Imagine John Lennon Alive (a short story)

Tomorrow Sometimes Knows
Copyright © January, 2005 Leda Joandaughter.

Is it possible that time is not linear?
What if reincarnation does exist, but what if we are sometimes reborn in the past, instead of in the future?
What if we really are all just water?
I had the strangest dream two nights ago.
I dreamed about the future, about the next day, the next night. I was watching Monday night football, the Patriots vs. the Dolphins, and Howard Cosell announced that John Lennon had been shot dead outside his apartment in New York City. The very idea was unthinkable. Who would do such a thing? My wife had to wake me from it, I guess I was crying out in my sleep – cries of anguish, not words. My wife was worried because even after I woke up I kept repeating, “They killed John! They killed John!” She kept whispering that it was just a bad dream, just go back to sleep.
Then I was fully awake and I told her all about it.
My wife, Angela, is a very pragmatic woman, physically beautiful and emotionally skeptical. So her response shocked me.
“You’ve got to go down to the Dakota tomorrow and make sure it doesn’t happen,” she told me.
“What?” I was incredulous. “You mean take a day off from work and hang out there to try to stop some imaginary murder?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she said. Then she went back to sleep.
In the morning she didn’t mention it. Maybe she didn’t remember any of it. But when I told her I was taking the day off to go hang out in Manhattan, she didn’t ask questions.
It was a cold day. My nightmare was vague now and I felt like a fool, standing around waiting.
But then I saw him standing there. Waiting. We eyed each other. It seemed that I’d seen him before – the news footage of the murder –
“Hello,” I finally said, “You waiting to see John?”
He paused, then responded sheepishly, “Why else?”
He seemed to be carrying a great emptiness, as if the golden part of him had been extinguished long before he’d ever had a chance to recognize it. It wasn’t sorrow, exactly. I kept wanting to say, “Where’d you get the hole?” Or maybe, “Who raped you?”
And it scared me to be so full of verbal impulses. So I worked hard at not saying anything.
Finally, after a long awkward silence where he kept looking at me, I said, “You a Beatles fan?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, not really.”
“There’ll never be another Beatles,” I said, deciding that perhaps I ought to try making small talk. “I bought Lennon’s new album a few weeks ago. He’s our only hope against disco.” I had almost said Reagan – “our only hope against Reagan” – but I fought that impulse.
“Maybe,” said the man, absentmindedly.
“So why’re you waiting for John?” I finally asked. “You want his autograph?”
“Yes,” he said, “It will be worth a lot someday.”
I grimaced despite myself, thinking, Yeah, especially if you go ahead and kill him.
I lit a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke but I carry a pack anyway, just for times like this. It helps hide my stress. I offered one to the man. He declined.
“So -- you a professional autograph seeker?” I asked.
“No, are you?” His response seemed somewhat irritated, which made me draw a long drag. I did not want to irritate this person.
“No,” I said, slowly exhaling a circle of smoke, “I work with my dad.”
This seemed to snap him awake.
“You work with your dad?” he asked, as if he’d encountered some mystical apparition.
“Yeah, my dad’s a roofer. I’m his apprentice. It pays well. And I kind of like hanging out with him.”
The man was entranced. “Can you do roofing in the winter?” he asked.
“Na. In the winter we do small carpentry jobs. Right now we’re painting the interior of this mansion on Long Island. But it’s the roofing that really pays well.”
The man stared at me. The dark holes in the center of his eyes had grown larger and I felt compelled to keep talking.
“You know,” I explained, “being a roofer wasn’t my life’s ambition. I’ve got a degree in electrical engineering. But after I graduated I realized that with that kind of degree I’d have to sign my life away to some megacorporation and I wasn’t ready for that. So I signed up to work with my dad.”
The man started to speak, “My d—” then he paused.
I waited, eyebrows raised. “You were saying?”
He blinked.
And it seemed that the guy really wasn’t there. You know, he just kept blinking.
Finally I felt my right eye begin to twitch and that only happens when I’m really freaking out. So despite my better judgment, I nudged his arm and said, “You okay?”
He jerked away and stared wide at me, eyes stiff as two vacant holes – loose manholes –
“Hey listen,” I spurted, my heart in my throat, “It’s freaking cold out here! You want to go get a coffee?”
He didn’t respond. So I said it louder – much louder – as if trying to wake him from a dream—
“Coffee! Coffee would be great right now!”
He closed his eyes, then opened them, wavering a bit on his feet.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah, there’s a coffee shop around the corner,” I said, pointing the way. “C’mon.”
I started walking, confidently, and to my surprise, he followed me.

