American Dreamland

By Robert C. Huckins

In a time very much like our own

In the face of dwindling approval ratings and growing criticism, President George W. Bush is impeached and thrown out of office near the end of his second term. He returns home to Texas, bewildered and humiliated, his political career in ruins.

Meanwhile a deeply respected but poorly reviewed Bob Dylan finds his Never Ending Tour odyssey grow tired and stale as fans and critics alike view him more a traveling museum than dynamic performance artist. Bob retires from music altogether, disillusioned and unsure of his place in the music industry.

As the sun fades on these two men, each of them struggles to find their place in the increasingly fickle American cultural landscape. Both of their worlds come together in strange and unpredictable ways, demonstrating how seemingly opposite ends of lifes spectrum may not be far apart from each other after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450270212

Robert C. Huckins

ROBERT C. HUCKINS is a high school social studies teacher in southern New Hampshire, and earned degrees at Keene State College (B.A. Journalism) and Rivier College (M.Ed. Educational Studies). He lives in Milford, New Hampshire with his wife and two children. American Dreamland is his first novel.

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CHAPTER 1

Three years later…

Laura, you seen my gloves? The 43rd President of the United States hadn’t shaved in a few days, carrying musty cowboy boots in his hands, wandering the room in search for his baseball hat and elusive cattle-herding hand gear. His body hurt all over, and he had a headache of gigantic proportions. He was as lost as ever.

I haven’t seen them, honey. Laura Bush saw this process play out more times than she cared to recall since she and her husband moved back to Crawford, Texas. It saddened her to see George this way. He had reached such heights in his life after so many left turns along the way. A privileged yet chaotic youth filled with paternal expectations destined to go unfulfilled until later in life. A mediocre student at one of the most prestigious universities in the country—the same college his father went to, no less. An uneven turn as a Texas oilman, a spotty career stop that eventually moved the hard-living privileged son to throw his efforts into helping his accomplished father get elected as President of the United States, only to see him defeated in his re-election attempt four years later. His son recommitted to making the most of his life after that defeat, becoming part owner of a Texas major league baseball team and eventually becoming the state’s governor. It was indeed an improbable run, unseating a beloved incumbent who was admired for her Southern charm and populist inclinations.

Then George became the President. The rest was indeed history, literally. Laura was so proud of her husband during his first few years in office. He had come so far, overcome so many obstacles, some real and some self-imposed by her stubborn and easily distracted spouse. But his accomplishment was real. It meant something. And she loved him more than ever during those days.

Now, her husband was aimlessly searching for gloves that cost five dollars at the local hardware store. As further testament to his pedestrian destiny since leaving office, George often forgot he could drive himself down to the store himself and pick up new gloves with little fanfare in this sleepy community. There was no hand shaking these days, no requests for guest speaking—not even at the local Chamber of Commerce—and certainly no endorsements of any kind. The election of 2008 came and went, as if her husband had disappeared from the face of the earth, or worse, had never even been on the planet at all. She thought about this each time George set out to work on the modest ranch they owned from their earlier earnings from his oil and baseball money. There was no pension or government salary anymore. In more ways than she cared to ponder, they were on their own. They could get some help from George’s parents, she supposed, but really, she thought—they were big kids now. They would have to make it on their own. She sat at the spacious but modest kitchen table, drinking her coffee, watching her husband rifle through the sweatshirts and flannel jackets in the mudroom, looking for gloves. She loved him. But now she pitied him, too, and she was ashamed of herself.

Laura, where in the hell are they? I need ‘em for today, you know that, George said. He spoke in quick, rushed sentences of exasperation and fatigue, a man with things to do, but nowhere to do them and nobody to really care if they got done. He shook his head and let out an audible sigh. To hell with it, then. I’ll go down to Stokes and get me another pair, OK? Laura nodded and nursed her coffee. She smiled and kissed George on the cheek as he fumbled with his boots and grabbed the keys to the truck. He liked to drive. That was one of the things he missed most while he was president; driving himself around a huge expanse of land, no limits on where went or what he did. Now, he could drive himself around today, tomorrow, and every day for the rest of his life if he wanted. George was home again. This time for life.

