The phone rang on the first Sunday in October. Sandy answered and I heard
her say, “There is no Tess here. You must have the wrong—Ohhh!”
“Who is it?” I asked, fearing reporters had tracked me down.
“Just a minute,” she said into the phone, then covered the receiver
with her hand. “It's some guy with an English accent!” she said.
I jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Ask who it is,” I whispered,
heart-pounding, believing it would be Tony, hoping it might be John,
fearing and yet still foolishly hoping it might be someone else who
called me Tess.
“Um, who is this?” she said into the phone.
She looked puzzled. “He says to tell Theresa it is Winston.”
I grabbed the phone out of her hand.
“John!” I said, the ever-ready tears already pooling in my eyes.
“Tess, how are you, Luv?”
“Oh, John, I miss you so much!”
He chuckled. “I knew you would change your mind when it was too late!”
I laughed and cried at the same time. “How are you?”
“Making changes. Trying to get on with me life.”
Brenda heard the commotion and came out of her room where she had been
studying. Sandy eagerly filled her in and they were tuned in to hear the
final evidence that would solve the “Who Broke Terry's Heart Mystery.” I
sat on the kitchen counter and talked to John, ignoring them.
He told me he was in Los Angeles working on a movie. He had decided to
take up the offer of a friend of Walter Shenson who was directing a
movie. In return for acting in a small part, he was allowed to be the
Assistant Director which meant he got to be on the set to watch and
learn and get coffee for the director. He was “explorin' the
opportunities of the directin' field,” as he told the press. The
reality, he told me with a laugh, was that he was just killing time.
Everyone else had projects they were working on. George was studying
Indian music, Paul doing the movie score and Ringo was planning some TV
appearances. He had felt stupid sitting around doing nothing and decided
that this at least sounded like a worthy pursuit. He reported, in
typical Lennon fashion, that the movie industry was full of assholes,
but some of them were interesting assholes. California was great. He had
a house on Malibu Beach, partied with the Byrds and Mama's and Papa's
and the Beach Boys, and had gone surfing with Mike Love and some friends
one day.
When I asked about Cyn, there was a moment of silence. “We are
separated. I told her I wanted a divorce, but she is going to have to
file. I think she will.”
“How did she take it?”
“Pretty hard, but as you said, she told me she had been expecting it.
I'm not sure, but I think she felt worse when I told her there isn't
another woman. Like leaving her for someone else was better than just
leaving her. I tried to tell her it wasn't her fault. I don't know if
she understood. Hell, I'm not sure if she understands at all. She
probably thinks we'll get back together when I get home.”
“How are you doing?”
“I feel like a right proper bastard! Shit, I felt that way anyway. At
least now I am a bastard who is out of her life.”
“Oh, John. I am sorry.”
“I know, Luv, but if it hadn't been for you, I'd still be there and
she'd still be hoping.”
I cringed. I didn't want to think I had any part in his decision to
leave even though I believed it was inevitable and probably for the
best. “Oh, no! I never meant to—”
“No, girl. You didn't talk me into leaving. You just said to make up my
mind. Either try to put it back together or let her go so she could get
on. So we both could. Besides, it wasn't what you said as much as seeing
how strong you were. You didn't waste time trying to fix something that
wasn't fixable. You just got on with your life.”
“I left. I'm not sure I'm getting on,” I said with a grim laugh.
“Pretty tough, eh?”
“Oh, yeah, but getting better.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No! Thank God.”
“I can't believe he let you go that easily. I really thought... well,
he's a fool.”
“What did he say about me?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I wanted to
hear he was miserable when I left and knew that was highly unlikely or
he would have called me. I would settle for hearing that he felt really
bad about what he had done, but there was a little nagging fear that he
was simply relieved I had ended it so he wouldn't have to.
John hadn't talked to him about me though. After I left, he decided he
needed to talk to Cyn about how unhappy he was with his life. Cyn
instantly burst into tears and divorce became the topic even though John
had not intended to bring that up, at least not yet. It just came out of
his mouth, he said. They agreed on a separation and he left to spend
some time in Liverpool with Mimi, trying to decide what he should do.
