BOBBY'S FARM

One morning in early December, 1972, I found myself halfway between Malibu and Ventura. I was turning on to a narrow, unmarked road which wound from the coast into the Malibu Hills. As I gained altitude, I noticed that the land had become empty and uninhabited, like an island in a sea of dwellings.

I had received a letter from Gary, who was a high school buddy and handball partner. He had written that he was working on a ranch owned by Bob D*l*n and he asked if I would like a job there too. "Small work, big money" were his exact words. who could ask for more?

The road finally reached a summit. I could see the ranch laid out before me. It was on a high plateau and covered about a hundred acres of grassland and trees. There was one large and very old house that sat next to the western edge of the plateau, overlooking the Pacific. It was a restored, two storey, Victorian style house. Painted gray with white trim, it looked very much like the "Haunted Mansion" at Disneyland. Nestled back in a group of oaks were four small cabins. Gary waved to me from the porch of the closest. After greetings and small talk, I chose one of the remaining cabins and moved in.

We spent my first day of "work" sunbathing at the beach. The second day was spent exploring the countryside on Bob D*l*n's horses. I soon learned that the only time I actually had to do any work at this job was when Bob or his wife S*r*h were staying at the ranch. They never asked or seemed to care what we did in their absence, and they were absent most of the time. Bob owned twenty-one homes.

One New Year's Eve, Bob had a party at the main house for his employees in the Los Angeles area. I had never seen him in person. My mental picture of him came straight from an album cover. He arrived driving a bright red Cadillac, honking and waving his arm out of the window. As he opened the door and hopped out, I noticed that he had been sitting on an overstuffed pillow. He was too short to drive without it. I was introduced to him as the new ranch hand. We shook hands and Bob said, "You know, there are two kinds of people in this world. There are the riders and then there are the mules. I am a rider and you are a mule." This seemed a little strange but I laughed it off. I was dazzled by the presence of a star.

Bob and Sarah stayed at the ranch for the next month. Let me quickly describe Sarah D*l*n. She was absolutely beautiful to look upon. Jet black hair, fine features and a model's figure combines to give her a look of physical perfection. All of this became irrelevant at the first moment she opened her mouth.

Here, truly, beauty was only skin deep. She seemed to be driven by hostility. Any poor fool who strayed into her field of vision was usually subjected to a list of irrational demands, interspersed with unfair accusations and demeaning insults. She was walking misery. A small collection of rare geraniums represented her only happiness. Not that she ever actually did any gardening. She would stand on the walkway and point out a leaf with a burnt tip to be clipped off or a possible weed sprout to be pulled. It was very important when we watered the geraniums that we spray the water high up into the air so that it would fall like rain. That way it would be more "natural."

I soon discovered that "natural" was a crucial concept to the D*l*ns. Their vegetable garden was not only organic, but also "natural." Only original corn species could be grown, no hybrids. Never mind that it looked like overgrown crabgrass and had five kernels per ear. The squash was "natural" too, a semi-edible gourd-like monstrosity from southern China. The exotic herbs were probably the most "natural" plants in the garden. They were so malodorous that I would be struck by a wave of nausea from just walking near them.

Many other things were "natural" too. Bob had an adult sized, wooden swing set built and installed. It was a carefully carved piece of art that must have taken a skilled craftsman many weeks to finish. The wood was left raw. Varnish and sealer were not "natural." A five foot high, stone wall was built without any "unnatural" mortar. And of course we had to mow the weeds with a hand scythe instead of a power mower. I think you can guess why.

Early one morning a van arrived at the main house. A brand new, custom built Harley-Davidson was rolled out. It was an impressive sight, all done in black and chrome. On the tank, in flowing script, was written "Bobby." Gary signed a few papers and the bike was left with us. Bob came out of the house wearing a black leather jacket, black gloves and a huge smile. "Go ahead and fire it up," Bob said as he retied his headband. In a few minutes the bike was idling nicely. Bob climbed on. The bike was so large and he was so small that the sight was somewhat comical. Somehow we managed to keep straight faces. Bob dropped the bike into gear without pulling in the clutch. The bike lurched forward and promptly died. We got it running again and he killed it again. It became obvious that he had never ridden a motorcycle before. We didn't try to show him how. A mule does not show the rider the way, even when the rider is lost. Instead, we smoothed over any possible embarrassment with statements like, "It's just stiff, needs to be broken in." After ten minutes of this, Bob said he had to make a phone call and asked us to push the bike into the garage. We rolled it into an empty corner. We should have just dug a grave for it. That was the last time it was ever touched.

