When the Wind Lies

When the Wind Lies

Dylan often walked that one promenade. The one that separated so many rivers from so many mountains. He would often look to both sides, but with a feeling of regret, as if he didn’t like the actual sight in front of him; the way the promenade guided him. People tried to be him, tried to fill his shoes, and he would often wish they did. That way, he could rest on the side of the promenade, instead of treading the infinite walk towards that one unknown spot on the horizon. It was as if God himself stood there, waving welcomingly, but he knew better; it was easy to imitate God. He thought:

‘If God and the devil changed places, I’m sure no one would notice at all.’

But he continued walking. The wind started going from a whistle to a roar, and he was pushed dangerously close to the edge. He almost slipped, but then he saw his own reflection in the water under him. His sunglasses fell of, splashing into the water, revealing the thin slits that were his eyes. He stared into the reflection for a while, as his glasses floated of into another world, carrying the glint of the sun on its dark shields. His dark, bushy hair surrounded his grim expression, and he realized his own bitterness for a moment. He pulled back, and started walking again.
He reached a landscape that carried enormous fields that stretched beyond where the eye could carry. One single plowman stood, digging the earth on one of the plots. Another man seemed to be running across the fields, all the while yelling:

“Hey! Get of my corn fields, you bastard!”

The plowman finished before the other man could ever reach him. He took his corn, packed it, and then left for the same sunset that Dylan was following. And in that moment, a man rose from the water. He climbed on the promenade in front of Dylan. He wore a dark grey suit with matching tie and perfect hair. He held a glass of wine in his hand, and he was completely dry.

“Hello there,” he spoke to Dylan, who was merely taken aback by the stranger’s odd arrival.

“Hello,” he said, with his raspy voice. It was an old voice by now.

“Want some wine?” the stranger asked.

“No thanks,” Dylan replied shortly.

“All right. Are you walking that way?” the stranger asked, pointing towards the setting sun.

Dylan merely nodded.

“Good! Then I might join you. And tell me, if you ever change your mind about the wine. It’s from 65, a good year.”

“Tell me about it,” Dylan said.

And so they walked, Dylan and that other man. Dylan kept quiet for as long as he could, but the man didn’t seem to follow that same idea.

“We live in a safe country, you know?” he said. “The government protects us, and they look out for us. Make sure, we don’t make any mistakes, you know? And if we do, they just jump in, and save the day. God bless the president!”

“Why the president?” Dylan asked, hintingly sarcastic.

“He’s the leader of this great nation. He’s always the same, but always different. And if he gets shot, he bounces right back. He keeps us together, you know?”

“But even he sometimes has to stand naked.”

“Nope,” the stranger rejected firmly. “He’s got people for that. Oh, here’s my exit,” the stranger suddenly proclaimed. “I’m off then. Nice meeting you.” He seemed to notice the farmer from before out on the fields. “Uh, try not to call his attention.”

“Why?”

“It’s his wine. Well, have a happy journey!”

Dylan nodded, watching the suited man walk away into the fields, while scouting for the angry farmer. In the distance a watchtower seemed to be in shambles. Two shifty characters ran around it, picking the tower brick from brick, while a woman cried in the background.
A wildcat roared in the distance.

Dylan walked for a while, and alone as he was, he still felt shadows around him; especially his own. It seemed to dance around his steps, with the slight sound of a shook tambourine. He was dazed for a moment; he lost his balance and fell. His finger was torn by a splint in the boardwalk.

“Are you ok?” a voice said.

“It’s alright… I’m only bleeding. Who are you?”

The shadow stepped forward, a perfect mirror image of Dylan, the only difference being the tambourine in the shadows belt.

“I’m you, and yet I’m not. In a way, I’m the younger you. Or the older, whichever you prefer. Does that comfort you?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems right. I mean, here you are, right?”

“Right. You look tired. When’s the last time you slept?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, but I have a place I’m going to.”

“Where’s that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Good. Then I might as well tag along.”

“Haven’t you followed me all this time, anyway?”

“Not until you turned from the 60th highway.”

Dylan looked confused for a moment, but the shadow nodded with assurance.

“When did that happen?”

“A while ago, but you’re soon at the end of this one too.”

“Is this a highway too?”

“Yep, the 61st. Highway 61.”

“Odd,” Dylan said. “It feels like I’ve walked here before.”

And so Dylan and his shadow walked the promenade. They spoke of religion, politics, philosophy and just life in general.

“Do you have a name, shadow?” Dylan asked.

“I’m Robert,” the shadow said. He tried to shake his hand, but they couldn’t grab each other. “I’m a tambourine man.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows. Are you headed to Desolation Row?” Robert asked.

“What did you say?” Dylan asked, suddenly hit by a feeling of great reminiscence.

“Desolation Row. You going there?”

“I guess I am. I miss it there,” Dylan said.

“We met there once, but you probably don’t remember.”

“I don’t, sorry.”

“It’s ok.”


And they walked on, Robert and Dylan. The landscape seemed to flatten around them, and history was acted out in the farthest reaches of their eyesight. They saw a lot of people walking around, doing deeds, killing laws, selling shoes. The sounds of sirens screamed out at them. The sick lay on the ground, while the ambulances rushed around them to get to the kerosene-filled tanks that threatened to blow. Flowers wilted beneath their feet, as the promenade suddenly melted into brown meadows and dead forests.

“I feel like I’ve seen all this before. I feel like I’ve described it all,” Dylan said, watching in awe, as the world crumbled around him.

“What?” Robert said, almost disgustingly staring at Dylan.

“I described all this!” Dylan repeated.

“You got a lot of nerve saying that!” Robert said. “You didn’t describe this. You were a part of it, but you’re too old now to understand. You sang about it, that’s right, but only because it sung to you. The very wind you sang about swirled through your harp in those years, and look at you now.”

Dylan looked shamefully at the ground.

“Wandering, like a vagabond.”

“The original vagabond,” Dylan whispered, but Robert merely continued.

“With no direction home.”

“And yet here we are,” Dylan muttered, suddenly noticing the enormous door in front of them. It gleamed with light so intense that the shadow almost disappeared for a while.

“You think that’s it?”
“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, then.”

“This is Desolation Row,” Dylan said. “I’ve been here before.”

“That might be true, but this ain’t Desolation Row. No one has been here before.”

Dylan knocked on the door, but there wasn’t any answer. Dark clouds started gathering around them.

“Don’t go in there. I’m telling you. That isn’t Desolation Row!”

“I know it is.”

“Ok then,” Robert sighed, as the door in front of them finally opened. “It’s open now.”

“I’ll write,” Dylan said comfortingly, smiling at the fading shadow.

“Don’t do that,” the shadow answered.

Robert the shadow was left outside, as Dylan walked in, the door closing loudly behind him. Robert sighed again. He turned from the majestic door and walked on.

The streets were ruined, he noticed, as he tried to follow the 1st, 2nd and 3rd. They only lead him to more broken bricks.
“God’s on our side,” people chanted around him, as the sky was falling down. They repeated it, more and more manically.
Robert finally came to 4th street, and it seemed to be intact, so he followed it; the last street in the world. He wasn’t sure where he ended, but he knew that he had stopped walking at some point.

“In the jingle jangle morning, I’ll come following you,” he whispered to himself, a single tear falling from his now entirely faded cheek.