John didn't know how long he'd walked around, with no clear idea of where he was headed, mind still spinning with everything Paul had said, when he realized he'd come right back to his tribute. The sky was tinted rosa with the sunset, and soon it would be the same time as it had been in 1964 when he'd last been there. How he missed 1964....
There were less people around John's tribute now, and of course, the ones who were around didn't pay any attention to him, not realizing that the very man whom the tribute had been made for was standing successivo to them and staring at it. How had things gotten to the point that only his closest friend recognized him when he showed up all unexpected?
"Some fellow, this John Lennon must be," John detto to the man successivo to him, knowing that he wouldn't be recognized and so talking about himself in the third person. He refused, though, to talk about himself in the past tense.
The man nodded. "Really something... But te mean, he was some fellow. He's dead."
He detto this so casually, not realizing, of course, that the person he'd just detto was dead was the same one he was talking to. John inwardly winced.
"Probably wouldn't recognize him if he came up here and talked to you, would you, mister?"
The man looked up, a little confused. (John did often have that effect on people.) "Sure I would. He'd have the long hair and glasses; te can't miss it."
Oh, yes. When had he decided he was okay with embarrassing himself wearing his glasses in public? Paul hadn't mentioned that part, and John hadn't thought to ask him. "Oh, no he wouldn't. That John was too busy - " what was it Paul had said? - "breaking up his band and being distracted to come here. He'd be wearing a suit. And he'd know he'd look ridiculous in glasses." He looked at the man very carefully, hoping he would realize who he was talking to.
The man just blinked at him. "What do te mean? te think he would come in disguise? I don't know about that... that's one thing I never heard he did, pretend to be someone he wasn't."
"What have te heard that he did?" John folded his arms and made himself comfortable, curious to know what his legacy was like. That was something he couldn't get from Paul, who knew the real John too well to be able to see him through the rest of the worlds' eyes.
The man shrugged. "You read the books, te hear about all kinds of things - losing his temper with people - not so nice to his wife and son - taking it out on McCartney, too... not surprising, really, since he was depressed his whole life."
"Which John Lennon is that, mister?" asked John, narrowing his eyes. He wasn't depressed last he'd checked, and te would think that he would know. But deep inside, he felt a little uncomfortable. He wasn't really that bad, was he? Maybe he was...
The man frowned. "John Lennon, former Beatle, peace activist, wrote "Imagine"." He glanced at the tribute. "Shot da a deranged killer in 1980."
John stood there. The successivo secondo seemed to last forever as he absorbed what he'd just been told. Part of him felt horrified, weak, vulnerable, and another part of him felt ashamed for feeling weak and vulnerable. Another part of him, though, felt strangely unsurprised, just like he had when Paul told him he was dead in 2014; the news didn't feel entirely unexpected. But that didn't make it any better. John didn't want to die!
"It is terrible, isn't it?" the man said, perhaps noticing somewhat the effect this had on John, though he couldn't possibly have known just how deeply his words cut, and in any case, John would never have showed him. "There's all kinds of stories about what he was like when he was alive - but he didn't deserve to die like that."
"No," John agreed, hardly aware of what he was saying, "he only deserved to fall off a cliff o similar...."
The man looked at him funny. "You're taking it lightly. One day, you'll appreciate the great people who came before your time. And then you'll treat their stories with a little più respect." He turned and walked away, leaving John the only person da his tribute.
John watched him go. If only te knew, mister, he thought. It's my death you're talking about as if it doesn't matter to te - and it's my life you've got all wrong...
And suddenly, it all became too much for him. John was hardly aware of his legs folding under him, unable to orso the weight any longer, collapsing in a kneeling pose in front of the tribute. The tribute that looked somehow sad... of course, it was there because he had died... he was dead, and the Beatles were ruined, and nobody understood because history only told people the bad things... It was as though nothing he had done mattered, he had been about to make it bigger than anyone ever had, but it made no difference. Here, no one even knew who he was....
John was suddenly aware of the hot tears stinging his eyes, and he blinked furiously, glad that at least no one was around to see him if he started crying. Not that anyone would even know it was him. In 2014 he was nobody, and he couldn't take it, all he wanted was for just one person to recognize him, to say his name....
"John!"
"John! John!"
John looked up. It was dark - not twilight like it had been just a secondo ago, but pitch-black. The ground in front of him was covered in patches of snow and ice. John's eyesight wasn't good at all, but he thought it was ordinary ground, with no tribute there at all.
"John!"
And there were his mates running towards him, all three with rather anxious expressions on their faces. At another time, John might have been mortified to be discovered here, kneeling on the ground with tears clouding his eyes and threatening to spill down his cheeks. Now, he couldn't imagine a sweeter sound than his mates, someone who actually knew who he was.
"There te are, John! We've been looking for hours, it's nearly midnight - where..." His mates stopped and looked at him. "Are te all right, John?"
John met their eyes. He was struck da the irrelevant thought that it was so good to see Paul looking young again, Ringo too, to see George alive... Memories of what had just happened chased each other round his head, each più unpleasant that the last. And so he detto something he never would have detto to answer that domanda before. "No."