Bob and Sarah were gone for most of the summer, but they left a project for us to work on. We had one thousand seedling trees to plant. Enough trees to turn the ranch into a forest. By fall we had them all in the ground. I was watering the new trees one day when Bob trotted out to me. "Do you think a buffalo would eat a tree seedling?" he asked. This seemed like a strange question. I answered that they might. "I've ordered a small herd," he stated matter-of-factly. "That's nice," I replied in a credible voice.

Several days later, flatbed trucks with full grown trees started arriving. Using a crane and two tractors, fifty trees were planted before the arrival of the buffalo.

One evening in November I stood on the second floor balcony of the main house. I gazed out over the ranch. The wall had collapsed into a line of rubble. The vegetable garden had been defoliated by insects. The exotic herbs were an exception. To sane bug would set tooth into those vile weeds. The new trees were wilted or leafless from transplant shock. Some had been pushed over by the buffalo. Everything seemed very "natural." I'll have to admit that Sarah's geraniums did look good. Our intensive care, under Sarah's direction, had paid off. They were flourishing.

I had worked at the ranch for exactly one year when I took two weeks off. I went home for Christmas. As I told the tales of the excesses of the wealthy to family and friends, I noted that a hint of bitterness had crept into my voice. I felt like a servant at an endless party, given in honor of spoiled brats. It was starting to get to me. I picked up a copy of People magazine that carried an interview with "rock super-star Bob Dylan." In the interview Bob stated that the most important thing in the world to him were his three children. I was shocked. I had never seen or even heard mention of children. What hypocrisy!

I returned to the ranch in time for New Year's Eve. This year the party was for "riders only." I sat behind my cabin window and watched the arrival of Leon Russell and Cher. I was no longer impressed by "beautiful people." Resentment had set in.

Gary came down from the main house where he had been handling caterers. He informed me that Sarah was not at the party and that there was a rumor that she and Bob had separated. We both smiled and crossed our fingers.

The next morning, after all the riders had left, Gary and I went up to the main house to clean up the mess. One glance told us that this was going to be an all-day project. At least there was plenty of food and drink left over. I saw a note in Bob's handwriting on the kitchen counter. It read "I'll be gone for several weeks. Don't save the food. Sarah will not be staying here anymore." Gary immediately uncorked a bottle of champagne. After drinking a toast to "marital discord," we started to breakfast on leftovers. Many of the food items were strange and possibly even "natural," so we stuck to ham, breads and cheeses. There were many unopened bottles of expensive wine. We knew nothing about wine. If it tasted sweet we guzzled it down; if not, we either poured it into the sink or threw it off the edge of the plateau. We were sitting on the porch, staring zombie-eyed at the geraniums when Gary smiled and suggested that we water them one last time for Sarah, saying it would be an act of thoughtfulness and respect. As we urinated, I reminded Gary to "spray high into the air so that it will fall like rain."

We drank most of the day away, only pausing occasionally to add to the existing mess. In a near stupor I began to tell Gary that I might quit soon. He slurred back at me, "You can't find an easier job. Hope Bob never finds out how little work we do." I thought about this for a while and came to a subtle conclusion. Gary appeared to have passed out, but I went on with my thoughts outloud anyway. It was important to do so, in order to convince myself. "Bob is not stupid. He knows we don't work when he's gone. He doesn't care. We aren't being paid to work. We are being paid to be mules. How can he be sure that he is a rider unless there are mules about. He needs to have inferiors to feel superior." I knew I couldn't stay at the ranch any longer. It was a matter of self-esteem.

I walked back to my cabin singing "Ain't Gonna Work on Maggie's Farm No More." Of course, I substituted the name "Bobby" for Maggie. I felt elated as a packed my things. It was as though a heavy saddle was being lifted from my back. I wrote a quick goodbye to Gary and left.

Several months later I received a letter from Gary. He too had tired of the saddle and had left for Colorado.

We are still mules, but we are free mules.