Chapter Four
The woody’s sudden stop for a red light at Central Park West and 72nd Street returned me abruptly to 1976. When the light turned green the driver crossed Central Park West and pulled into the Dakota’s motor court, where the man who had taken a cab from the cinema was already waiting for us. (Where’s that taxi driver when you’re late for a meeting?) In a smooth series of motions, he opened the tailgate and helped John out while the fellow in the front seat opened the front passenger door and the rear door on my side, helped me out, and retrieved Yoko. By the time Rick stepped out the first man had already escorted the couple into the lobby. The second man told us to follow John and Yoko, but once Rick and I got inside there was no sign of them. We waited in the lobby while the second man told the driver of the woody where to park. Then he escorted us up to John and Yoko’s apartment. Make that John and Yoko’s apartments, plural. The Lennons had been systematically buying up apartments in the Dakota and as of that evening owned several floors. They didn’t own the entire building. Roberta Flack resided in the Dakota, and so did Lauren Bacall.
After exiting the elevator we passed through several rooms on our way to the area in which we would spend the evening. The décor was minimalist. Every room was white, and the few pieces of furniture in each room were also white. I have no recollection of seeing baby Sean, who we were told was with a nanny. I do recall someone bringing us green tea and an assortment of Japanese-style appetizers in white dishes, but what I remember most is that John was radiant with happiness. Against the cool white background of his apartment, at ease with his wife, John was sociable, outgoing, and contented. The angry writer of “Run for Your Life” and “Gimme Some Truth” was nowhere to be seen.
“Y’know, I quite like being a house-hoosband,” John said, the traces of having grown up in Liverpool still evident in his speech. A Liverpudlian may move to New York but he’ll never stop referring to the season after spring as “soom-eh.” This does not apply to Paul, whose ability to mimic anything he’s ever seen or heard allows him to lose his Scouse accent at will.
John continued, “Everyone’s got soomthin’ to say about how Yoko’s takin’ me away from makin’ music, and how she’s deprivin’ the world of me talent, but bein’ a house-hoosband is me talent right now, and I’m pleased to be doin’ it. A man’s got a right to do what he wants, now, doosn’t he.”
It wasn’t a question.
Though I could somewhat relate, Rick was relating with every bone in his body. With everyone around us complaining that he was taking me away from my music and my friends and family in California, Rick bonded instantly with Yoko. He told her he thought it was completely unreasonable and unfair that she was being so vilified by Beatles fans for taking “their” John away from them.
There was one small elephant in the room, visible only to me: the memory of John being rude to me at the Warwick. I took a deep breath, then went for it.
“John, do you remember meeting me a long time ago?”
“Remind me.”
I wasn’t sure if that meant “Yes” or “I’ve met millions of people and I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about,” but I plowed forward.
“We met at the Warwick Hotel in 1965,” I said, not elaborating on the exact nature of how I got up there. “When I introduced myself to you, you were very rude. Why?”
He paused before saying, “D’you really want to know?”
He did remember.
“It’s because I was intimidated.”
I stared, uncomprehending.
“You and Gerry were sooch great songwriters. I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound stupid, so I did what was coomf’table and made the smart remark.”
Now I was embarrassed.
“John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of that night. It’s just that I’ve so often wondered what was in your mind and wished I could ask you about it. Really, it was such a long time ago.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” he said, taking another sip of tea. “No hard feelings, right?”
Relief washed over me as I replied, “Right.”
“Well, now,” he said, setting down his cup of tea and turning to Rick. “Let’s hear what yer man’s thinkin’ about.”
Rick was more than happy to take over the conversation. He had a lot to say. In his account to John about what we were planning to do with our lives he revealed quite a few things he hadn’t told me. Apparently Rick identified more strongly than I’d realized with the precept of the counterculture that involved preparing for Armageddon. He told John and Yoko that he considered himself a survivalist. He wanted us (me) to buy a place deep in the woods that he could outfit with everything we’d need to survive after society collapsed, as Rick believed it must inevitably do. He said the place we were looking for would allow us to be self-sufficient. We would live near water, grow our own food, and stock up on whatever we couldn’t grow such as fuel, medicine, and other necessities. When the time came, we’d build a new society from there.
As Rick provided more details to John and Yoko about his plan, I felt a shiver of apprehension. I had heard him allude to such ideas before, but I’d had no idea that he’d already formulated a detailed plan to prepare for the end of the current social order. I was dependent on that social order for my income. Living as survivalists didn’t seem reasonable or realistic for me or my family.
Without knowing that Rick, too, had been adopted, John had intuited that Rick was in some ways a kindred spirit, and he listened respectfully. When Rick finished laying out his vision for our future, John’s response revealed the innate compassion of this man who had already influenced the lives of so many people.
“Well, now,” John said. “I couldn’t do that. I’d have me bag of rice, but what about everyone else?”
John’s remark not only mitigated my apprehension but touched me so deeply that for a few moments I stopped thinking on a conscious level. I know he said other things along those lines, but I don’t remember any of the details. I remember only the purity of his compassion and how I felt it envelop me like a warm blanket. Sitting in the glow of his happiness and inner peace I realized that if John Lennon could ignore what others were saying and live his life exactly as he wanted to with love and compassion, then so could I.
Dear God, I thought, please take care of this good man.
That good man would enjoy nearly five more years of happiness before being murdered outside the Dakota on December 8, 1980, by a man whose name will not appear in this book. The man with whom I spent an evening in 1976, so famous and sought-after, had been surprisingly down-to-earth. I wish I had told him how inspiring his song “Imagine” was for me. It’s still the simplest, most powerful, and most hopeful answer to questions such as these that keep driving me to be a better person.
Why do people do cruel things to each other? Why can’t we live in a world without greed? Why can’t people take care of each other and resolve their differences cooperatively?
Imagine.