Paul, George, and Ringo looked at each other, didn't wait to hear any more. Surrounding John in one tight, protective cluster, they helped him to his feet, then led him down the strada, via to a little coffeeshop, where they ordered four hot cocoas and waited for John to tell them the story.
There were less people around John's tribute now, and of course, the ones who were around didn't pay any attention to him, not realizing that the very man whom the tribute had been made for was standing successivo to them and staring at it. How had things gotten to the point that only his closest friend recognized him when he showed up all unexpected?
"Some fellow, this John Lennon must be," John detto to the man successivo to him, knowing that he wouldn't be recognized and so talking about himself in the third person. He refused, though, to talk about himself in the past tense.
The man nodded. "Really something... But te mean, he was some fellow. He's dead."
He detto this so casually, not realizing, of course, that the person he'd just detto was dead was the same one he was talking to. John inwardly winced.
"Probably wouldn't recognize him if he came up here and talked to you, would you, mister?"
The man looked up, a little confused. (John did often have that effect on people.) "Sure I would. He'd have the long hair and glasses; te can't miss it."
Oh, yes. When had he decided he was okay with embarrassing himself wearing his glasses in public? Paul hadn't mentioned that part, and John hadn't thought to ask him. "Oh, no he wouldn't. That John was too busy - " what was it Paul had said? - "breaking up his band and being distracted to come here. He'd be wearing a suit. And he'd know he'd look ridiculous in glasses." He looked at the man very carefully, hoping he would realize who he was talking to.
The man just blinked at him. "What do te mean? te think he would come in disguise? I don't know about that... that's one thing I never heard he did, pretend to be someone he wasn't."
"What have te heard that he did?" John folded his arms and made himself comfortable, curious to know what his legacy was like. That was something he couldn't get from Paul, who knew the real John too well to be able to see him through the rest of the worlds' eyes.
The man shrugged. "You read the books, te hear about all kinds of things - losing his temper with people - not so nice to his wife and son - taking it out on McCartney, too... not surprising, really, since he was depressed his whole life."
"Which John Lennon is that, mister?" asked John, narrowing his eyes. He wasn't depressed last he'd checked, and te would think that he would know. But deep inside, he felt a little uncomfortable. He wasn't really that bad, was he? Maybe he was...
The man frowned. "John Lennon, former Beatle, peace activist, wrote "Imagine"." He glanced at the tribute. "Shot da a deranged killer in 1980."
John stood there. The successivo secondo seemed to last forever as he absorbed what he'd just been told. Part of him felt horrified, weak, vulnerable, and another part of him felt ashamed for feeling weak and vulnerable. Another part of him, though, felt strangely unsurprised, just like he had when Paul told him he was dead in 2014; the news didn't feel entirely unexpected. But that didn't make it any better. John didn't want to die!
"It is terrible, isn't it?" the man said, perhaps noticing somewhat the effect this had on John, though he couldn't possibly have known just how deeply his words cut, and in any case, John would never have showed him. "There's all kinds of stories about what he was like when he was alive - but he didn't deserve to die like that."
"No," John agreed, hardly aware of what he was saying, "he only deserved to fall off a cliff o similar...."
The man looked at him funny. "You're taking it lightly. One day, you'll appreciate the great people who came before your time. And then you'll treat their stories with a little più respect." He turned and walked away, leaving John the only person da his tribute.
John watched him go. If only te knew, mister, he thought. It's my death you're talking about as if it doesn't matter to te - and it's my life you've got all wrong...
And suddenly, it all became too much for him. John was hardly aware of his legs folding under him, unable to orso the weight any longer, collapsing in a kneeling pose in front of the tribute. The tribute that looked somehow sad... of course, it was there because he had died... he was dead, and the Beatles were ruined, and nobody understood because history only told people the bad things... It was as though nothing he had done mattered, he had been about to make it bigger than anyone ever had, but it made no difference. Here, no one even knew who he was....
John was suddenly aware of the hot tears stinging his eyes, and he blinked furiously, glad that at least no one was around to see him if he started crying. Not that anyone would even know it was him. In 2014 he was nobody, and he couldn't take it, all he wanted was for just one person to recognize him, to say his name....
"John!"
"John! John!"
John looked up. It was dark - not twilight like it had been just a secondo ago, but pitch-black. The ground in front of him was covered in patches of snow and ice. John's eyesight wasn't good at all, but he thought it was ordinary ground, with no tribute there at all.
"John!"
And there were his mates running towards him, all three with rather anxious expressions on their faces. At another time, John might have been mortified to be discovered here, kneeling on the ground with tears clouding his eyes and threatening to spill down his cheeks. Now, he couldn't imagine a sweeter sound than his mates, someone who actually knew who he was.
"There te are, John! We've been looking for hours, it's nearly midnight - where..." His mates stopped and looked at him. "Are te all right, John?"
John met their eyes. He was struck da the irrelevant thought that it was so good to see Paul looking young again, Ringo too, to see George alive... Memories of what had just happened chased each other round his head, each più unpleasant that the last. And so he detto something he never would have detto to answer that domanda before. "No."
Paul, George, and Ringo looked at each other, didn't wait to hear any more. Surrounding John in one tight, protective cluster, they helped him to his feet, then led him down the strada, via to a little coffeeshop, where they ordered four hot cocoas and waited for John to tell them the story.
