Remembering John Lennon

It's easy to remember the date:December 8, 1980. I was sitting at a friend's house in Berkeley listening to music and talking. Another fellowwas in the house kitchen talking with his parents who lived in North Carolina. Somewhere in the house atelevision was broadcasting Monday Night Football. It was just another Monday night when a shriek came firstfrom the kitchen and then from the room with the television. The nature of the shriek caused the conversation to stop as we went to investigate.

"John Lennon is dead! Someone fuckin' murdered him!"

The house was suddenly silent. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the recordcollection and found the house's copy of John's first solo album, Plastic Ono Band, and put "WorkingClass Hero" on the turntable. We listened to that song and then I headed out the door, wondering what washappening at my place of residence. When I arrived there, at least a dozen friends were sitting in the commonroom listening to Beatles records and drinking beer and wine. A wake was in progress. It continued for days inBerkeley and around the world. What follows is a slightly enhanced account of one in Berkeley. Names have beenchanged to protect the not-so-innocent.

"Sure do wish I'd get a ride." thought Creamcheese as she crossed 28thStreet where it intersected Telegraph Avenue near downtown Oakland. Nothing but loudmouths driving their roadmonsters -- the orange glow of the sunset reflecting off the windshields -- and shouting hey baby I'll giveyou a ride but what'll you give me? Assholes I ain't riding with that's for sure. She reached 41st and wentinto a liquor store directly across from the Doggie Diner where she bought her third quart of malt liquor forthe day. Beatles' music played there, too. The Lebanese guy behind the counter whistled the tune as he rang upher purchase. Everywhere you went since Monday all you heard was Beatles or John Lennon music since thatasshole killed John. Everybody seemed kind of estranged from each other and the world, too. More than usual,even. Hopefully, the public wake would clear some of the wierdness from the air. That's why she was going.Even if she had to walk the whole five miles. She slung her leather jacket over her shoulder, tucked the quartbottle under her arm, and continued north on Telegraph.

I stood at the bus stop on San Pablo Avenue, reading a handbill I'd found in thestreet on the walk from my house closer to the bay.

JOHN LENNON WAKE

Singing and meditation
for our recently murdered brother
1st Unitarian Church
Berkeley, CA.
7:30 PM Thursday
Bring instruments and refreshments

Underneath was a picture of John Lennon. It was the one from the white album, wherehis hair is pretty long but he doesn't have a beard. I had heard about this thing on Tuesday but this was thefirst time I'd seen any of the details. I pocketed the leaflet, noticed the bus was one stop away, and dug inmy pocket for the fare. It stopped in front of me and I boarded the bus and sat down. Silently singing thewords to "Nowhere Man", I looked blankly out the window at the traffic and other human activity onthe street. By the time I got to the second chorus, it was time to disembark. I pulled the bell cord, and whenthe bus stopped, left through the rear door, walked to the corner of the block and turned left, the settingsun at my back.

Hurrying past the first two apartment buildings on Channing Way, I turned left intothe third driveway, walked up the front steps of the house and knocked. Somebody inside opened the door acrack, saw that it was me, and let me in.

"Hi, Z," I said. "What's up?"

"Hey, Ron," said Z, his huge beard sudsy from drinking beer. "How ya'doin'? Got any smoke? We're just sitting around watching the tube."

"Oh, yeh?" I closed the door behind him and pulled a cigarette-sized jointfrom my jacket pocket. "What's on?"

"Some special on John Lennon." replied Z, taking the joint and lighting itwith a cigarette. "See, there's some footage from that Live/Peace in Toronto concert. In fact, there's ol'what's his name on lead."

"Eric Clapton." I responded.

"Yeh, right. He sure looks different." agreed Z, handing the joint to somegirl sitting behind him on the floor.

"Shit, they all do. Man, I love Klaus Voorman's bass playing at this show."

Z sat down on the floor and rolled another joint. When he was finished he stuck itbetween his lips and lit it. After a long draw, he handed it to me, just as I remembered the handbill in mypocket and handed it to Z.

Z read it and looked up. "You goin'?" he asked.

"Yeh."

"Maybe I'll see ya' there."

"All right." I turned towards the door. "Well, I've gotta' go getsomething to eat somewhere and get to that wake all on the same transfer. Ciao."

"I'll see ya' there," yawned Z.

I found the Unitarian church easily. Once there, I opened the door and heard thepiano. Somebody was banging out "Love Me Do" and ten or fifteen people were more or less singing it.They sounded drunk and out of tune. As I entered the meeting room, I was surprised at how few people therewere but glad to see plenty of beer and wine. Maybe more people would show up later. Most people didn't likethinking about death anyway.

By the time I finished my first beer the place was filled with people -- mourners, ifyou will. A couple guitarists and a woman playing flute had joined the guy playing piano. When she played itsounded a little jazzy. Looking around after grabbing another beer from one of the ice and beer filledtrashcans in the room, I noticed Z entering through the door. I watched him open a beer and and head towards acircle of people on the floor in the center of the room. There was a lit candle in the middle of the circleand everyone was holding hands. Oh Jesus, another Om-ing circle. Z and I were perpetually making fun of thiskind of pseudo-spiritual stuff. I chuckled as I watched a grin appear beneath Z's unruly facial hair, rosefrom my chair and wandered across the room, slipping between and around clusters of people until I stood nextto Z.