That's when he decided to check into the offer to do the film. In the
end, he'd left without talking to Paul or anyone. He'd been afraid they
would try to talk him out of it and it took all the nerve he had to make
the decision in the first place.
“Little Johnny Beatle on his own,” he laughed, “and now little Johnny
is lonesome and really would like to see his old nursemaid again. I am
going to be here another six weeks or so. If I send you plane tickets,
will you come and see me?”
“Oh, John. I would be on a plane so fast, but I don't have any break
from school until Thanksgiving.”
“When is that?”
“End of November.”
“Oh. Not even a long weekend?”
“No. I couldn't leave here until a Friday afternoon and I would have to
come back on Sunday. That would only give us one day.” I was swearing a
blue streak inside.
“Then would you let me come there? I could be on the doorstep when you
got out of school, carry your books home, and I wouldn't have to leave
until Monday.”
“Let you? Would I let you? John, I would love it!”
“Good. My birthday is next weekend and I don't want to spend it at some
phony gala event arranged by the movie biz people for publicity.”
“Perfect!”
We talked a little longer, making plans. Rather than track down Neil
when he left England or ask Mal to be separated from his wife for as
long as it would take to do the movie, John had simply hired two men as
assistants and security when he got to the States. With them and the
fake mustache and goatee he used around L.A when he didn't want to be
recognized, he didn't think traveling would be any problem. He gave me
his phone number and address, and we said goodbye.
“He is coming here?” Brenda asked in disbelief as I hung up.
“Yes, next weekend!”
My roommates shrieked and danced around the kitchen in a frenzy of
excitement. When they were reasonably coherent, I put a damper on things
by telling them that they could not, under any circumstances, tell
anyone. They tried to bargain for just a few people, then just one
person, but I was already having second thoughts about the wisdom of
having John visit. I stayed firm and told them that if I even suspected
that they had told anyone, I would call John and cancel. I simply
couldn't be responsible for his safety if word got out. They were calmer
now, calm enough for Brenda to recognize another problem.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Terry?” she asked, exchanging The
Look with Sandy, The Look being a concerned “what are we going to do
about Terry?” look usually reserved for the occasions when I got the
snivels over a love song and HIM.
“You were just beginning to get over HIM, and this will just tear you
apart!”
“So you think it was John?”
“Who else? He was always your favorite,” Sandy said.
“Why do you think it was one of them? It could have been any guy.”
“Yeah, sure, Terry. We know,” Brenda said.
“Or Neil,” I said. A little red herring to throw them off track.
“Ooooh! I liked Neil!” Sandy said. “He was so nice and funny and cute.”
I had forgotten they had met Neil and Terry both. Terry came to get my
suitcase and Neil to get my birth certificate. “You should see him in a
swimsuit and he is a world-class kisser too.”
“You may have kissed him, and I know you went out with Terry, but
neither of them is the one,” Brenda said.
“So that means it was one of them. We think he was one of the married
ones and that is why it was so tragic,” said romantic Sandy.
“That rules out Paul, and George has only been married a few months, so
that seems unlikely,” Brenda explained.
“And Ringo would never do such a thing!” Sandy exclaimed, true to her
favorite.
I laughed at her. “You are right. Ringo is sweet and kind and caring.”
I left it at that. I didn't try to explain that no one is married on
tour, or that to some men, especially men who were Beatles, love didn't
rule out sex on the side, sex didn't mean love, and love didn't mean
what we thought it did.
On Friday, October 7, John and his bodyguards (I hated to think of them
in those terms. It was easier with Mal and Neil because they did so much
else for them, their protective role was not so obvious.) were flying in
at noon. They would rent a car at the airport, get a hotel room, and
planned to be at the apartment by four. Brenda and Sandy kept the
secret. I was afraid Sandy was going to explode before the day came, but
somehow she hung on.
As soon as it had sunk in that John was going to visit us, sit in our
chairs, eat at our table, Brenda and Sandy went into a frenzy of
housecleaning and fretting over our simple accommodations. Our apartment
was a typical big old house chopped up into apartments in a quiet,
tree-lined, residential neighborhood. It was an older neighborhood with
little traffic and very few kids of the Beatle fan age. Most of the
homes were owned by older retired couples and by a few younger couples
who preferred these big, solid old houses to the modern shoeboxes of the
suburbs. Our landlords were one such couple. Carol and her husband Al
lived downstairs with their two little kids. They rented out the two
upstairs apartments. Brenda, Sandy and I had the two-bedroom apartment,
and a middle-aged widow who worked as a bank teller had the other small
one-bedroom apartment.
