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| The Imagine Circle in Strawberry Fields, Central Park, New York City |
(Venice, Italy) On December 8, 1980, I was living in the West Village in New York, studying theater with Stella Adler, and working part-time as a waitress at a pub called Traders Inn on Hudson Street between West 11th and Bank. I lived right around the corner, and had gotten home about 11:00 PM. My phone rang a little while later. It was my sister calling from New Jersey.
"John Lennon has been shot."
I was stunned. I said, "But he's going to be OK..."
"No," she said. "I don't think so. I think he's dead."
The way the world found out so quickly about John Lennon's murder was by synchronicity -- even at the moment of his death, it seems that John Lennon was destined to be a topic of the entire planet's conversation. On the night of December 8, 1980, a news producer and journalist for ABC Eye Witness News named Alan Weiss had been hit by a taxi while riding his motorcycle, and had been taken to Roosevelt Hospital. Weiss just happened to be on a gurney in the emergency room when a man with bullet wounds was rushed into the room next to his. He thought he heard the name "John Lennon."
Weiss then saw a weeping woman who he thought was Yoko Ono. He got off his gurney and tried to make his way to the pay phone he had seen at the entrance, but was blocked by security. The same police officer who had brought Weiss to the hospital spotted him and told security to let Weiss go.
As the officer was helping Weiss back to his gurney, they passed the nurses' station. Weiss asked the officer if he could call his newsroom. The cop leaned over and picked up the phone that was on the nurses' desk and handed it to Weiss.
The assignment editor at the newsroom confirmed that an ambulance had been dispatched to The Dakota, John Lennon's home, shortly before. That was when Weiss knew for sure that it was John Lennon who had been shot -- sheer coincidence that even at the moment of John Lennon’s death there was a reporter there to record the moment for history.
Weiss then saw a weeping woman who he thought was Yoko Ono. He got off his gurney and tried to make his way to the pay phone he had seen at the entrance, but was blocked by security. The same police officer who had brought Weiss to the hospital spotted him and told security to let Weiss go.
As the officer was helping Weiss back to his gurney, they passed the nurses' station. Weiss asked the officer if he could call his newsroom. The cop leaned over and picked up the phone that was on the nurses' desk and handed it to Weiss.
The assignment editor at the newsroom confirmed that an ambulance had been dispatched to The Dakota, John Lennon's home, shortly before. That was when Weiss knew for sure that it was John Lennon who had been shot -- sheer coincidence that even at the moment of John Lennon’s death there was a reporter there to record the moment for history.
It is difficult to describe the shock that shattered the planet that night. I remember the weather was unusually mild for the month of December. Numb, moving through a world that had suddenly turned surreal, I went back down to the Traders Inn pub and sat at the bar and watched the news. A swarm of New Yorkers rushed to John Lennon's home at The Dakota on 72nd Street and Central Park West, compelled by a common grief. I didn't go uptown that night; I went the next day. It was comforting to be in the company of fellow human beings at the moment the world flipped on its head.
Like many people of my generation, I was a huge John Lennon fan. In 1980, living in New York City was like living in paradise. Ed Koch was the mayor, and you could see him all around town, chatting with his constituents. The West Village was brimming with creative people -- everybody was an artist, or an actor, or a writer, or a dancer, or a musician, or a fashion designer.
It seemed like one great festival with comedians in Washington Square Park and Sunday brunch with the New York Times and free copies of the Village Voice. Newly-arrived immigrants would feed us exotic food at funky eateries -- back then, everyone could manage to find a way to live in the city if they were determined enough, with rent-controlled apartments protecting the old-timers.
And John Lennon himself was living on the Upper West Side, strolling around Central Park, finally making music again, posing for the camera wearing a New York City t-shirt. Back then, New York City was the place to be, churning with creative energy.
It seemed like one great festival with comedians in Washington Square Park and Sunday brunch with the New York Times and free copies of the Village Voice. Newly-arrived immigrants would feed us exotic food at funky eateries -- back then, everyone could manage to find a way to live in the city if they were determined enough, with rent-controlled apartments protecting the old-timers.
And John Lennon himself was living on the Upper West Side, strolling around Central Park, finally making music again, posing for the camera wearing a New York City t-shirt. Back then, New York City was the place to be, churning with creative energy.
Then four shots rang out and the world would never be the same again.
I've written about December 8th many times before, which is the birthday of my protagonist, Harley Columba, a young artist who was born at Roosevelt Hospital on the anniversary of John Lennon's death, and whose goal is to reach the Imagine Circle in Central Park. John Lennon was my hero, and I was deeply affected by his death, as were so many millions of others. It is also the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a national holiday here in Italy. Here's a post from last year, with links to previous posts:
Ciao from Venezia,
Cat Bauer
On December 8, 1980, I was living in the West Village in New York, studying theater with Stella Adler, and working part-time job as a waitress at a pub called Traders Inn on Hudson Street between West 11th and Bank. I lived right around the corner, and had gotten home about 11:00 PM. My phone rang a little while later. It was my sister calling from New Jersey.
ReplyDelete"John Lennon has been shot."
I was stunned. I said, "But he's going to be OK..."
"No," she said. "I don't think so. I think he's dead."