CHAPTER 2

Rolling Stone, June 3, 2008—

For a man once bestowed the title Voice of a Generation, it would have been nice to hear it at a recent performance in Tallahassee, Florida. Bob Dylan meandered and growled his way through a painful set that saw him stand contentedly behind keyboards, plunking away, seemingly unaware of what fans came to see—one of the greatest living wordsmiths in American history. Playing songs most of the audience had never heard, let alone knew, Dylan led his top-notch band on a flight of absent-minded hubris; a journey into the twilight of a once-great career that now seems to just be sitting at the bus station, waiting for the ride home. This time, the ride should be for good. It is not remotely satisfying to see a legend go out this way, much less each and every night. Dylan has toured relentlessly since the early 1990s and it shows in his weary and at times incomprehensible rehashing of songs of genius that he manages to make sound uninspired and dated. Dylan simply doesn’t get it—or worse, does and doesn’t care. Would it kill him to play the guitar? Dylan didn’t come within 10 feet of his legendary instrument the entire performance, and hasn’t for years. Fans didn’t boo; they were too respectful for that. Booing is reserved for artists nobody cares about and for fans who want to show their entertainer scorn for wasting their time and money. Fans sat in silence, waiting for a sign, for some hope all would be restored, but to no avail. The fans sat quietly, patient witnesses to the spectacle, knowing it would end at some point and they would be released from this obligation when their idol thankfully left the stage for good. I went to see this concert hoping for the critics to be proven wrong, but they are right—the Bob Dylan we knew and loved is gone. And this time, he isn’t coming back.

The bus rolled down the interstate, indifferent to the ample distance ahead and the endless fields of yellow grass on either side of the road, blazing by the windows in blinking animation. This scene played out every day for the travelers on the Never Ending Tour, the seemingly endless performances for which their legendary leader paid them handsomely to join. The bus rambled along, barely registering the irregular terrain of the Southern highway’s potholes and bumps, wonderful imperfections on a journey into America’s most desolate territory.

The mustachioed band leader had enough of his latest review, generously read with sarcasm by one of Bob’s managers. C’mon, already, Bob Dylan’s weathered voice uttered from the front of the bus to nobody in particular. I can’t listen to any more. He turned to the person sitting in the seat across from him. If I had listened to these critics, I never would have come out of Newport, know what I mean? His singular audience smiled behind a pair of dark sunglasses and under a black beret in knowing agreement. Dylan turned back to his newspaper, content in his appraisal of the latest salvo from the critical army.

Bob made his name long before many of his current fans were even born, and his contribution to American culture was not only profound, but arguably unequalled in diversity and length. Painter, poet, musician, sketch artist, sometime actor and even eccentric and playful radio show host. Dylan long eschewed financial sense in his music and other endeavors; after all, what else could explain some of his implausible career turns? A Woody Guthrie clone out of some remote location in Minnesota. Young folk singer in New York and Greenwich Village. Protest singer in the counterculture movement. Strapping on an electric guitar at a hallowed folk festival. Reclusive resident of rural New York. Father of many children with more than one woman. Country crooner. Jew. Born-again Christian. Pop rock singer. Vaudeville entertainer. Blues singer and Americana worshipper. Marketing sellout. Cover artist. Washed-up has-been living off a decades-old reputation. All these statements were true in Bob’s mind. And then they weren’t. At least not in the way his observers liked to remember them. Bob’s final chapter was still being written as he saw it, but his fan base largely wished he had finished the book long ago. As he perused his newspaper and sipped lukewarm green tea, the singer didn’t appear to have a care in the world. He was light years from the young man who once proclaimed not to trust anyone over thirty. He also wasn’t the guy who said he saw himself as more of a song and dance man to an audience of bewildered journalists and assorted sycophants anxious to see just what made this mysterious genius tick. They really never found out. Nobody did. Now he was old and beat up, his creased and angular face serving as a canvas for a life lived, wholly original and unrehearsed. Today, he did not aspire to construct great performances. As the years rolled on, Bob held on tight to the secret of his mystique, protected it like his own Rosetta stone. For such a prolific fixture of American culture, Bob’s real thoughts remained swirling in the mist.