We had odd-sized rooms in odd places. We didn't mind the fact that the
bathroom was off the kitchen rather than the bedrooms because it was a
really big bathroom. Even though the landing at the top of the stairs
brought visitors past the bedrooms before the living room, at least you
didn't have to walk right through the bedrooms as was the setup in a
friend's apartment. One bedroom was large with patio doors opening out
onto a porch roof. The other was barely big enough for a full-sized bed
and dresser. We had drawn straws and I got the small one, Brenda and
Sandy shared the big one. The living room was small but the kitchen
large. It even had a back door. Of course, you had to move the
refrigerator to use it, but it led out onto a small screened back porch
that served as a handy freezer in cold weather, and on hot summer nights
was a more bearable place to sleep than my bedroom.
I knew darn well that John was not going to notice that there were
cigarette burns in the carpet or care that the sofa was an incredibly
ugly, indescribable non-color somewhere between gray and brown with a
hint of purple, but Sandy and Brenda fussed anyway with new pillows for
the sofa, a throw to cover the threadbare chair. We weren't mod or hippy
enough to have a doorway with hanging beads, but we did have posters on
the walls and even a few candle wax dripped wine bottles for mood
lighting.
The kitchen table was one of those chrome and pea-green Formica things
that are showing up again in today's nostalgia decor. The kitchen
linoleum floor was a shade of dark red that Brenda and I had immediately
labeled as “blood clot red.” The refrigerator was ancient with a rounded
top and a freezer section inside that was just big enough for one carton
of ice cream and one ice cube tray, assuming it wasn't frosted up with
two inches of ice.
Not everything was ancient or second hand, though. We had a big brass
and mahogany wall clock shaped like a daisy or sunburst, and (all the
rage!) a pole lamp with three plastic lights on it. Brenda had a nice
bedroom set, and Sandy contributed our finest furnishing, a colonial
maple Magnavox console stereo. Home Sweet Home.
On Friday, Brenda and I both rushed home after our last class. As we
pulled up outside the apartment, we saw three guys sitting on the front
steps. I flew out of the car and up to the house. I was in John's arms
before Brenda could even get out of the car. He picked me up and swung
me around, laughing at me. As Brenda came up the walk, he put me down,
kissed me solidly on the mouth, then held me back at arm's length to
look at me.
“You look like hell, Tess. Get out of that uniform now!”
“You look fantastic!” I exclaimed, ignoring his words as I took in his
wild flowered shirt and bell-bottom blue jeans. “You cut your hair! And
those glasses—You look like a college professor! I almost didn't
recognize you!” His hair was shorter than I had ever seen it. It was
still a bit of a Beatle cut on top, but much shorter on the back and
sides. The glasses were the wire-rimmed, round ones that were to become
his trademark.
“For the movie,” he said, “but I rather fancy it.”
“So do I, but you don't look like a Beatle... "
“That's the whole point, Luv!”
I hugged him again, wanting to squeeze the living daylights out of him.
Suddenly I realized what else had changed; no cast, no sling. Both arms
were holding me tight. I stepped back and took his arm. He knew exactly
what I was thinking and moved it through full range, extension,
adduction, rotation, all without even a flinch. I grinned at him and he
proceeded to demonstrate an impromptu dance routine, whirling me down
the sidewalk and back. The knee was fine.
I introduced him to Brenda. She was looking a little surprised. The way
we were acting was not what she had expected and her whole “Who done it”
hypothesis was teetering. John introduced us to his “American Mal and
Neil” who turned out to be a German named Hans and a California beach
boy named Tom. We were still sitting on the steps talking when Sandy got
home a little later. I introduced her and Sandy was momentarily mute, a
real first but only momentary. We went on upstairs. Brenda and I changed
out of our uniforms while Sandy chattered on. When we came back out into
the living room, John smiled approvingly at Brenda. Me he frowned at.
“You've lost weight.”
