The day after I arrived in NYC, I jumped on the N train, got off at the 59th St stop,
walked up through Central Park towards the (in)famous Dakota on West 72nd St.
That is where John Lennon lived and was mortally wounded by a delusional schizophrenic psychopath who wanted to be known as the guy who shot John Lennon.
I took this picture (just after passing the Gossip Girl filming a scene). I had to ask someone who it was. I guess I'm aging. Or maybe just not hip, still.
I leaned up against the wall, unassumingly - as if I were another tourist that had come to see the Imagine mosaic in Strawberry Fields in the Park. I encountered a homeless man who asked, "Do you know what you are looking at?" to which I responded, "I think so..." mostly because I assumed he was going to tell me anyhow. He did go on to tell me everything. I knew most of it, I must confess. Some parts were inaccurate and other parts were suspect, at best.
He said, "I was right there on the the night of December 8th, 1980, I heard a BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!"
That's where I found the hole in his story. Because I am a fanatic about The Beatles, John Lennon and their music, I know the sound of the shots would have gone, BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! - 5 times - because the murderer used .38 Revolver and emptied the cylinder which contained 5 barrels. And if he (the homeless fellow) were that close, he never would have forgotten the irregular rhythm of the firing, as opposed to common time of 4.
Then he went on, while I coyly nodded in amusement, about how Yoko (Lennon's beloved widow) and Sean were left with all the money. This is where I lost interest in the conversation. For one, I love Yoko Ono and I believe she is unfairly criticized (that is another post, though). Secondly, who cares what he put in his will?! It was his damn money! Thirdly, that had nothing to do with why I was there, so he was starting to annoy me.
The next thing he did was ask me if I knew where the Lennons lived in the Dakota. I told him what I thought which was that the Lennon's had purchased just about every unit on the Seventh floor of the building. He refuted this with little certitude. I walked away, largely because it went off the cliff when he opined about how Lennon had bequeathed his estate. I am much more than a fan, therefore a conversation about his monetary interests are about as interesting to me as Kewpie Dolls. I might add, as I walked away, he said, "Hey, come here a minute." I did. He asked, "Hey man, do you have a dollar?" I said sure, mainly because he did something. By that, I mean at a least he did something. He was working. Yes, he probably doesn't fill out a 1099, but he was working for that dollar. Telling a story, that is.
Did I give him the dollar? Yes, I did. I also gave him the dollar with my left hand. Yep, the one that has John Lennon's self portrait inconspicuously tattooed on the inside of my wrist. But I made it visible to him. He looked at it, as I gave him a fin, and got real with me - immediately. Certainly fitting at that, being that both Lincoln and Lennon were both assassinated, but essentially wanted the same things in the world: PEACE.
I digress. The point: You just never know who you are talking to. How many times do you think that homeless fellow told that story, laden with opinions and not facts, to other passers-by? I'll bet a lot. Maybe next time he recounts his eye-witness account to Lennon's assassination he will think twice or at least get the cadence of the shots down, or maybe he'll just omit the part about being there.
