I learned from my friend Chris- a casual dressed loser who has a penchant for sex, violence, and being rude, no insulting- that John Lennon’s Art Exhibit was being held close by. We got in Chris’s car- black Mazda- and drove to the exhibit listening to the Julianna Hatfield 3, one of many Blake Babies spinoffs. We paid $2 to get in. The prints were first edition on REALLY nice rice paper, band signed or stamped by John’s special Japanese block insignia. All the pictures stood on silver easels and their width was about an arm’s length. Beatles played in the background. People wearing I-Love-John buttons roamed around like mystified drones.. It’s John….It’s John…
I.(rather loudly) This is sophomoric.
Chris. Shut-up butt-wipe before I have to kick your ass. Calm down Beavis.
I. No I mean, this is really poor. JOHN’S DEAD (sarcastically)!!!
The art enthusiasts looked aghast. One lady, small Japanese in her fifties dressed in black said,
“He was shot.”
A crowd began to jeer. I was embarrassed fuming, and defiant that his art was no good. Bile rose from my heart. My face reddened. The Japanese woman was Yoko Ono Lennon. She was so beautiful. I picked her up and starting spinning her by my arms in 360’s. A bodyguard tore us apart. I latched onto her leg. She held me straight up and hugged me.
Yoko. Give peace a chance.
I felt washed clean of impurities. The anger evaporated. I came to illumination. I understood love. Give peace a chance. No more war. No more anger. No more hatred. She handed me John’s Black Rickenbacker.
I. Ohh coool a hollow body. Hollow body guitars are my fave.
I played a few notes. Disgusted. Unimpressed. The audience had grown and stood in awe that I touched it.
I. Need’s fretwork around the 12th fret.
While I played, I thought of John shoving the instrument in his closet without cases along with all the others. I handed back the guitar. Yoko left. I ran back towards where the long row of easels held the prints. I glided between columns and pictures chasing Yoko with a mob of her fans. I was able to touch her and ask her for her phone number. Said that I was dreadfully sorry about making jokes in poor taste about her dead husband who she witnessed being assassinated. It was pretty low. As I passed, I knocked over each easel’s leg throwing down a whole row of prints. As I exited someone kicked me in the butt. Chris started pointing and laughing at something on my back. I reached behind and found a 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of school paper that read, “KICK ME!!”, stuck to me. I ripped it up. To me left were a group of high school students laughing, giggling, and trying to put their footprint on my behind. We got to the car. Chris holding me back from trying to tear the faces of those damn crazy kids. We got into the car.
Chris. Got a quarter for the toll?
I. No.
Chris. You better have a quarter since I paid your fucking admission, asshole.
I coughed up a quarter and we got home safely.
My heart was racing. I broke out into a cold sweat. Did that really happen? I asked Chris.
He said,”No. Are you alright? You drink to much Coke.”
I was desperate. I couldn’t get that off my mind. That was real. Nothing could get my mind off it. Couldn’t read, Watch TV. Its all I could think about. I went back. They remembered so I didn’t have to pay again. I went straight to the director.
I. Ya know, at first look, I didn’t like this exhibit, but now, at second glance. It doesn’t look so bad.
The director- a fine looking lady- rambled about John’s oil paintings back at the estate and what a fine calligrapher he was and about the Japanese block insignia he used on the prints.
I. So, uh, Yoko show up recently?
Director. AH-ha-HA , that very funny. No, Yoko’s sorry she couldn’t make it today. She has other engagements.
Baffled. I excused myself and left.