What’d you think about last night? Charley quietly asked from behind. You like the changes?

Dylan took a long sip of his drink. It was fine. Just what the songs needed last night. A couple transitions on ‘Mountain’ and ‘Watchtower’ need a little fixing, but nothing much. Really, it was good.

Charley sat back in his seat. Did Bob ever really complain about the playing? The band could practically finish each other’s notes and read the set list without even talking to Bob. They could read him in the tunnel before heading out on stage. The songs always changed; that was an accepted fact. In the years Charley and the rest of the band had been with Bob, they acted not only as his musical cohorts and accompanying artists, but also as a conduit for their leader’s fickle treatment of his own art. Bob liked to change his songs. A lot. Fans generally were curious in his tinkering, but some casual listeners often left concerts puzzled and feeling cheated after hearing songs they thought they knew, but barely recognized at the show. His band was used to this, even proud of their adaptability to Bob’s musical meanderings. It was a musical protest, of sorts, to becoming a Greatest Hits Tour Band for an aging legend, something they privately knew had already happened years ago.

Bob downed the rest of his tea, set the paper cup on the floor, and took out a small black sketchbook. It was worn at the edges and corners, with a long ribbon marking the most current page of Bob’s work. With a half-length pencil, his hand started short, jerky movements across the page, eventually giving way to more sweeping, looping motions with some back and forth diversions in between. His eyes went from the page to the scene before him. The road was a long one, and Bob often occupied himself with drawing almost anything in plain view. He uttered a barely audible laugh and turned to the person next to him across the short aisle. Hey, Henry, I think I’m going to draw you today—don’t move. Henry only smiled and continued his nap. He was used to Bob as drawing voyeur. He had drawn virtually everyone on the bus at one time or another. Bob’s hand moved briskly, with little hesitation, as his weathered face twitched faintly with each change in direction of his pencil. The bus rolled along to the uneven rhythm of the long highway beneath its bulk. Tonight was another night, another performance for critics to assess. Dylan might get skewered, might get some positive sympathy for an effort well-made, but right now he would draw. It was the only thing he wanted to do.

CHAPTER 3

The midday sun was blinding away like an idling blowtorch, set high above the dusty field and open landscape of the former president’s ranch. George gripped the rope even harder than before, determined to hold onto the rebellious bull as long as he could. He had been at it for an hour now, trying to conquer the cattle he bought from his neighbor down the road, sort of bovine redemption of sorts, Laura often said with a smile. She was kidding, of course, trying to keep her husband loose in this new stage of his unpredictable life—their new life—but there was a lot of truth to her joking. His hands were blistered and worn, more than he ever admitted to his wife.

Get in there, girl, George bellowed to the resistant animal. His University of Texas baseball hat was pulled down over his eyes to keep out the sun and was soaked dark orange from sweat. C’mon, get in there, he muttered this time, as if pleading with the young strong bull calf to submission. This was tough work, among the most difficult of tasks in his working life. He was athletic—some historians referred to him as the fittest President in American history—and his endurance and strength was good for anybody, let alone a man nearing his mid-60s. But mountain biking and running were both man against terrain; a motionless and ultimately beatable enemy—one only needed to outlast them. George was not the same physical specimen he once was, and this animal was a real and living obstacle. Sweat poured down George’s face, getting in his eyes despite his hat, and his shirt was soaked all the way through, showing a tired and exhausted man trying to tame a seemingly unwilling beast. His arms felt as if they were about to come off his torso, and his legs burned. George huffed and drew his grip as tight as he could; it was no use—he would have to come back later. You win, Missy, you win. George let the rope out and let it trail along the cow as she leaped and bucked toward the other side of the field, snorting and snapping her whip of a tail back and forth. George took off his hat and wiped his towel across his head, desperately trying to catch his breath. He bent over, breathing hard and hands propped on his knees for support, as if he just finished running a marathon. He felt as old as the Texas dirt beneath his old leather boots.