“Just a little.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at my chest. “You lost it
in the wrong place then. There is nothing left to squeeze, Luv.”
I heard Brenda gasp. This would confuse her.
“Is so!” I protested to John as I looked down at my boobs in concern. I
had lost a few pounds but hadn’t thought about specifically where.
Instead of carrying on in the raunchy way I expected, John reached out
and put his hand under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “And I can
see it in your face,” he said gently. “Cor, he did a job on you, our
boy—”
“John,” I said cutting him off. “They don't know. I haven't told them.”
John turned to look at my roommates.
“We don't know who, or exactly how, but we know she came back home an
absolute wreck.” The anger in Brenda's voice was plain. She wanted him
to know that even if he was not the guilty party, he had not taken good
care of me.
Sandy jumped in. “She wouldn't eat, cried for weeks, nearly flunked out
of school—”
“She is exaggerating, John!”
“No, I'm not! Whoever it was”—the way she said “whoever” made it clear
he was not above suspicion—“ought to know what he did.”
“I plan to have a word with him when I get back to England,” John said.
“No, you won't,” I said, not wanting to discuss this in front of Brenda
and Sandy, much less Tom and Hans. “We'll talk about this later. I want
dinner.”
We decided to go out for pizza. If things got wild, we could grab the
pizza and run. Tom and Hans went in, checked things out, and got a table
near the back door. While we went in, Hans moved the car around to the
back in case a quick get-a-way was needed. No one recognized John as we
walked in. The waitress didn't even pick up on the fact that she was
waiting on a Beatle. The haircut and glasses were a great disguise. I
ordered for all of us, so she didn't hear his voice until much later.
She came by to bring another pitcher of beer and John said, “Ta, Luv.”
That was all it took. She did a major double-take and nearly dropped the
pitcher. John calmly took it out of her hands. “Be a sport and don't
tell anyone until I finish eating. I can't do autographs and eat at the
same time,” he said to her. She nodded and backed away. Amazingly, she
did as she was asked. Even so, people were catching on, looking at us,
trying to get past Tom who was the appointed autograph interrupter.
John had us laughing with stories of California, and his version of
some of the things I had told them about how we met, the hospital, my
trip. He told them I looked so cool and composed that first day at the
hotel, he was amazed to see that my hands were shaking and that I had
tried to strangle the reporter in the Emergency room. He had the guy
turning purple and gasping for air as I ruthlessly twisted the camera
strap tighter. He told them about the battle over his having a drink at
the after-concert party. I had not told them that, and he did edit out
the information about how they used uppers to get ready for a
performance. I held my breath as he talked about trying to get me to
dance with Paul so he could have his drink, but he was careful not to
imply anything.
After dinner, we went back to the apartment. Later, as it was getting
dark, John and I excused ourselves and went for a long walk, Tom and
Hans a half-block behind us. John talked about the greed and petty power
struggles and self-importance of the people he was working with in
Hollywood. “Should have found someplace else to escape to,” he said.
“Escape?” I said with surprise. ”I thought you were interested in
learning more about directing!”
He shrugged. He was interested in the subject, but it wasn't so much
doing the film or looking into a career as a director that made him want
to do it, it was as he had told me earlier. He needed to do something
with his time. The others had all made plans for projects and it was too
awful to just sit at their house in Kenwood and think that maybe it was
all over, Beatles as well as his marriage. Deeper than that there was
also the idea of doing something, anything, on his own, independent of
Beatles and Brian, away from what was becoming self-imposed isolation at
Kenwood.
The fact that the whole idea terrified him somehow made it more
important that he do it. He didn't want to end up like Elvis, living in
a narrow, artificial world with only his men around him. So, he made a
few phone calls and arranged to meet with Walter Shenson's friend in New
York. Knowing he would chicken out if he went back to London after
visiting Aunt Mimi, and that Brian would try to talk him out of it, he
arranged for a couple of security people on his own and flew to New York
from Liverpool with only a plane change in London. He had met Shenson's
director guy, agreed to work with him, and decided to spend a little
time in Florida while he waited for filming to start. With Sid Bernstein
and Capitol Records and hundreds of other businessmen offering him
anything he wanted, arranging security and a mansion in Florida was no
problem. He got that far in his narrative and then stopped.
