ONO HE DIDN'T !!!

Tomorrow, Oct. 9^th, marks what would have been the 70^th birthday of  John Lennon.  John is by far my favorite Beatle.  Now, I know a lot of people say that, and as far as I’m concerned they SHOULD say that because he frankly commands top billing among those 4 fellas,  artistically as well as intellectually and (yes, I’ll say it George – no disrespect intended) spiritually.   Those other guys are great, sure, but John frankly could not help himself:  He’s simply a different kind of animal.  Hell, McCartney can’t forget that and neither should the rest of us. 

Since I was a very young child, John Lennon influenced, informed and colored so many of my musical, literary and humanistic ideals.  I watched in mystified admiration as he pursued his penchant for fearless, uncompromising activism.  Lastly, it certainly didn’t hurt that he was also incredibly handsome. SIGH.   What. A. Guy. 

John’s murder in 1980 was an unparalleled, cataclysmic event in countless lives, mine being no exception.  Tomorrow, as always, I intend to celebrate this amazing man’s LIFE, and all that it has brought to my own life over the years. 

In honor of said exceptional and incomparable life,  I offer you the following true tidbit.   Had there never been a Sir John Winston O’Boogie Lennon, (or one Ms. Lena Bubbyshins, for that matter) this wee tale would never have existed much less been told…

* * *

I was maybe 14 or 15 years old and returning home from an afternoon of playing handball.  My dad was sitting at the dining room table talking to mom about a grueling 3-week job he’d just finished.  

Pop (as I calls ‘im) came over from Hungary in 1956.  For most of his life, he owned and operated an ornamental steel company out of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  Back-breaking, meticulous work that he loved.  Many of his jobs were Manhattan-based.  Pop speaks excellent English and he sports a distinctive Euro-hipster accent, somewhere between Brooklynese and his native Hungarian.  (Brooklarian?)

Anyhow, I’m standing at the kitchen counter making myself a tuna sandwich, half-hearing my dad’s voice until it slowly starts filtering in that this JOB he’s talking about is that he just completed INSTALLING THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE in JOHN AND YOKO’S APARTMENT IN THE DAKOTA. 

I spin around from the sink, nearly stabbing myself with my fork: “JOHN LENNON?  You’ve been working in JOHN LENNON’s APARTMENT?  Since when?”

Pop: “Almost 3 weeks.  Thank God that’s OVER.”

Me: “And you NEVER MENTIONED THIS TO ME???”

Pop: “Since when you care about who I work for?”

Me: “JOHN LENNON??? You couldn’t even GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH?”

Pop: “These people, they live like slobs! They never get out of their pajamas.  You don’t want their autograph.”

Me: “O my GOD.”

Pop: “They float around like spooks, always smoking.  That’s all these people do is smoke.”

Me: “O my GOD.  WE HAVE TO GO BACK THERE and pretend you LEFT SOMETHING BEHIND!!!”

Pop: “What?  Who the hell wants to go back there?”

Me: “I DO.  I WANT TO MEET JOHN.  I WANT AN AUTOGRAPH… I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.”

Pop: “What are you, crazy?  Those people don’t look like they BATHE.”  He gets up to pour himself a scotch.

Over the past couple of decades, I’ve finally forged a great relationship with my Pop.  But back then…well…I don’t know how it is for other teenage daughters and their fathers.  But to quote Robert Plant here: COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN.

Me (Despondent now, I can see there’s no hope): “Pop, it’s just that I’ve been listening to this man’s RECORDS constantly from the time I could walk…”

Pop: “So?  Listen to his records!  Who’s stopping you from listening to his records???”

You’d have to know my Pop to read the body language, but let’s just say: END OF SUBJECT.  I wander away in bereft shock, forgetting all about my tuna sandwich.

But now, all these years later I can’t help but reflect:  Let’s just say my dad DID bring me to the DAKOTA for my Summit with John.   What in hell would THAT have been like, anyhow?  My 14-year-old self standing there sheepishly before John and/or Yoko, meekly offering my hand or autograph paper and pen?   Hoping that John bestow – gasp - a hug or a kiss to his #1 fan from Queens?  Everyone knows how downright withering John could be on a bad day.  Douche chills.  No, the way it worked out is probably all for the best.

Some years later, in one of the many Lennon biographies I’ve read over the years, (The Last Days of John Lennon), the installation of that spiral staircase is briefly mentioned.   It is also mentioned therein how acutely uncomfortable John was about having “burly construction men tromping around his living space for nearly 3 weeks”.   So there ya go.  No wonder John smoked like a chimney and forewent the usual (I hope) shower during that interlude.  He was completely thrown off his game by my Pop and his cronies!    A sigh of relief - Yeah, no way I’d wanna be implicated in that mess.

And now, in this beautiful and tragic world, my Pop (God bless him) is still alive and kickin’ like the dickens,  a mere handful of years older than what John would have been tomorrow.   And honestly, shouldn’t it be enough that my dear ole’ Pops BUILT with his own two hands the very staircase that Johnny Ace traversed daily, for the last 3 years of his life here on earth?  His delicate, talented hands caressing the cool wrought iron banisters that MY FATHER – my very own flesh and blood – exactingly installed with his own roughened, equally talented hands?  Yes, it should be enough.  And it is.  More than enough.

Strangely, over the years I have had a reoccurring lucid dream wherein I am sitting cross-legged in a sunken-style living room across from -  lo and behold - my Pop’s painstakingly crafted spiral staircase.   John soon appears at the top, and as he makes his way down toward me he asks with that cheeky grin and a wink: “So luv, ‘ow’s yer ole’ maaaahnnn?” 

Happy Birthday, John.   

I love you – yeah, yeah, yeah.  (And I love you, too Pops.)