"Hi, Z. What's up?"

"Hey, Ron. Cheers." said Z, clanging his beer can against mine. "Ordon't you say 'cheers' at a wake?"

"No, you just get drunk, I think." I deadpanned, watching the people in thecircle. They were moving their joined hands in a series of motions and chanting something I couldn't quitemake out. "What are they saying?"

Z swallowed a mouthful of chips and replied, "It sounds like something from theBook of Law or some other Aleister Crowley craziness."

"Oh yeh," I remembered. "I forgot you know that shit. What? Are theytrying to bring John back from the dead?"

Those in the circle now let go of each other's hands and formed themselves into apentagram. Someone blew the flame in the center out and the chanting stopped.

"I don't know," answered Z. "They never will though. I think he likesit there."

"We'll see. Couldn't be much worse." I agreed. "How was the rest ofthat TV show?"

"You saw the best part. After that, it slipped into typical TV docudramaemptiness. You got any herb? I left mine at home."

I pulled a bag from my pocket and handed it to Z. We both sat down on the floor and Zbegan to roll.

Maybe that friggin' church is on the next block thought Creamcheese. She'd been therebefore during the day for some women's meeting. Looking behind her fearfully for that white Fairlane andhoping she wouldn't see it, she continued to run blindly towards where she thought the church was. Shecouldn't believe that after being so careful about her rides she got picked up by those assholes. It must bebecause she got too drunk and her psychic sense short-circuited. Whatever it was...those assholes holding aknife on her and hitting her with their fists while that fat pig stuck his -- she can't even think about thatpart 'cause it makes her want to puke.

She's gotta' block it out. Or she might kill the next man she sees eventhough all men aren't pigs it's hard to remember that in times like this. Shit, where is that church? She musthave run a mile by now. At least from San Pablo she thought. It seemed like it was just a couple blocks northof University where those assholes pushed her out of the car. Near that ribs place -- only on the other sideof the street. It's hard to remember the fuckin' details when all she keeps seeing in her mind is that fatpig's dick and that knife in her face. If they hadn't had that hunting knife she probably would have bit hisfuckin' thing off. Just so he could never do to anyone else what he did to her. Hell...she can't rememberwhere they took her or their license number or even their faces just that fuckin' knife and that, that....Goddam, where is that church?

Wait, looks like there's a lot of cars up ahead -- maybe that's the place. Whatever itwas maybe she could find someone to talk to. Someone who could help her calm down at least enough to try andremember. She ran to the outer doors and pulled them open. She heard the Beatles' music. "A Hard Day'sNight" in fact, sung by what sounded like a bunch of drunks.

She needed to talk to someone. Someone who could help her -- a woman. But she didn'tsee any women she knew. There sure were a lot of people, though. Three or four hundred at least. She lookedaround a bit more slowly now and thought she saw Rollerboy and Z by the coolers of beer. Well, if there wasn'tanybody else, they could help her.

"Hey, Ron," asked Z. "Isn't that Creamcheese?"

I looked in the direction Z was pointing and saw Creamcheese's head above the crowd.She seemed out of it. More than that, she looked like she'd been hurt. Pretty bad. You know. Her hair alltangled. A few cuts. Dazed. Z and I watched her walk across the room. The closer she got, the worse shelooked.

"Damn," said Z. "She doesn't look so good."

"Really."

"I mean, she looks like hell." exclaimed Z. "Like she's totallyfreaked." She was almost next to us now.

"I've been raped, Ron!" screamed Creamcheese, crying and trying to talk atthe same time. "Some guys picked me up on Telegraph near Alcatraz and took me somewhere and held a knifeon me and -- oh, man, it was rude, it --"

"Creamcheese," I said, trying to sound calm. The music had stoppedcompletely and everyone in the room was staring at us. "Let's go sit down. Can you do that?"

"Yeh, but raped, Ron. Those pigs. I just can't block it out." She grabbed Zand I as if she were afraid we might leave.

"Don't try to right now, Creamcheese." comforted Z. "Let's go sit downsomewhere. Maybe smoke some weed."

"That might help," she agreed, her grip on the two of us loosening a bit. Weheaded to a corner of the room, stopping by one of the trashcans and grabbing three beers on the way.

The piano player began playing again and the singers singing and everyone else wentback to what they were doing before, eager to pretend they never heard what Creamcheese said. I knew that noneof them really wanted to involve themselves in someone else's problems even if it was their problem, too. Itwas easier to mourn the dead. We walked over to a bench setting against the wall opposite the piano. I helpedZoe sit down while Z rolled another joint. As he rolled, the pianist and his drunken choir sang the chorus to"Nowhere Man". You know, when John sings: