Talkin' Rejection Blues
A Poem/Song from 04/21/2004
Since my 1996 exposure to — and subsequent obsession with — The Wallflowers, I found myself increasingly drawn to their frontman’s father: the legendary singer-songwriter Bob Dylan. By 2004, by hook or by crook, I had tracked down nearly every studio album up through 1970’s Self Portrait, along with Blood on the Tracks (1975), Time Out of Mind (1997), and of course The Bootleg Series, Vols. 1–3: Rare & Unreleased 1961–1991.
I had become well-versed in Dylan’s various Talking Blues recordings — part of a tradition first popularized by Christopher Allen Bouchillon in 1926’s “Talking Blues” and 1928’s “New Talking Blues,” and later carried forward by musicians such as Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Lee Mays, and Tom Glazer.
At the time of “Talkin’ Rejection Blues” I was happily immersed in writing courses and discovering a new joy in crafting poetry and song lyrics. It was only natural that I would eventually try my hand at the humorous, rollicking storytelling form of the Talking Blues.
Talkin' Rejection Blues
04/21/2004
by David C. RobersonI was walkin’ ’round school campus one day When a hot little number started my way. Right from the start it was easy to see She was cultured and proper and too good for me. I smiled and tipped my hat. She said, “Hello.” “Howdy.” I hadn’t showered in a while, so the pheromones were thick. She was twirlin’ strands of hair and laughin’ like we clicked. So we traded numbers fast, and the phones kept a-hummin’. It wasn’t long before we saw we had somethin’ in common. Oldies. Eggs Benedict. Oxygen dependency. We held hands in public—when I wasn’t holdin’ books— But she got a little miffed when we got too many looks. She scolded me for manners, said my clothes were far too raggy. I accidentally tooted when she said my beard was shaggy. Her friend told me, “You look homeless.” I rattled my change cup. “You got a quarter?” She took me to her church and said, “Let’s worship the Savior! I expect for you to be on your finest behavior.” The music started to play, and she sung along and swayed. I put my head between my knees and I pretended to pray. She highlighted scripture during the sermon. I drew cigar-smoking cherubs on the bulletins. After the service, she introduced me to Chad— A stiff-necked, furrow-browed, angry-lookin’ lad. I stuck out my hand. “How long you been coming here?” He looked me up and down and gave me a sneer. He kept looking over his shoulder, too. I asked him if he owed money to one of the deacons. The pastor came over and grabbed my hand, Said, “Well there, it looks like you have a young man!” She looked real embarrassed and rolled her eyes, And Chad shook his head and looked up at the sky. The pastor said, “What do you do?” I said, “About what?” The drive back home got a little intense. She was upset about my lack of godly pretense. I said I wasn’t sure what I could have done better, But if it was any consolation, I thought Chad wanted to bed her. She said, “Don’t be jealous—he’s just a friend.” She’ll find out eventually. I tried to think of anything that would calm and sate her, So I took her out to dinner—but she hit on the waiter! Strand-twirling, gigglin’, gleaming at his guileless grace, A change in her demeanor when she saw his beardless face. I didn’t blame her too much, though—he played football. I asked her a few questions to reignite the spark, But she was looking ’round alert like a starving skylark. Well, I told a crass joke to get her attention— Something about athletes and their scoring intentions… She didn’t like it. So I waited in the car while the waiter told knock-knock jokes. She came out to the car with a twinkle and a grin. I chuckled to her, “Well, I guess you made a new friend.” She looked at me square, just like I was crazy, Said, “I’m goin’ out with him a week from this Wednesday!” “Does this mean we’re seein’ other people?” So now I tell ya, folks—’tis the final blow. Whenever she calls, she just talks about her beau. His car is better. His house is better. His clothes, his looks, his hair, his personality… Does pretty good for a waiter. Yeah, now I’m right back to square one again, And you know, it’s not really so bad, m’friend. I got all my old freedoms back, And now I ain’t saddled with all that flack. I can smoke… Drink… Eat a sandwich over the sink… Pick my nose… Scratch my rear in public… ... I think it’s time to get back in the dating pool.