Becca wrote the first three paragraphs and I am indebted to her for the inspiration.

In our house, Marley was God. That much was clear. It didn't matter that my mother was a suburban, white-bred Episcopalian; he was also a radical, an ex-hippie-folk-singer type. And that made our dear friend Bob not only desirable but necessary: a staple of life.

It could not be said, however, that he was the only man in her life. There was another, possibly greater, man- another Bob, believe it or not: Dylan. And if Marley was God, Dylan was a man of positively mythical stature- well, you couldn't get much higher than God. Maybe Marley would have to be relegated to Jesus.

So it came to be that I was raised in a house of three parents: Mom and her Two Bobs. The only men I ever needed, she'd tell me. I was inclined to agree. She was always alone, never lonely- there never seemed to me to be a void in our house. And if there ever was, all it took to drown it out was a good dose of Dylan himself, wailing from our scratchy record player in the kitchen corner. The man's a genius. Just Listen.

She had occasional flirtations with the Pauls, introduced my John, George, and their counterpart, but she was always faithful to her Bobs. Until she met the third Bob.

She started wearing nicer clothing. Not really nicer, but the stuff you see in the magazines that rich, middle-aged soccer-moms wear. It wasn't her, but I supposed she was just in a phase or some odd thing.

Then came the make-up. Not just a little concealer, oh no. The foundation that settles in the prematurely formed wrinkles. The lipstick that glares against the unreal skin tone. The harsh lines of blush on her cheeks and the eyeliner that is separated from the lash line. She looked so motherly and yet so much not like my mother. I wanted to come at her with soap in one hand and a wet towel in the other and scrub the layers of conformity off her face so she would come back to me. Come back to her Bobs and back to me. But that would hurt her.

When she started leaving the Bobs, turning them off or leaving me with them at night, I knew something was wrong. She was turning away from everything she had ever taught me. And what did I do? I clung more fiercely than ever to them. She had divorced from them and I wanted to stay. The Bobs tucked me in at night. They greeted me in the mornings. Just Listen. Just Listen.

Then she brought Bob home.

She glittered that day. She positively sparkled. The high pitter patter of her giggles made me yearn for the bouncing melodies of Marley and the scratchy hum of Dylan. She had actually put out a table cloth for him. She was hiding our far inferior table just as she hid her supposed far inferior self. Her pearl necklace was choking me and the dishtowel was too far away to grasp.

Robert the Fifth Dean Parkinson. This Bob didn't sing. He was as stiff as a board in his movements and his voice held no note but one. He spoke very little, drank very little, ate very little, and all in all was a man of very little qualities.

And there she was, sparkling away at him. Leaning towards him and smiling in the most atrocious manner. He had rubbed off on me. He made me quiet. He made me sulky. There was nothing worse than that. I rubbed my arms, trying to get his presence off me.

"Are you cold?"

That did it. She was glittering concern. I bolted from the table. I put a record, which one it was I didn't care, on the record player and turned the volume up as high as it could go. I slumped back on the cushions. With each break I took I inhaled Dylan and exhaled Robert V. I was relaxing. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his words, the scratching of the record player and nearly missed the scratching of wooden chairs on a wooden floor. I nearly missed the creak of the door to me room. I couldn't miss when she turned my Bob off.

"Honey?" I rolled away.

"Sweetie?" I felt her weight on the edge of my bed.

"Didn't you like Robert?" Without thinking, I ran from the room to the bathroom. Soap and wet towel in hand I returned. I rubbed the towel on the soap and rubbed the suds on her face. Little by little my mother returned as her mask disappeared. Finally her face was clean, if not a little red and splotchy, but her body hadn't lost its mask.

"What?"

"Change your clothes."

"I hardly think I need to. I have perfectly fine clothing on now."

"No. Change." She got up to leave.

"You didn't like him."

I didn't answer but turned Dylan back on with the volume a little lower. I heard the door creak shut as she left. I looked around the room. 70s memorabilia were tacked on the wall, some recently appropriated from my mother. The only men I'll ever need.