“Do, uh, you know Holly Bowling?”

Every woman in a hat is not Holly Bowling, Bobby.

“That gal can wear a hat. I’ve never seen it fall off.”

Uh-huh. That’s Nikki Lane.

“If you say so. Man, we had some good shirts. I figure maybe 20% of our success as a band was based on our choices in graphic designers.”

Probably.

“You gotta give the kids something to draw on their desks, y’know?”

Absolutely.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Is that me or her?”

You. She’s barely out of the realm of rando. She doesn’t have a speaking part.

“Sure.”

…

“Weir here.”

…

“Huh.

…

“Well, that was most likely Cincinnati.”

…

“Couldn’t be possible. Brent didn’t know how to read.”

Bobby, who are you speaking to?

“Ron something?”

Is it Bob Woodward?

“Yes. Good guess.”

Uh-huh. Gimme the phone.

ROCK STAR HANDING A PHONE TO AN IDIOT NOISE

Mr. Woodward?

“I assume I’m speaking to Thoughts on the Dead, colloquially referred to as ‘TotD.’ Can you confirm that?”

Goddamn you, Woodward, what do you want with Bobby?

“Over the past year, I’ve been assembling sources and background on the Grateful Dead for a book I’m planning to write.”

Shiiiiiiiit.

“That’s what everyone says.”

Listen, Woodward: leave the Dead alone. Whatever happened was a long time ago. And they were high. And probably drunk. And most of ’em didn’t even graduate from high school. And the culture was different. Did I mention it was a long time ago?

“Have you made the same excuses for others in their position?”

No, but I don’t like anyone else as much as I like the Dead.

“Please put me back on the line with Mr. Weir.”

Gosh, I wish I didn’t have to do this.

“Do what?”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hold on. This is almost positively someone more important than you.”

…

“This is Bob Woodward.”

“No, this is Bob Woodward.”

“What a coincidence. Next, you’ll tell me you’re a reporter with the Washington Post.”

“I am. My name is Bob Woodward and I’m a reporter with the Post. Sir, I have some questions for you about a man named Mark Felt.”

“Hold, please.”

…

“Hey!”

Me?

“Yes. Mr. on the Dead, what’s happening here?”

The quick version is that time is more of a jelly than a cake.

“What’s the long version?”

That is also the long version.

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

Yes. I want you to hand over all the information you’ve accumulated about the Grateful Dead.

“Or what?”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hold, please.”

Sure.

…

“This is Bob Woodward.”

“No, sport, I’m Bob Woodward.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Forget about all that. How close to a parking garage are you?”

“Hold, please.”

…

“Mr. on the Dead?”

Yo.

“Fine.”

I knew you were a smart man, Bob.