The guy bought a sandwich along with coffee, but I only drank coffee. I was still nervous, but hiding it well.
He sat with me and I tried not to appear too awkward about it; tried to act as if I hung out with strangers like this every day.
“He may not even show up today,” I said, sipping too quickly from the mug, singeing my tongue on the hot black liquid.
“Who?” said the man.
“John Lennon – he might not be around.”
“No, I think he’s around,” the man assured me.
In the warmth of the coffee shop, I felt a bit more relaxed, surrounded by more people. And then the oddity about this man struck me hard: shame, shame, shame. He wore shame like a crown. As if some golden crown had been confiscated and replaced by pure, shining shame. I could not look at him without thinking, What a shame.
He frowned at me and said nothing.
“Yup,” I said, making more small talk, “There’ll never be another Beatles.”
“They weren’t so great,” said the man.
I raised my eyebrows. “Jesus Christ!” I said, “Not so great! Who’s better?”
“I like Todd Rundgren,” said the man.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You know, though,” I said, trying to slice into some of that glaring shame, “of all the Beatles, I always liked Lennon the best. Because after the Beatles breakup, he really showed his balls. Not the literal part of that – that’s not what I mean. I mean that he really opened up – he got all kinds of people together to talk about peace – bagism and power to all the people and all those marches for peace. Kids who never cared before started caring, just because he was talking about social justice.”
“Uh huh,” said the man, becoming distracted again.
“You know,” I continued, “He’s necessary. For all of us. He’s like a loud conscience, reminding everyone to behave themselves.”
“Well, he didn’t behave himself a few years ago,” said the man.
“Right,” I responded, “the lost weekend stuff. But he’s redeemed himself, hasn’t he? He’s put his heart and soul into raising his little boy. It’s a wonderful model for men – to care for children. More fathers should be like him, you know? If more fathers were like him, Jesus, this whole friggin’ world would start coming together. People would start caring about one another – because fathers need to be nurturing as well as mothers, you know? He’s teaching that, that’s so important --”
That brought his attention back. He glared at me, yet there seemed to be a glint of recognition in his eyes, like a tiny glint of gold.
And I couldn’t help the next words that poured off my tongue, “And if anyone were to kill him it would be like killing a mother – killing a mother and a father, because he’s kind of like both, isn’t he? Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
At that the man began blinking again. He stood up, brushed himself off, and without a word left the shop. I was shaking in my boots, questioning my own sanity, spending my day in some kind of dream of my own.
I returned to the Dakota and stood there for the rest of the afternoon. The man with the shamed eyes did not return. Just before dinner I decided to go home. If Lennon had come by, I had missed him.
At night I watched the football game I’d dreamed about – Howard Cosell never announced anything about Lennon. Too bad I hadn’t remembered the final score from my dream – I would have had a winning bet. At least I slept well.

And now, this morning, even before drinking my coffee, even before Angela wakes up, I’m sitting here reading the New York Times, not something I often do. But I need reassurance that Lennon is still alive.
Yup, he appears to be. The Times would have reported if anything had happened to him.
I know all this sounds crazy. And the guy outside the Dakota was probably up to no harm and I probably wasted a day off from work. But the dream had seemed so real.
And what if Lennon had been killed – what then? Without him around, who would have enough balls to stand up to Reagan? Someone needs to be brave enough to insist that we really do need social programs, and that all people – not just rich white Americans – deserve a chance at life, deserve a chance at survival.
I don’t know. I may be simple minded, but I can’t help comparing John Lennon to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. Without him to talk the talk and walk the walk, I can’t imagine how screwed up this world would be 20 or 30 years from now. I can’t even imagine.