George went upstairs to shower and forget about his failure today. Later, he came down, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, refreshed but sullen. Laura was at the counter, cutting a huge sandwich in half. George sat down, gulped down a huge glass of ice water and exhaled loudly. I tell you, Laura, that animal’s gonna kill me, George said. Laura smiled. Not only had he been repeating himself a lot the last few months, he always spoke in circles when he felt especially challenged. When he was talking, she knew, everything was fine. When he stopped, it was time to worry.

During his early years in the White House, George talked a lot. She remembered the critics making fun of him during his campaign, especially when he spoke in bizarre and sometimes incomprehensible sentences. Privately, she cringed when he rushed his talking points. Talking to him, however, she was always positive, even in her firm but reassuring reminders to slow down and talk clearly. Her husband’s improbable victory—however controversial—surprised even her. She was well aware of what Americans liked for presidents. They liked bright and positive people, ones who told them everything was going to be alright and the reasons why. Some complicated conversation was necessary—this was the presidency, after all—but there had to be a real person in the mix, too, one who came out every so often to remind the people he was, in the end, in the same place they were. George’s awkward campaign manager Karl banally outlined the candidate’s goal was to show the voters a man they would love to have a beer with. Laura thought this was absurd, but sadly, not without some shred of truth. Her husband struggled with this in the beginning. She knew he had a personality; she fell in love with it herself, but to project that to millions of people every day during a long and grueling campaign? She was never sure. She often told friends she knew George would make it when he stood face to face with John McCain in South Carolina and held his ground. It was a moment she would never forget. George was firm, strong, and confident in whittling down McCain’s accusations of dirty politics in the primary elections. He was a fighter.

Honey, this is great, George said in between bites of his fried egg and ketchup sandwich, one of the many Laura Specials she made him each day. This is better than yesterday, and that was pretty good, you know? George’s bites were enthusiastic and fast, as if competing in an eating contest. George simply attacked his food. It was difficult for him during formal meetings with foreign heads of state or other formal meals where simplicity and restraint worked best. He did well, a product of his New England privileged upbringing, and always gave the impression of a well-mannered yet relaxed man comfortable with who he was and what he was doing. Once people met George, they had trouble disliking him. Laura had seen this numerous times. She always thought George would have survived his impeachment trial if he had the chance to meet with every Senator one-on-one before the trial. They would have been compelled to like him. But this was a Democratic takeover in the middle of his second term, and most had never met George, which is where he shone the brightest. This new group came in ready to get her husband, to punish him for everything they hated, no matter what they had to do. And they did.

Honey, what’d you think about having the girls down soon? George said, still chewing away on his new favorite sandwich.

Well, they’re pretty busy these days, Laura said.

George kept his attention on his meal. I know, but it’s been what, two or three months since we saw ‘em last, hasn’t it?

Probably—Maine, wasn’t it?

Yup, Pop’s party, I think. That’s a long time, George said.

Well, honey, Barbara’s so busy trying to get ready for school and Jenna’s settling into a new teaching job. It’s not easy for them to get around here now.

George set his sandwich down. He picked at his corn chips. I know, Laura, I know. It’s just—I can’t believe how much has happened. How much has happened to them lately. I guess, you know, I just wanted to see ‘em, that’s all. Probably won’t happen soon, I guess. He chomped away on more chips, never meeting his wife’s gaze. Laura looked at her husband and her eyes start to water. She kept it under control, but felt the same as her husband. Their girls were the constant reminder of what was important, no matter what was going on in their lives. Laura and George often forgot how old their daughters really were, now adults with their own lives to lead. George knew it, too, but missed them more now than he ever had during his White House tenure. Jenna was married, and Barbara and her boyfriend were set to be married next summer. It seemed like just yesterday he was cradling them—one in each arm—showing them off to their neighbors. George loved his wife more than anyone else in the world, but it was Jenna and Barbara who got him to finally kick drinking for good. The timing was too symbolic to be mere coincidence. Having the twins set him on the path to a better life, a greater purpose.

