for different reasons. I didn't know how Thomas ended up in Cologne, but I knew how he planned to leave. He had an escape plan, to open his own bar.

When Nieve left, his eyes would follow her. Thomas was infatuated with her, his manipulation of the conversation was as much about protecting her from me as anything else. It only made sense. He spent every week with her. I was here for one night.

I realized that every night men were angling for Nieve, asking her where she's from, trying to draw her out, chip away at her armor. On any given night she was a prize to be won. And I was no different than any of them. For all my world experience, languages and culture, I was ordinary, boring.

This was the kind of self analysis and judgment that tended to keep me away from social gatherings, but it didn't matter tonight. I was riding a remnant of enlightenment. I didn't need to be amazing, to flirt or kiss or try to take her home. I didn't even need to talk to her. I just needed to be among people.

I wanted to flirt and banter with a beautiful young woman, but there was no end goal and no real point. It felt like a lost opportunity, but it didn't really matter. I could talk to Thomas.

So when we started grinding through his business plan, I didn't fight it. I had nothing to offer Nieve anyway, but maybe I could help Thomas. Napkin math and hope.

I laid it out for him. His real problem wasn't money. It was experience. Thomas didn't know enough to succeed. He couldn't know enough until he opened a bar himself. His only path forward was failure.

Nieve would interject on occasion, like she had heard this a thousand times, dismissing Thomas or pointing out flaws. We kept going anyway.

His constraint was time. Time to accumulate seed money, to learn, to find partners, to open a bar and fail, to be in debt, to go back to being a working man and then do it all again. He was young. Each try would take years. He had two, maybe three goes at it.

A late evening grew more so. I lost track of time. We were all post drunk and fading, only drinking more out of habit. We had lost Crutches somewhere along the way.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Nieve asked me.

"Train to Frankfurt," I said. I was actually kind of nervous. American people don't know shit about public transportation, and I was no exception. "Then America."

"Oh," she said. Disappointed?

I had no idea what time it was. I didn't have to work the next day, but I still had to get across Germany with very little practice. It was time to call it a night.

I grabbed the check. I occurred to me that these young, broke bartenders could have been using me for my wallet. I didn't care. I was alive. A fair trade.

"I'll walk you home," Nieve said.

Cologne is a beautiful city, but way after midnight it was empty and a thick fog covered everything. We had no scenic view. Our walk was just the sound and feel of feet on cobblestones and the orange pockets of illuminated fog from the periodic streetlights.

It was cold and wet. We had on thick jackets. Nieve wrapped her elbow around mine. We walked together in the fog. First a block, then another. I was drunk but still knew where to go.

It was comfortable on her arm. Neither one of us felt the need to speak. We would just hop from lamp to lamp, accidentally bumping in to each other at times, an arm pressed to a chest, an embarrassed smile, but it didn't matter because we were in it together.

We walked along the Rhine, passing near bridges and cathedrals, all hidden in the fog. We took the long way around. I didn't mind. Only stopping when we got to a bridge.

"My apartment is across the river," she said.

I pointed in the opposite direction. "My hotel is the other way."

We were holding hands.

"You're leaving tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I said.

Her eyes darted down to my lips. She wanted me to kiss her, and from there, who knows. No one was waiting for me. I could go as far as Nieve would take me.

I tugged on her hand, she stepped closer to me. Pale gray eyes, yellow light, mist, cold fingers and noses. I leaned in. She closed her eyes. I kissed her, lips brushing lips. A goodbye kiss.

But Nieve kissed back, soft and wet, exploring, searching for passion. It was the opposite of my panic attack. Connection.

I pulled away. Her pale eyes looked up at me. A question. Her breath hung in the cold air. My hands cupped around her rosy cheeks. We both knew what would happen next.

We would go to her place. It would be small, a roommate. Laundry and dishes scattered around. She'd scurry ahead trying to tidy up. We'd take off layers of jackets and sweaters. Eventually she'd be naked, vulnerability in her eyes, watching me gaze across her body. I'd grab her and pull her tight, letting her know I wanted her with my words and my eyes and my hands. Ravenous kissing, both of us lonely, setting fire to our baggage for one night. Then safe sex, condoms.