The Insider

Dylan hangs his head, a haggard inmate, posing now like Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker.” Years ago intrigue destroyed Dylan’s promising career; he had been a lobbyist for the “Pay Me My Money Down” Fiscal Task Force. Impressed with his work, the Force entrusted Dylan with a job that involved enlisting troops of blowflies. When the feds investigated, they found Dylan and his allies guilty as Hellenized barflies. Dylan denied all charges of espionage, conspiracy, corruption, and fraud. He only admitted to petty larceny, “Yes. I stole thunder from a macho bard.” Eventually his bugged secretary, Ingrid, teased out all the more incriminating information during one of their innocent intimacy exchanges inside an insolated closet. Then Dylan’s allies volunteered insinuations to interrogators that tipped them off to the internal medical professional who revealed the truth about Dylan’s irritable intestine syndrome. Old medical records were lost to incineration. Dylan endured incarceration. Now that he had spent several years in prison and could finally admit that he had no future in a political career, Dylan decided it was time he told everyone the truth. His mother probably already intuited Dylan’s preference, and his father was long dead so no one could wonder about the inbreeding. Dylan’s lover, whom he had met at the Stonewall Inn that fateful night of June 27, 1969, could finally abandon the incognito routine. Poor Ingrid; she would be most surprised and disappointed. Dylan sighs, raises his head, and winks at the guard. Then he says, “Sir, it’s ‘bout time I quit bein’ so friggin’ insular.” He smiles, “It’s ‘bout time I was out!”