Laura reached out and touched her husband’s hand. Maybe we can arrange a visit here soon, George. Maybe they need some family, too, you know? Maybe we could go up to Maine for a family outing. Let me work on it for a few days. Your family’s not easy to gather in one spot for long, remember? She smiled and rubbed George’s hand. He looked tired and down. He nodded.

That sounds good, honey. If it doesn’t work out, I get it. It wouldn’t have to be for too long—just a few days, that’s all. Pop would love to see ‘em, too. Maybe Jeb would want to come up, too, who knows? He looked at his wife and held her hands with both of his, still greasy from the sandwich he ate. Laura looked at her hands and laughed. George laughed, too, and gave her a paper towel. Sometimes it felt like everything would be alright after all.

CHAPTER 4

Bob sat quietly in the radio station studio as the show host talked about his career and the band’s performance last night. He was used to being introduced by professionals who were also fans. Some of these people knew his career better than he did. Bob moved quickly in life, rarely turning to look in the rearview mirror. Fans, he found, held on to his past long after he had left it behind yet again.

Let me say first, Bob, it is an honor to have you in the studio today, the show’s host said. He was graying, heavyset white male, probably around 50 or so, most likely a fan from the 1970s. Probably loved Blood on the Tracks, he guessed. It didn’t matter, really. For Bob, the fan always came out, no matter what position the person occupied in their respective field. They couldn’t help it. Every one of them had the moment of realization; that moment, the one where they became fans of his music, his persona. Bob couldn’t tell when this host’s moment was, but knew it was there in his mind. Perhaps the host didn’t know when that moment occurred himself. That made Bob smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have to confess, I am a bit nervous for this interview, and this doesn’t happen to me often, the host continued, chuckling in self-depreciation. Bob, bear with me here, but I have to break professional ethics and just tell you what a fan of yours I am and how much your music has affected me, both personally and professionally. It’s just amazing, really. He paused and held up his hands in mock victory. There, I said it, he laughed. Now I can breathe. Whew! The small group huddled in the studio broke into polite, soft laughter as Bob smiled. Bob always thought it odd when stars shunned their fans’ adulation. It certainly could be jarring and sudden at times, even terrifying, but most were regular people who liked his work. In his early days, Bob played hard to get with reporters and fans alike, ascribing to the mysterious and difficult singer image, but found it exhausting and pointless. As his career saw its own limitations and rebirths, Bob grew to appreciate his fans—even like them. Anyway, who was he kidding? He needed them more now than ever.

Now, Bob, I have to ask you, do you read your reviews? I mean, some of them are rough, especially in the last couple of years. Do you take them into account at all?

Bob paused for a few seconds. I used to read them, to be honest, years ago, when they mattered even though I told people they didn’t. Now, they really don’t matter to me and I don’t read them. That’s about it.

Now, Bob, you’ve got almost four decades behind you, you make the music you want, produce your own stuff, do seemingly whatever you want. Why keep going?

I keep doing the music I want to do, and I like what I make. It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but I think it’s honest music and where I’m at right now. Bob had given sparing interviews over the years, and even in recent tours, where he had loosened up a bit with the media, his drawling, scratchy straight-forward delivery still required a quiet room and close ear. He never stumbled over words, but spoke very few in total, using them in economy, as if he had only so many to spend before he would run out completely. This of course, was absurd. Bob had written more songs than most anyone alive, many of them among the greatest lyrics ever put on paper. He had words. He often said very little. This was but one of the contradictions in Bob’s persona, one which had kept the music world interested for longer than Bob ever imagined possible.

OK, Bob, but there are still fans coming to see you play essentially whatever you want to play and you earn a good living doing it. Don’t you still need the positive reaction to your work, especially new material? I mean, nobody’s going to put down anything from the first ten or fifteen years of your career.

