I ran into Bob Dylan in Portland on a summer afternoon in 1998. A small, round-shouldered man advanced toward me on Fore Street, weaving unsteadily. Though it was a muggy afternoon, he was wearing a bulky gray sweatshirt whose hood was pulled tightly over his head. He looked like the FBI sketch of the Unabomber.

As we drew close, he looked up and began to jab the air with his forefinger as if he were counting something above us. I assumed he was drunk. As we drew abreast, I stepped aside to make way but glanced inside the hood to catch a glimpse of what anyone that weird would look like. I recognized him instantly: blue eyes, rounded nose, haggard look. I stepped backwards and said, “Dylan?” He picked up his boot heels and scooted around the corner, hustling up Market Street and into the Regency Hotel. I stood there watching him go.

I probably hadn’t bought a Bob Dylan record or seen a Bob Dylan concert in 15 years. But the man inside the hoodie had been far more important to me than almost anyone I actually knew or was related to. When I needed it, his songs gave me a way to make sense of the world. He showed that songs can be at the same time powerful and entertaining.

Since that day, I‘ve thought about what I’d say to Bob Dylan if I got another chance. Maybe I’d respect his privacy and say nothing at all. Maybe I’d offer to drive him around Portland.

Probably if I get another chance I’ll do what I hope a whole lot of other people do when that particular visitor walks the streets of their town. I’ll thank him.

Happy 80th birthday, Bob.

Phil Hoose
Portland