“Fuck, Tess,” he said softly. “I thought I was going out into the
world. All I did was exchange one zookeeper for another, Brian and Neil
and Mal for other guys who make all the arrangements for where I go,
what I do, what I eat for breakfast. I am still a trained flea, just a
solo one for a while.”
There was nothing I could say so I fell back on humor. “Well, coming to
Minnesota doesn't sound like the act of a trained flea. You've moved up
to trained seal level at least!”
He laughed and grabbed the back of my neck and shook me. “Chimpanzee!
You could have at least brought me up to primate!”
I punched at him to get free and we tussled a bit. I was just realizing
that the change in John was more than the absence of the sling and cast.
He was so much more physical than I had seen in England! He moved
quickly, dancing away from me, laughing and taking a boxer's stance. His
energy level was contagious and adding that to his quick humor and sharp
mind, he was more awesome to me than ever. That and the fact that he was
wearing the brown suede jacket from the cover of Rubber Soul was
giving me palpitations!
We walked on and he started grilling me about how I was doing. I
convinced him I was all right. I was doing well in school, thanks to the
extra money from Tony. I told him I had more of a social life now than
I'd had for two years. My connection to the Beatles assured that! He
wanted to know if I was dating anyone. I just laughed. “Maybe one of
these days, but right now I think I would throw up if anyone tried to
kiss me.”
He laughed. “I'll keep that in mind.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Oh, a bird or two. No one special. I am not looking for anyone
special, she just has to be willing. That is what you need, too. Quit
looking for Mr. Right and enjoy yourself.”
“I will when I can feel anything again. Right now I just want to be
left alone.”
He looked down at me, saying nothing as we walked on. After a minute he
took his hand out of his jacket pocket and put his arm around my
shoulders. “I think I'll kill the bloody bastard when I see him.”
“Wait 'til the next album is done,” I requested. “I still love his
music.”
That lead to a discussion of plans for the group. He said he had only
talked to Brian who was in a real state over his leaving England. Brian
feared that the group was splitting up and had at first pleaded
frantically, angrily, even tearfully with John to come back. John told
him they all just needed a long vacation from each other. When he got
back they would start another album. When Brian calmed down a bit, he
was upset because they wouldn't have the next album done in time for a
Christmas release as they had always done. He was working with E.M.I. on
a deal to release a collection of their songs that had been released as
singles but had never been on an album. That could be done in time for a
Christmas release, but it would only be marketed in England. In cutting
their albums down to ten or so songs, Capitol had extra songs left over,
but they had been grouping them and releasing them along with the
singles as albums, so now there was nothing left for Capitol to put out
for Christmas. Capitol execs weren't happy. (“Fuck them. We have been
working our asses off and we need a break!”) Revolver was doing
great and everyone raved about the change in the music. Other groups
were already following their lead and that made the Beatles confident
enough to ignore the whining of the record companies.
Back at the apartment, Brenda and Sandy were waiting. We watched Johnny
Carson, laughing and having a good time getting to know Tom and Hans.
Tom was a lot of fun, Hans quieter, fitting the part of bodyguard
perfectly. He and Tom made frequent checks outside to make sure that a
mob was not forming, and seemed amazed that we had been able to keep
John's visit a secret. “Well, the cat will be out of the bag by
tomorrow,” Tom said. “Someone will spot him at the motel and that will
be that.”
John made a face, clearly not happy with the idea of a mob outside his
door for the rest of his stay.
“Why don't you just stay here?” I asked. “The sofa folds out into a
bed. It isn't too uncomfortable and this is a quiet neighborhood. Nobody
will see you coming and going.”
John looked at me with the leer I expected. “Do I have to sleep on the
sofa?”
“You can have my bed if you want,” I said sweetly. “I don't mind
sleeping on the couch.”
“Sounds good to me anyway,” John laughed and looked over at Hans.
Hans thought about it and agreed somewhat reluctantly that was worth a
try. He figured that within twenty-four hours both our apartment and the
motel would be targeted. “The fewer contacts you have the better,” he
said. It was obvious that Hans took his job very seriously. He tended to
pace the perimeter just like Mal.
