A gaunt, older man in a suit is driving a pickup truck in the American southwest. On this nameless two-lane road, he stops at an abandoned gas station, which may be named, “Bob’s Highway Service.” The pumps are gone, the paint is faded. Pulling a well-used hard-sided suitcase adorned with traveling stickers from his truck, he walks up to and opens the one garage door. Such are the first 20 seconds of the "Dreamin' of You" video.

Is this man a salesman? He looks like a salesman from the 1940s, rumbled brown suit and fedora hat. He looks as if he just stepped out of a dime-store novel. One clue, a cut-away shot to papers laying on what may be the seat beside him, show a headline, “Bootlegger.” Is this man running moonshine? Is it Travis Henderson?

A point of view shot reveals the interior of the garage. It is filled with desks and papers and most noticeable of all, reel-to-reel tape recorders. The man sits down at a desk and begins sorting through papers, music albums, tape cassettes, and CDs. Cut to the man sitting with headphones on, at a music mixing board. Cut to a smoky, dim-lit stage where someone is performing, then back to the man, now, apparently done with his work. He sits back in his chair. Color is lacking in the shot. His face is weary. Overlay shot: a hand holding a photograph of a young woman. The man closes his eyes and the open road appears again. This is the first minute. I been dreamin’ of you, that’s all I do, and it’s drivin’ me insane.

The bootlegging is music, not whisky. Who is this man? What is his obsession? Is this how he makes a living? What drives him? Who is the woman?

Out of the desert and into urban areas, the man rolls on. Time passes. Maps and bulletin boards with city names and ticket stubs intermix with the road. He stops at a steep roofed wooden house with faded paint and signs on the front windows. He enters. Now he’s sitting, looking over hand-written lists. A waitress appears and offers him more coffee. He waves her off and it’s on the road again. Between thumb and forefinger, a worn ticket stub is being rubbed.

The man appears at a wall map from the Union Pacific Railroad. The large old yellow map has notes and strings stuck to it. Concert posters and programs flash among images of the road. Day turns to night and back. Cut to the man’s eyes in the rear view mirror, then a performer on a stage, and back to the man sitting forlornly in his white shirt, tie, and the fedora hat. Cut to the man holding the young woman’s photograph while he drives.

Intermix shots of the stage performer, while the man sits on a simple small bed, strumming a guitar. Maps and highway images come and go as concert posters rapidly change on a fixed wall.

The road and the images never end. Some things just last longer than you thought they would and they never ever explain. He’s first in one place then another. The performer reappears in different dress on different stages. Rising from a motel bed the last thing the man takes with him is the photo of the woman. The man stands with his eyes closed moving his lips as if reciting a mantra.

The pickup truck drives back to the abandoned gas station. Inside the bootlegger papers jostle on a desk. A pile of small white boxes stands nearby. Suddenly a hand stamp comes down to imprint the top box. Red letters on the stamp say, “Bob Dylan”. The box reads, “Bob Dylan The Bootleg Series Volume 8”. Cut fini.

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Of course, this isn’t a silent movie. It’s accompanied by Bob Dylan singing, “Dreamin’ of You”, a soulful lament of unrequited love. Bob’s major theme. The visual narrative plays into the song nicely. The bootleg twist is amusing and the Man’s compulsive behavior is unsettling. It’s unsettling for two reasons. First, all obsessive behavior is unsettling especially when you identify with the portrayal. Harry Dean Stanton’s characters are often on the edge, just on the outside trying to get in. I feel for that. Second, I’m paying attention to this movie with the same rapt attention the movie’s protagonist gives to Bob Dylan live in concert. I’m the Man. Good God Almighty; do I have to be like that?

I’m only sharing this with friends on Bob Dylan web sites. The silent sun has got me on the run, burnin’ a hole in my brain.