'Starting Over'
December 8, 1980
'Silhouettes and shadows watch the revolution'
John Lennon was exhausted, but he knew there was no way he would let himself out of the Record Plant until Yoko's song was perfect. It was getting there. Just one more guitar lick here-
"John?"
She was looking at him with
that look again. The one he'd seen only on Julia's face. That mix of disappointment and bemusement, with a hint of mischief thrown in.
"Yes mother?"
"Don't you think we should head home? Say goodnight to Sean?"
"Christ. What's the-"
"Quarter till eleven John." Jack Douglas was even more exhausted than John was, but he hid it well. John liked that about him.
"Bugger. Well… might as well put one more in the can. While we're at it." John hadn't been this excited about recording since he first heard Dylan. Jack and Yoko exchanged glances. "Mother, I promise you, this is going to the topper most of the poppermost!" It'd been longer since he'd said that to anyone. But he liked how the words chewed out of his mouth. They felt rebellious. Alive. Not too serious.
'And when our hearts return to ashes, it'll just be a story'
It was getting close to eleven, and Mark David Chapman was freezing. The lights of the city were beginning to fade, like a lit cigarette amongst ashes. Various ne'er do wells walked down the street, eyes downcast. Mark studied each of their faces, searching for answers. Any answers. The Dakota was a rigid silhouette against the cluster of Manhattan lights. Leaning against it, Mark could feel the wind pull the Gothic structure to and fro. "So big. And so weak." An apt analogy, thought Mark. He would've dwelled on it for far too long, had it not been for the encroaching lights of a large, jet black limousine crawling its way across the pavement. Mark's pupils retracted and shrank. Squinting, he could make out a familiar license plate number. He strained to see a familiar face, one that nearly every teenage girl in America had etched in their memory. The glacier halted. Mark's heart ceased its steady rhythm, and had now been playing at a fever pitch. The door opened quickly, more quickly than it usually did. Yet to Mark, the door had become frozen in space and time. He wasn't sure if he had been breathing or not. Then, he appeared.
John had seen that guy before. He couldn't remember when, but his face wasn't one you could erase. John nodded, and a smile creased his face. Whoever it was, it didn't really matter. He was about to go upstairs and see the love of his life.
Mark returned the smile. After all, it wasn't every day when a Beatle smiled at you. Then John turned, and Mark's face became rigid, hard. Like the gargoyles etched onto the side of the Dakota. Mark reached into his coat pocket. The blue metal was barely visible, but it's presence was felt instantly. A new aurora had permeated the area. Time decided to stop for a moment, and anxiously look on.
"Mr. Lennon?"
John turned around. He could tell that Mark was holding something. What it was, he had no idea. The two stood there for the briefest of instants, but John always remembered it as being eons before he remembered that face.
"Oh. That's who you are. You like the record mate?"
He couldn't do it. After hours of anticipation and wait, Mark couldn't bring himself to raise his gun, and fire. At this instant Mark saw John for who really was, for the only time in Mark's life: not God, not the Devil, but a man. Just a man. Mark's hand ducked back quickly into his pocket.
"Yes Mr. Lennon. Yes I did."
"Thank God for that. I was beginning to think I was the only one."
With that, John Lennon turned around, and followed his wife into the Dakota, trying not to drop the mix for Yoko's song, like last time.
December 9, 1980
"The world was never made;
It will change, but it will not fade."
Now it was John's turn to stand freezing in a bleak December night. He'd been standing outside of the Booth for God knows how long. But the show hadn't disappointed. So John let himself freeze for a bit. Throngs of people gathered around the stage door. John was worried he'd be the one trampled by ravenous fans, but it looked like David had him beat this time. Speak of the devil. There he was, flashing a row of pearly whites to the clamoring crowd. John had to laugh. Crowds of screaming people brought back memories for him. Not necessarily good ones, but memories nonetheless.
John's nostalgic waxing was broken abruptly by a stout, heavy set guy pushing him out of the way. Had it been twenty years ago, John would've started a blazing row over this. Not now. He was too used to the New York spirit. So he laughed it off. It was in the midst of this fit of laughter that Mark David Chapman pulled out a Charter Arms .38 caliber revolver and fired five shots. The first ricocheted off the side of the building and hit a young woman in the leg. The second, hit the stage door, creating a dent that was still there when the Booth was torn down ten years later. But the final three, however, struck David Bowie in the chest. The coroner later said that even if Bowie had been standing inside of the operating room when he was shot, he still would've succumbed to his injuries. He fell to the ground, and would never stand back up.
John couldn't hear a thing. His ears were ringing. Suddenly, the only face he saw was Julia's. She was smiling, laughing. She was happy. And so was John. By the last bullet, however, his mother was gone, and he had returned to a frigid December night in 1980. Primal fear over took John, and soon he was off the ground, flying through the air. He hit Mark David Chapman with a resonating thud. John hadn't been in a real row since Spector, but at this moment anger and pain overtook everything else. He ripped the gun out of his sweaty hands, and flung it as far away as he could. Tears began flowing down John's face. He hadn't seen a thing, but his ears caught everything.
Unperturbed, Mark David Chapman looked John Lennon dead in the eye, and said, "I just shot David Bowie."