That decided, and assured that John would not leave the apartment again
that night, Tom and Hans left to go back to the hotel for the night. I
made up the sofa bed for John and we said goodnight with Brenda and
Sandy watching closely. They had not ruled John out, and my inviting him
to stay at the apartment only raised their suspicions.
Sandy's parents were closing up their lake cottage for the winter, and
it seemed like a safe place for a Beatle since no would ever expect to
find one there, so that is where we headed on Saturday afternoon. Sandy,
after realizing that neither Tom nor Hans was married, had decided
quickly not to invite the boy she had planned to ask along, but Brenda
was bringing Mark. He was a U. of M. student she had met while I was in
England, and they were now “going steady.” Being a private person she
hadn’t said too much but it was pretty clear that there was something
special, something with a promise of permanence between them, and in
spite of her belief that sex should be saved for marriage, she certainly
came home looking tousled!
Mark was stunned when they walked in and saw John sitting at our
kitchen table. Brenda had not told even him, although she had hinted at
a surprise for him. We gave him the ground rules: he could not tell
anyone he was here, bring anyone else over as long as John was here,
“and no autographs, please” John added with a grin. Mark, after a few
minutes of repeating, “Holy shit!”, much to our amusement since Mark was
never at a loss for words, settled down and we loaded up the cars and
headed out.
It was a beautiful fall day with yellow and gold and red leaves and
bright sunshine. It was too late in the year to even think of swimming,
but we had canoes. John had never been in a canoe before and nearly
tipped us over several times and rammed the dock twice before he got the
hang of it, but he was loving it. He was laughing like crazy and barking
orders to me. “Man the jib, woman!”, “Raise the mizzelmats!” and,
“Barnacle the vast ahoy!”
We paddled out toward a small island in the lake. I looked back at him,
laughing as he splashed water at Brenda, his hair shining, the sun
brightening the red highlights. I had never seen him so relaxed and
happy. He made me smile, and for the first time since I left England,
the sunshine and warmth reached all the way into my heart.
We sat in the sun on the little island for a while before heading back.
Being out on the island finally seemed secure enough for Hans whose
dedication to his job was like something out of a James Bond movie. I
could imagine John saying “Get rid of them” and Hans dispassionately
dispensing with a couple of autograph seekers with a machine gun.
Back at the cabin, Sandy's older brother and his wife and baby had
arrived and the people from the cabin next door were there. Like Sandy's
parents who had no idea that John was going to be with us, they all had
a moment of surprise then they relaxed and just let him be. Hans stayed
mellow, recognizing that Sandy's sister-in-law, the only one reacting to
John like a traditional fan, was no threat. John was on guard at first,
too, unsure how they would react to him but it was clear within minutes
that nothing was expected of him except that he have a good time.
We set out into the woods to find firewood for a campfire, shoved
leaves down each other's shirts, and generally goofed around. When we
got back, we got the fire going and roasted hot dogs to go with the rest
of the food Sandy's mom had ready.
After dinner, I brought out the birthday cake we had made and smuggled
up with us. Instead of candles, Sandy's mom put on twenty-six Fourth of
July sparklers. Everyone sang “Haddy Birdday,” having been properly
coached in Lennon Speak beforehand. Stuffed with food, we sat around the
campfire. It was so good to see John having fun. He was upbeat, every
bit as hysterically funny as I had ever seen him. The hard edge and
self-absorption that I had seen in England were gone. Not that he pulled
any punches. He said what he believed. When the subject of Vietnam came
up, as it always did in those days, John said that the war was wrong. I
could see the reaction from the group. Sandy's dad had been in the navy,
Sandy's brother Rick had served in Vietnam, Mark had a brother in
Vietnam, and we all knew boys who had died there.
Rick informed John that, “Vietnam is no business of the English. They
ought to see to the mess in Ireland before they stuck their nose in
where it doesn't belong.”
I held my breath. I knew from sitting through the evening news with
John that he thought the war was wrong, stupid, immoral because it was
being fought for economic and political reasons, not for freedom. He
would tell that to anyone with conviction—and tell it with very little
tact, but today he nodded. “You are right on with that, mate,” he said
quietly. “Ireland is a national disgrace and a disgrace to Catholics and
Protestants.”
