TWO
Well, what can I tell you? We moved, of course, and I, having no one to say good-bye to, felt little remorse, except for the sorrow of leaving my garden, which was my most treasured possession. Sallie, Ellen, and the rest of our servants accompanied us, thank God. I don’t know what I would have done had they not.
Manhattan was just as I’d expected it: Massive, crowded, and overwhelmingly polluted. We moved into an apartment building called the Dakota, which was on West 72nd Street. It was the ritziest building I’d ever laid eyes on. It looked like something right out of one of my fantasies. It seemed to loom ahead of me, beckoning me into it, to taste its excitement. It would have been nice, of course, if it had contained anything of interest. It was very ornately decorated, and you could hear your voice echo in the front entrance, but other than that, nothing particularly fascinating was there.
Our apartment was on the seventh floor, number 74. When we first entered the building, a long-haired young man looked up. "Are you the people taking over 74?" he asked us, in a thick Brooklyn accent.
"Yes," I replied. "Our movers will be here shortly."
"Okay. Hey, good luck up there."
I looked at him quizically. "What?"
"All I can tell you is that you better not like the Beatles," he said, grinning.
"Why?" I asked slowly. Was this man trying to be funny? "The Beatles? Do the people up there despise them?"
The young man’s eyes widened. "Girl, he used to be in the Beatles. Didn’t you know that?"
He? The anonymous "he", I suppose. I was taken aback. I had never heard anything of the sort. Then again I was not a big fan of the Beatles, so I didn’t keep up with their every move. "Which one?"
"John Lennon."
"Mom, did you hear that?" I asked.
"What, Alida?" she said impatiently.
"John Lennon lives here. You know, the Beatle who you had a weekend with."
The man attempted to stifle a snicker, but never accomplished that feat. "Anyway, good luck."
"Thank you," I replied drily. "Who’re you?"
"Jay Hastings."
"I’m Alida Horowitz," I told him. "So which one does he occupy?"
"71 and 72. 71 is used as a studio. 72 is where the Lennons live."
"Oh, so he has a family?"
"Yes, a wife and son. And another son comes on occasion."
"Well, I better go explore," I said, more to myself than to Jay. "See you later." I went to the nearest elevator and pressed the "up" arrow.
When the doors opened, I was surprised to see a man on the elevator. He looked equally surprised to see me. "What floor am I on?" he asked. He had a thick English accent. But it wasn’t a London accent, and it had a trace of New York inflections. What was it? Some kind of hybrid accent?
"You’re on the main floor," I told him. "Where are you headed?"
"Up to the seventh," he said, looking frustrated. "This damn elevator can’t function, not ever."
I cautiously stepped onto the elevator. "I’m going there, too," I said warily.
"The question is, can we make it up there without a malfunction," he said, chuckling.
I was gaping at him. He was quite tall, had auburn hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, an auburn mustache and beard, a small mouth, and perfectly round glasses perched on a long, thin nose. He was very thin, but I could tell he had once been well-built. His bones seemed quite large for a person of his weight.
He caught me staring and demanded, "You want something?"
"No," I replied, masking the nervousness with an act of utter self-confidence. "Do you?"
It was his turn to stare. Finally, he smiled. "Ah, the eternal cockiness of our youth," he said softly. "Good on yer."
The elevator was zooming up. "Cockiness?" I repeated. "You think it’s a good thing?"
"It’s a form of self-expression," he said matter-of-factly. "Any form of expression is a good thing."
"Well . . . well, you seem to have no trouble expressing yourself," I said, almost stumbling over my words. This man looked at least forty-five years old. I knew not one single person that age or older who advocated individuality, except Sallie.
"You might be surprised," he said, laughing wearily. I suddenly had an inkling, looking at this seemingly road-weary man, that he might be the ex-Beatle, John Lennon. But then I shook my head at this thought; impossible. He never ventured outside his apartment, did he?
"Might I? Nothing surprises me anymore."
The man gave me a hard look. "Oh, is that so?" he asked skeptically.
"Yes."