Bob paused again, eyes narrowing and lips pursing, not sure of what to say. I like my audiences today, really, better than the traditional ones because they come in with very few preconceptions about who I am. So if I don’t play my greatest hits perfectly, they don’t really care because they came in on the later stuff anyway. This opens up a whole new world for me. I have a chance to play my newer material, with some old stuff remodeled and inserted, too.

Bob, your fans want to know—and I hear this all the time whenever your name comes up these days—why don’t you play guitar anymore?

Bob laughed for a moment, stroking his chin and smiling. Oh, so you heard I’ve become a keyboard player, too? My songs don’t rely on this person or that person to play any single instrument. In fact, they are so lyrically unique in my opinion they can be played without a problem in a variety of ways. Bob took a drink from his cup. I mean, there were times in the middle of my career I wasn’t doing what I did best, and I was playing the guitar every night. Ask those fans when I was on stage if they would like their money back, and I will bet they would say yes. And I was playing guitar all the time. So, I don’t think it matters what I play. They’re my songs, my words and my band plays them the way I like them to be played. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Bob was now warmed up it seemed and was showing flashes of the circular speaking style that often amazed and frustrated reporters who followed him from his early days.

Yeah, but if these songs are that good—and many think they are—why not get out there and give the people the musician they have become accustomed to seeing all these years? The host was polite, but beginning to press. It was obvious the host was not only speaking for his audience, but also for himself. Years ago, Bob would have responded with some sarcastic, backwards sounding nonsense that would have pleased his core fans but alienated the mass group of listeners at large. He wasn’t like that now, didn’t have that caustic need to douse the interviewer with a show of force or do you realize who I am type rhetoric. Those days were gone. He didn’t have it in him anymore, really. Quite simply, Bob was happy his music meant anything at all, and was grateful his words still mattered to people. He took another drink of water and leaned forward to the microphone, as if settling himself in a long session on a courthouse witness stand.

You know, Rick—you don’t mind me calling you ‘Rick’ do you? The point of music is playing, not making hits or money. Now that’s easy for me to say since I have a lot of money and don’t really need to make any through what I do. Those around me do, though, and I think about them, too. When I was playing with Tom Petty in the late 1980s, I knew the fans were coming to see him, and not me, at least not primarily. It was the nature of the cycle of popularity. I had used my credit up with the fans in a way. And I had built up plenty of it over the years. But I saw a guy playing in some small club in New York one night and it hit me just what I should be doing. That guy is why I am still playing today. He didn’t play the guitar. He didn’t have to. His songs were so good and sincere, he could have used any instrument and it would have worked. I was spellbound. Speechless that night. My songs, I think, work on that level, more so than most songs I hear today. That’s not to say there aren’t good songs out there. There are plenty. But there is nobody out there today who sounds like me. Nobody. So I give fans something unique.

The host smiled and nodded his head. It’s what got you here, right? We want to keep you on after the break if that’s OK. Can you stay? Bob nodded. Great. Alright, everyone, we are going to take a short break but when we come back I will have more with the man once called the Voice of a Generation. Stick around. Rick took off his headset and gulped a cup of coffee. That was good stuff, Bob, good stuff.

Bob had sat in many of these studios, and never felt comfortable. They were very small and the whole atmosphere felt a bit strained. It wasn’t a real conversation in many ways. You were far apart, and there were usually many people around who never spoke, which gave the feeling of collective eavesdropping. And it was the same subject over and over again. Bob said many things so many times he often forgot if he really felt that way to begin with. It was a forty-year script. He got poor reviews all the time, even during the so-called peak of his career in the 1960s. He never saw those years as his peak, so the mostly glowing praise received then mattered very little to his own image of himself as an artist. Everyone then was saying he reinvented music, but he knew this was ridiculous. He knew it then and knew it today. He was a link in a musical chain that predated him by many decades and would go on without him whenever he stopped making music. He tried not to wonder when that day would come.

CHAPTER 5

Reuters, December 3, 2006

"Washington—President Bush found out today the White House Special Counsel would proceed with an intensive investigation of his