Free The Doctor and Mr. Dylan by Rick Novak Page B

I’d saved anyone’s life.
    Dr. Castro reentered the room, and donned sterile gown and gloves again. “Everything OK next door?” I said.
    “Yep. Perpich arrived. The femoral artery is torn. Once Perpich has repaired that, we’ll deal with the broken leg and the facial trauma. You did a great job in there, Dr. Antone.”
    “Thanks.”
    Castro chuckled as he resumed the shoulder surgery. “Good God, that was like a fucking TV show episode. Dr. Nico Antone, M.D. In this episode, Dr. Fucking California saves the fucking day.”
     
     

     
    CHAPTER 8
    HEAVEN’S DOOR
     
    At ten o’clock that night, Johnny was quiet behind his bedroom door. I tapped on the frame and whispered his name. I eased the door open and saw Johnny sleeping on the bed, his right cheek plastered flat against the Second Act of King Lear . As timeless as Shakespeare’s genius was, how many teenagers had he put to sleep? Perhaps someday the Bard would replace propofol as the anesthetic of choice for adolescents having surgery.
    I turned off the light and made my way back to the living room. I wasn’t tired, and at this hour there were no more sporting events on TV. I didn’t feel like reading. I looked out the window at the pastoral winter setting. A full moon lit up the blanket of new snow that covered the yard, the driveway, and the top of my car. Nighttime seemed like day.
    I wanted fresh air and some exercise. It was the perfect evening for both. I laced up my boots, put on my parka and gloves, and hit the street. I walked one block north to the storefront lights of Howard Street. The crunching of snow under my boots was an old sound from my youth. Every step sounded musical, the rhythmic backbeat to my North Country odyssey. I felt young, unfettered, and alive in Minnesota. There were no mirrors to fix me in time, and I felt like I was 18 years old again.
    All commerce on Howard Street was shut down for the night, but the streetlights glowed amber, and I was drawn toward them. The Wells Fargo Bank sign sported the time and temperature—it was 10:12 p.m. and the temperature was a balmy 22 degrees Fahrenheit. A car or two passed by. I couldn’t imagine where they were going. Who bothered to cruise the main street of the tiny village at this hour?
    A green neon sign shined like a beacon atop a twenty-foot-tall pole one block in the distance. The sign read “Heaven’s Door.” The parking lot was full. I’d heard of the place. It was a casual restaurant and bar that specialized in hamburgers and pizza, beers and whiskey sours. As I grew nearer, I heard amplified guitar music and the sound of a man’s baritone voice singing. A warm tingle glowed though me. The song was “Highway 61 Revisited,” a memory from this week’s journey north: “Well Abe says, ‘Where do you want this killin’ done?’ God says, ‘Out on Highway 61.’”
    I looked in through the front window panels and saw a solo performer sitting on a stool. The man wore a black fedora, a black shirt, a matching vest, and a black string tie. He curled his lips against the microphone, and sneered the lyrics into the metal sphere while strumming an acoustic steel string guitar.
    I was intrigued. Live music on a Tuesday night, three blocks from Dom’s house? I walked in, peeled off my winter garb, and sat down on an empty stool near the door. The room was crowded with patrons bobbing their heads to the infectious beat of the music. The décor was best described as a Hard Rock Café motif featuring Bob Zimmerman and Bob Dylan memorabilia. The wall next to me was dense with museum items: A copy of Zimmerman’s high school graduation picture with the caption “I want to be the next Little Richard,” a faded article from The Hibbing Daily Tribune reporting a scathing review of Dylan’s first album in 1961, a signed Fender guitar, and posters from Dylan concerts at Madison Square Garden and The Fillmore East.
    The singer’s voice was rich and resonant, and the words filled up