"Have you ever been in a pub and seen someone knifed to death?"
"I’m under twenty-one," I told him reluctantly. "I’ve never been to a pub. I’ve hardly been anywhere other than school and my house."
"Then why do you act as though you’ve seen everything?"
Ding. The doors opened. "Because I’ve seen many things," I said solemnly. "You don’t need to go further than your own home sometimes to see everything."
This seemed to startle him. "Oh, really?"
"Really."
He began heading for, I assumed, his apartment. Suddenly, he stopped, and asked, "Which apartment is yours?"
"74, now," I replied. "Today’s our first day here." I tried the door. It was locked, of course. "Perfect."
"Why don’t you come to mine?"
I began to grow suspicious. "Yours? What’s there?"
"Not anything dangerous, if that’s what you mean," he replied, grinning. "Well, sometimes Mother gets a bit overwrought with business."
Mother? Okay, I was definitely not going in. This guy had some kind of Tony Perkins complex, it was obvious. "Uh, well, I don’t think I should," I said, feeling like an idiot.
"She won’t bite," he said. 'Neither will I. I promise."
Those prophetic words; I promise. Nearly everyone I’d ever known had broken promises to me. It made me even more skeptical. At the same time, it made me even more curious. After deliberating for a minute, I finally said, "Well, um, sure, I guess."
"So what do you do?" he asked, opening the door to his apartment. I saw a little plaque which read Nutopian Empire, and I had to smile.
"I’m a student."
"Of what?"
"Everything, really. I just moved here from Connecticut."
"I hear the countryside is nice there," he said, putting on a kettle of tea.
"Yes, it is. I had a garden, and I grew miscellaneous flowers and vegetables there."
"What made you decide to move to New York?"
"Um, I didn’t decide, actually. My parents did."
He looked taken aback. "Your parents?"
"Oh, dear," I said, sighing. "You see, everyone thinks I’m much older."
"What are you? You must be at least nineteen. Twenty? I’d guess twenty-two, but you said you’re under twenty-one."
I shook my head. "Sixteen in October," I admitted.
"Oh, my -- naw, you’re pulling the wool over me eyes," he said in disbelief.
Once again, I responded with a shake of my head. "No."
"Oh, boy," he mumbled. "Christ. Well, as long as we’re sitting here bullshitting about age and everything else, let’s use names."
"I’m Alida Horowitz."
"Alida? That sounds pretty medieval."
"Yeah, it is. My mother used to be interested in all things golden and medieval."
"Are you Jewish?"
"Yeah, I’m a member of the chosen people, as well as the Aryan race," I replied.
To my surprise, he burst out laughing. Hardly anyone I knew ever understood the joke. "So your mother’s German?"
"Right. What are you? Welsh? Irish?"
"Both. I’m from Liverpool. Hey, Fred, wouldn’t you say she looks twenty-two?"
I turned and saw a tall young man with brown hair and eyes entering the room. "Yeah," he said, staring at me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, either, for that matter. "Who is this, John?"
"Alida Horowitz. This is Fred Seaman. He’s of your stock, Alida."
I looked at him with interest. "Really? Where are you from?"
"I was born in Germany, but I’ve lived in Spain, and all around America."
"Fred’s my personal assistant," John told me. "He does all and sees all round here."
I still couldn’t stop looking at him. "How long have you been here?"
"Since earlier this year. Are you new here? I’ve never seen you."
"Yes, I’m new. I’m from Connecticut."
"Oh." Still he stared. Ordinarily, anyone staring at me with such intensity would have unnerved me, but this man was different.
John was looking from Fred to me, and I saw a gleam in his eyes. "Ah, Fred," he said.
Fred seemed to shake himself out of his dazed state. "Yeah?"
"You might want to think twice about anything you plan to do," he said, and I thought I detected a hint of glee in his voice. "She’s not quite old enough for you."
"Why? Didn’t you say she was twenty-two?"
"I didn’t say she was. I said she looked twenty-two," he replied, grinning broadly. It was clear to me that he loved playing tricks with people’s minds, even from a few minutes of acquaintance.
