The Beginning of the End or Mr. Jones, Me, and John Lennon

Note:  Anything in the body of post in Red is a link to something that provides insight.

By my sophomore year in high school I had learned to downplay my fanaticism about anything Beatles related.  Four years earlier we had moved from our home in a small southern city to a lake in a rural part of the county.  I had been immersed in this culture and had started to assimilate. I still stood out.  I didn’t hunt or fish.  I preferred European sports cars to hot rods.

Beep,beep. Beep beep. Yeah!

 I started listening to AC/DC, Judas Priest, and Iron Maiden.  I had a group of friends that spanned the spectrum of small towners, farmers, and other lake folk.  There were things I could not share with them.  I was going on about Crosby, Stills, and Nash one time and it followed me for years.  I might has well said I liked Bing Crosby!! 

Just Like Dylan’s Mr.Jones

So The Beatles had taken a backseat as far as anyone knew.  But I was so proud of the progress I had made in my attempt to collect every album.  I had Meet the Beatles, Something New, HELP, The Second Album, and The White Album.  I had recorded The Beatles A to Z weekend from start to finish from a local radio show.  I listened and listened.  I read all the liner notes.  I sang the lyrics to every song.  I could hear all the harmonies in my head.

When I hold you in my arms. (oh yeah)

And feel my finger onyour trigger. (oh yeah!)

So one December morning in 1980 I got on the school bus.  I was the first stop.  My friend Maxwell was a few stops later.  He got on the bus wearing jeans ripped so badly that they hardly hung on below his knee.  His hair was getting long in the back and he was talking of getting a perm.

Come Together. Right Now. Over me.

He was smiling as usual.  There was nothing different about this day for him.  Sometimes he liked to say crap that might make me mad, but it was all in fun.  When he blurted out that John Lennon was dead, I was pissed.  I thought he was making a sick joke.  He went on, “I’m not shitting you. He was shot. In front of his apartment!”.

I’m sinking.  I’m sinking right through the floor of that bus.

I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down.

This. Can’t. be. True.

Other people are getting on the bus.  They are all talking about it. It’s true. It’s also true that none of them knew jack about John Lennon.  I was alone. I was feeling nauseated.  Could they see that I had gone pale? And silent? 

Long, Tall Sally got on at her stop.  She was smart and nice.  She knew more than most did about my Beatles thing.  She looked at me and said, “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” She didn’t miss much. I shrugged. Or nodded. I could not open my mouth or I might vomit.  John Lennon was dead. Murdered by a nutcase fan. With a gun. I could not wrap my mind around this.

Happiness is a warm gun. Bang, bang. Shoot,shoot.

Long, Tall Sally called me that night.  She said that some kids from the college town were going to the school that night.  They were going to paint a tribute to John Lennon on the spirit rock. Yeah.  John would have loved that.  A memorial on a rock that usually says something like “Go Rebels!”  Sally said that I was not being nice, that they were all really sad too.  OK.  Maybe I needed to give them a break.

Everybody’s talking about bagism, shagism, dragism, madism, ragism, tagism

This-ism, that-ism, is-m, is-m.

All we are saying isgive peace a chance.

The next day as I walked from the bus to my first class I passed the rock. It’s white. It says Imagine. It says RIP John Lenon. One N. It has a giant Mercedes symbol painted on it.

Yes I’m lonely, wanna die

I understand how Mr. Jones felt.