Oh God. Politics and religion.
“Any war is wrong,” he went on. “Haven't we come far enough that we can
see that? We can look back through history and see that war is not over
freedom. It is politics and money or religion. The world is not a bunch
of isolated countries, Rick. We may be citizens of one country but we
know what is going on in the world, and if we know, we have a
responsibility.”
“You are entitled to your opinion,” Rick said stiffly.
“And that is all it is,” John said, laughing. “The considered opinion
of a bloke who's last opinion alienated half the world!”
Rick laughed and said, “And the man who is bigger than Christ ought to
be listened to!”
As it grew dark, ghost stories were shared, and someone just had to
start singing camp songs. John got his harmonica out of his pocket and
started to play along. Someone brought a battered old guitar out of the
cabin and John, Tom, and Mark ambled on through snatches of songs.
It was getting cold and the firewood was running out, so finally we had
to call it a night. Shivering, we packed up the cars and headed back to
town. I drove my car and while John fiddled with the radio, Sandy and
Tom whispered and giggled in the back seat. I marveled that Hans had
entrusted John to Tom since Tom's mind was obviously not on his work.
John glanced back at them, looked at me and grinned. “Don't look back.”
I took a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Lip lock. Yes, our little
Sandy was a fast piece of baggage, but she was also, unintentionally, a
terrible tease. She was so eager to fall in love that she would kiss a
boy into a frenzy then be appalled at his wanting more.
“Make you feel like throwing up?” John asked.
“No, but it does make me feel like I am the only aardvark on Noah's
ark. Everyone is paired up two by two except me.”
John said, “You'll find the Prince Charming of aardvarks one day.”
I was surprised. “I can't believe you said that. You don't believe in
love except as some kind of impersonal cosmic force. ‘Say the word and
you'll be free' love.”
He laughed at my sarcasm. “I never said I don't believe in love. I just
don't believe in all the hearts and flowers and happy ever after crap,
but, you do and people find what they are looking for.”
I thought about that for a minute. “What are you looking for?”
It was a long time before he answered. Quietly, a little grimly, he
said. “John Lennon.”
Brenda was up first the next morning. She never missed church on
Sunday. I had gotten out of the habit since starting school. Working
weekends often made it difficult, if not impossible. I heard her talking
to John, so I got up, put on my bathrobe and joined them. John was still
in bed on the fold-out couch. Brenda went to make coffee. I sat on the
bed and John sat up and stretched. “Oh, ow. Lord, I am sore.”
“Some seaman you are. One day at the oars and you are done for.” I
scooted up to the head of the bed and knelt behind him, massaging his
shoulders and making him groan. It was nice to see him without bruises
or tape burns. He had gotten a bit of a tan from the California sun and
was warm from sleep.
It felt good to touch a man again. Too good. The feel of his skin and
the addition of his sound effects had stirred me up. My heart might not
be ready to feel anything, but other parts of my body were waking up. I
stopped abruptly and pulled my hands away. “I'll help with the coffee,”
I said and escaped into the kitchen pushing Sandy in front of me. John
followed a moment later, jeans on, pulling a T-shirt over his head. He
moved to stand close to me, and I glanced up to see an amused gleam in
his eyes. Once again I felt that old connection to him. He somehow knew
that he had gotten to me.
“You are impossible!” I hissed at him in a whisper. He laughed happily.
Tom and Hans arrived, Brenda left for church, and Sandy, the real cook
in the house, was soon turning out waffles. By the time we finished
breakfast, Brenda was back with the Sunday paper and we sat around the
table reading and swapping sections. John spotted the movie listings and
asked if we could go see Thunderball, the latest James Bond
movie. Based on our successful pizza outing, Hans figured it would be
safe. Tom, Brenda, and Sandy could go in and save seats and he would
bring John in after the lights went down and get him out the second the
movie ended. That brought back painful memories of going to the movies
with Paul. John saw the look on my face and squeezed my hand. Brenda and
Sandy saw that and exchanged a look, still not ready to rule him out as
a suspect.