"So, how old are you?"
Thank you, John. "Sixteen. Actually, not quite sixteen."
His eyes widened. "Wow. You look much older. And you act older."
"Wait, did you say in October?" John asked. "What day?"
"The ninth."
"Good Lord!" he said, feigning a Texas accent. "Your sign is mine. Your day is mine, too."
This caught my attention. "Really? What year?"
"Nineteen-forty," he answered as the kettle began to whistle. He jumped up and began pouring tea. "You want some, Fred?"
"Yeah, sure," he replied. "Mine’s the tenth."
I couldn’t get over the year John had just told me he’d been born. "Hold on, hold on," I said. "John, you were born in nineteen-forty?"
He looked a little annoyed. "Yes."
"So you’re not even thirty-nine?"
"No. Why?"
"I -- you simply look as though you’re older. Like me. And you have a certain look of wisdom."
For a moment, I thought he was going to get angry with me. But when he turned around, he was smiling. "Wisdom, eh?"
"Yes, like a guru. Like . . . like Meher Baba used to look."
"I was involved in Eastern religion once," he mused, looking deep in thought. "I thought meditation was the best thing one could do. I still do it," he added, spooning milk into his tea.
Fred was just sitting, looking interested in our conversation. I couldn’t help but say, "Do you have anything to add?"
"No," he confessed. "I don’t really study Eastern religion. I’m not very knowledgeable about meditation or the cosmos or things of that nature. But you ask John about it. He’ll have plenty to tell you."
"Thanks to Mother," John said, looking proud. "She taught me everything I know."
"Who is Mother?" I said, finally seizing the opportunity to ask the question that had (quite painfully) been eating away at my brain.
"Yoko. My wife," he explained. "She’s probably on the phone now, making negotiations."
"Overwrought with business?"
This made him laugh. "Right." He had such a warm laugh. He had a kind smile and a pensive, contented manner. Yet something about him seemed trapped. I detected a sense of urgency in him, even then. Something was longing to be let out. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but I thought that it must be murder for him, feeling that way. He was as nervous as a caged bird.
I suddenly felt something warm and furry rub against my leg. I looked down and discovered a beautiful calico cat. It was purring and weaving itself around my leg. I gasped. I hadn’t seen or felt a cat up close since I was a little girl. "Oh," I said softly. "Can I -- can I hold it? Is it a male or female?"
"It’s a female," John replied. "Go ahead."
I carefully picked the cat up, feeling the softness of her fur, the cold of her nose, and the scratching of her whiskers against my cheek. It had been so long since I had held an animal that the sensation of it was shocking. And wonderful.
When my moment had passed, I looked at my two companions and found they were staring at me, awestruck. "What . . . what was that?" Fred said, nearly whispering.
"I haven’t held an animal in quite awhile," I explained. Normally, I would have felt self-conscious, but sitting here with John Lennon, his personal assistant, a cat, and three cups of tea, nothing could make me feel self-conscious.
"Christ," John remarked. (It seemed to be his catchphrase.) "I can understand that. I haven’t written any music in quite awhile."
"Why?" I asked.
"I haven’t felt any urge or inspiration since Sean was born. I’ve been to involved with my family to write much of anything." He paused, and a look of sadness swept across his face. "It helps to have a muse present as well."
I understood completely. "Your creative force is gone, isn’t it?"
"Pretty much. If you asked me now to sit and write a song, I couldn’t do it even if you threatened me with eternal damnation."
"I write," I told him, "and I find that I must have something to write about in order to find the creative force. I believe that creative force consists of events or objects. Even abstract concepts."
Fred looked surprised. "That’s genius," he blurted.
I looked at him and grinned. "Why, thank you."
John looked surprised as well. "It was. A lot of kids your age go around thinking of nothing but where they’re gonna get their next supply of pot."
"I can’t say that hasn’t crossed my mind once or twice," I said, keeping a straight face. I had never tried it in my life, but I was a good actress who read about everything and could invent on the spur of the moment, and therefore I could convince many people that I had traveled to Womba-Womba, giving them a full description.