Our trip to the movie went fine, and we spent the rest of the afternoon
and evening watching TV and talking. When Tom and Hans left to get
cigarettes, Brenda, never one to mince words, asked John point blank if
the Beatles were into drugs. John, never one to ignore an opportunity to
express an opinion, or to shock or brag, said, “Yeah. We all smoke pot
quite a bit. We use uppers sometimes when we need to keep going when we
are really buggered. Richie likes plain old scotch, and Paul pretty much
sticks to marijuana, but George and I have tried a few other things. LSD
is incredible!”
So we argued about drugs for a long time. John didn't change the
subject when his security people returned. They'd been with John through
many a California party and there were no secrets there. John said drugs
could be the way to a higher level of thought, a new reality, God,
whatever. We said they were a way to addiction and overdose.
“LSD isn't illegal or addictive. You can have a bad trip, so it isn't
something you should do alone, but it isn't dangerous,” he said. Even
so, he didn't think the whole world should go around stoned or high or
tripping all the time. Drugs, especially LSD, weren't so much for
relaxation as mind expansion, for creativity and a new look at the
world. “LSD isn't something just for rock'n'roll.” It had started with
scientific researchers, was picked up by the more bohemian of the
literary crowd—Aldous Huxley had been using it for more than ten
years—and was just now getting the attention of the general public
because it had become popular among young musical people. As for pot,
that was a joke! Marijuana was no worse than tobacco, less addictive,
and it didn't cause near the problems alcohol did, much less the
hangover!
We argued but it was hard for us to argue with someone who had
first-hand knowledge and didn't appear to be any the worse for the
experience. Someone who was, in fact, was the most interesting person we
had ever met. I wasn't worried about the pot. Marijuana had been used
for centuries and didn't seem to cause problems, but LSD was another
story. No one knew what it would do.
“People jump out of windows because they think they can fly,” we
pointed out.
“You don’t trip alone and you learn how to control your trips. You can
take just a small hit and, at first, it hits you with colors. It comes
on strong and just dominates your senses at first. Then after a while,
you begin to get back in control. You can decide what happens next. You
can think of something and that becomes the theme of the next part of
the trip. You can look at a thing and let it turn into a door to another
world. Or look and a person and turn him into something else. Or look
inside of something and see what it really is.”
“But what about the uncontrollable flash-backs,” we challenged.
“Free trips,” he laughed. “Enjoy them. They only last a couple of
minutes”
“Genetic damage!”
“No proof of that. No thalidomide babies. No psychedelic brain-damaged
babies.”
As I listened to the arguments, all I could think was that maybe LSD is
the door to God, maybe not, but I wished he would leave it to others to
find out. I didn't want him to be the guinea pig.
The next day was a school and workday for us and John's flight was to
leave at 9:30 so we had to turn in fairly early. As we made up the sofa
bed for John, he thanked us for the weekend. “I had a great time. L.A.
has more stars, more action, but not nicer people. This is the best
weekend I have had for a long time.” He hugged both Sandy and Brenda and
then turned to me.
I put my arms around him and held on to him. “I am getting tired of
saying goodbye to you,” I said. “Why don't you promise you'll come back
again before you go back to England? Then I can skip it for now.”
“Thought you would never ask, Luv. When can I come back?”
“Halloween!” Sandy blurted out. “You could wear a costume and mask and
we could go anywhere! Someone will be having a party!”
It was a great idea and immediately agreed upon. We talked a little
longer then turned in. When the alarm went off in the morning, I rolled
out of bed and started the morning ritual. John was up and had coffee
ready for us by the time we were dressed. We all voted to keep him on
permanently if he would do laundry too. Hans and Tom were there bright
and early. Sandy, who had a little more time in the morning than Brenda
and I, fixed breakfast
for them while we went through the usual Monday morning rush and hunt
for papers and car keys. I had only a moment to say goodbye to John and
no privacy for it. I was smiling as I hugged him, knowing I would see
him again in a few weeks.
“That's a start,” he commented.
I looked up at him, startled.
“You are smiling. Really smiling. Now find yourself a nice guy and get
laid. Then you'll be over him.”
“John Lennon, you are impossible!”
“I love it when you say that,” he laughed. He kissed me, a quick but
warm kiss on the lips that was just enough to make me wonder what it
would have been like had we had a moment alone, and I rushed after
Brenda.