"Then maybe you’re familiar with some of my drug suppliers," John said, as straight-faced as I was.
"Who, Fred? Forgive me, but you don’t seem the type who would continue to use them in excess."
"You’re right, I don’t. Have you ever met the Sugar Plum Fairy?"
"He comes to my room every night. With my supply of angel dust."
John was grinning even more broadly now. "You, too?"
"Yes."
Fred was laughing. "I didn’t know you thought of me as a fairy, John."
John let out a short bark of laughter. "Well, honey," he said teasingly, "now you know." Laughter ensued.
In the middle of our moment of hilarity, Yoko came in. I knew it had to be her; a dragon lady can always spot another dragon lady.
"What are we up to, Mother?" John greeted her, affection oozing from his voice. Fred did not share his enthusiasm. His face stiffened, and he looked down at his teacup. This was the first indication that the Lennons had become somewhat dysfunctional.
The second was Yoko giving John a stiff smile and replying, "Business," as one would speak to a casual acquaintance. She caught sight of me, and looked surprised. "Who’s this?"
"Her name is Alida Horowitz, Teenager Extraordinaire," John told her, not overdoing the introduction al all. "She’s just moved here, into the Dakota, on this floor."
"Oh. Hello." With that, she was gone. Pressing business, I figured. But what business could she do that assistants hadn’t already taken care of? My father’s assistants did most of his financial business for him, and even some personal business. I was immediately suspicious of her.
John seemed a bit irked by her quick departure, but all he said was, "I guess she must be doing the business of tying up the phone."
Naturally, I had no clue what he meant, but he didn’t give me a chance to ask. "Well, folks," he said, feigning a Texas accent (and doing it badly; he sounded more like a Cockney), "what have we got lined up today, Fred?"
Fred seemed to be alive now. "I’ve got to do shopping for you. We need more tea, you said. And I’ll pick up those books you wanted."
"Ah, yes, Feminine Mystique and I’m Okay, You’re Okay," he joked. "I’m getting in touch with my feminine side."
"Read The Scarlet Letter," I said wryly. "That will get you in touch with your feminine side, and provide examples of What Not To Do In An Affair."
John’s eyes twinkled, and he gave a bark of approving laughter. "Good on yer," he remarked, his Liverpool accent coming back strongly. From there we got into a discussion of what makes a book corny or inane. Everything I’d read about John proved to be correct. He was an expert at conversation. For every point I made, he had an intelligent comment or a witty counterpoint. Never had I met anyone with whom I could carry on such a conversation. I held my own, matching his every comment with one of my own.
Fred sat listening in fascination. Not that our topic of choice was anything worth making a television special or . . . well . . . writing a book on, but at our banter. After about twenty-five minutes he looked anxious, and at the half hour mark he finally said, "Well, I’ve got to be on my way now."
John surprised us by saying,"I’ll come with you." He struck me as a person who didn’t go out much unless forced an knifepoint.
"You will? What about --"
"I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses," John cut in, looking impatient.
Feeling that I was no longer welcome, I stood and started to leave. " 'Bye. Glad to meet both of you." I was disappointed, but I had only just met them and didn’t want to intrude on the "reclusive'' Beatle’s home life.
''Where are you going?" John said, jumping up. "You’ve got nowhere to go, since you’re just moving in. Why don’t you come with us?"
I was surprised at John’s kindness, especially as he didn’t know me. Yet right from the start, I’d felt a connection to him which made everything seem perfectly natural. That, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. "Well, all right," I agreed. "Why not? Shopping and getting harassed sounds great."
John and Fred laughed. "That seems to be normal around here," Fred told me. He then warned me about fans outside, particularly one named Brenda. Blonde Brenda, they called her. A heavyset, slutty-looking girl. "You’ll know her," Fred said.
"Yeah, how many slutty girls can their be in New York?" I said sarcastically.
"And hanging around the home of a Beatle!" John added, cackling. With that, we were off.
C.J. © 2001
Three