A Night with John Lennon's Ghost

The audience was ablaze. The crowd, restlessly clapped and cheered to the beat of the drummer's cadence.

I live for this. He thought as he stepped onto the stage. A rush of adrenaline hit him as the crowd exploded into cheering.

Twenty-Nine Hours Earlier...

He sat on his couch alone in his dressing room, a half-empty bottle of scotch sat on the floor next to him. He fumbled in his pockets for his pill bottle, carefully removing it. He twisted the child-proof lid and poured four black pills into his hand. In one fluid movement he threw his hand to his mouth and threw his head back, helping the pills down his throat. He laid back on the couch, and rested his head on the armchair of the red leather couch. He threw his left hand toward the floor and felt around with limited movement for the bottle of scotch.

His body longed for it. The nectar of the gods, as he often referred to alcohol. He closed his lips around the opening of the bottle and gulped until he couldn't gulp anymore. After a few minutes, he dropped his bottle to the white carpeted floor, and walked to his door. A cool breeze flowed in through the doorway as he opened the door. He weakly lifted a hand and pointed out a pretty blond groupie clad in jewelry and tight clothes. With every dizzy muscle in his body, he beckoned the girl to his dressing room. There was another urge his body longed for. A more--primal urge.

Five hours later..

He sat on the couch, a woman laying naked across his legs, a line of cocaine on her buttocks. He rolled up a twenty note he had received earlier in the day, and used it to snort the powder into his nose.

I am a Lord of Rock, he thought as the cocaine kicked in, sending his body into numbness. He shoved the naked woman off his legs and walked to his mirror. Although he was only 29, he looked closer to 30 years old. His face appeared long and weathered until he added make up, which brought him back to his real age. He sported a short brown beard, shaggy brown hair and mirror-framed aviator style sunglasses. He wore the sunglasses to hide the glossiness of his eyes from the public. He knew his eyes had to be glossy. Drugs did that to people.

It had only taken him thirty minutes to dress for the show and walk to the stage. Gone were the days of pre-performance jitters. Gone were the days of the dreaded walk to the stage. Gone were the days where he cared how the crowd reacted. All he cared about now was the drugs, alcohol and women. That was it. His music had no longer been riddled and laden with secret messages warning of war and famine. Now he no longer even wrote his own music. Times had changed, but he cared not. All he wanted to do was further his own needs and wants.

He felt the electricity of the crowd, and fed off it. As he stood onstage, he belted out songs into the microphone. Jumped around the stage, ran to and fro. The concert went well. Until he felt a numbness in his left foot that shot up his left leg and into his chest. In a flurry of gasps and shrieks he fell to the ground for a moment. His whole body felt as if it were aflame. He quickly jumped back to his feet, and attempted to continue his concert. Within five minutes he had hit the floor again, this time, not to stand up again. All went black, and he was unconscious.

. . .



He was sitting in a field that stretched as far as the eye could see. The grass was a luscious green, the sky a vibrant blue. Few clouds could be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly. Trees slowly waved in the breeze that blew through the field. All was peaceful and serene, practically picturesque.

Although, as peaceful and serene as the field was, it was also quite odd. He realized he sat underneath a large oak tree, at a metal table, painted white, with a glass table top. The chair he sat in was also white and metal, with a red seat cushion. Across from him at the table sat a second white chair with red cushion as well. Atop the table there sat a glass ashtray, pack of cigarettes, Zippo lighter, a green apple, white ceramic teapot, two teacups with saucers, two spoons, a bowl of sugar and a cup of cream.

He stood to his feet to get another look of the field around him, and saw a figure walking toward him. He walked over toward the oak tree and leaned against it, his shoulder propped gently upon the bark of the tree as he waited patiently for the person walking toward him.

The figure came into perfectly clear view of him and he realized who the man was. He walked back to his seat at the table and sat, his back to the man walking toward him. He finally turned back around to see a thin man with brown hair, bushy sideburns, small beady eyes that hid behind yellow tinted circular glasses standing behind him. His suspicions from before were confirmed, he was in the presence of John Lennon.

"Am I dead?" he asked of Lennon.

"I don't know about you, but I most certainly am. How are you today friend?" John asked.

"I don't really know. Last I remember I was on stage performing a concert. Then, the next I knew, I was sitting in this chair. Knowing that you were killed twenty-nine years ago, I assume I must be dead."

"That is alot of assuming without really knowing the facts that you are doing here. May I have a seat?"

"Yes, Mr. Lennon."

"Just call me John. Are those your cigarettes?" John asked.

"Um, they were here when I arrived, would you like one?"

"Yes, thank you." John said as he lit a cigarette, "Haven't had one of these in some time. I'll assume you have many of questions. A few of which I have answers to. I will start out by saying, yes I am John Winston Ono Lennon. Yes, I am deceased. No, you are not deceased as well, you're neither here nor there. Instead of dying you were brought here, and I was brought as well to convince you to change your ways in a Dickens sort of way. Have you ever read Dickens?"

"Yes. Does this make you like the Ghosts of the Christmas Carol?"

"No, just the Ghost of Rock and Roll Past." John said with a sly grin. "I've got little time to go over your entire life's story. I'll assume you already know it. I think I will just help you go over your current life's decisions. Judging by your look you've got going on, you play in a band. Do you write your own music?"

"No, sir. Well, I used to. I dont anymore. Its too much of a pain in my ass to deal with."

"A pain in your ass? Writing your own music is the best part of the musical process. For me, writing was my escape from everything in life. I wrote to get away, but most of all, I wrote so that people would have hope in dark times. I wrote for hope and love. I know that for you, times are different. But, my world is your world. I did the things I did so that people like yourself would have something to cling to. A dream, so to speak. Times were strange then, yes, they were strange. But times now, for you are just as strange, mind you."

"So, if I get back to writing songs, that will change my life so extremely that I'll live?"

"That's just a simple-minded way of looking at it. All I am saying on the subject of writing is this. You may interpret it however you see fit, 'live to write, and write to live'. Moving on to your current predicament. Do you know what happened to bring you here?"

"All I remember was I was on stage performing." He said as he lit a cigarette as well.

"You passed out on stage. Your heart almost stopped, and you are currently in a hospital. I once sang, 'Living is easy with eyes closed'. However one can live a little too easy, and can live too hard in the process. I confess, I've done my fair share of drugs and alcohol. I can remember one time during my Lost Weekend where I drank a couple of Brandy Alexanders, that's brandy and milk, and made an ass of myself. And without the drugs, I probably wouldn't have been able to write some of the songs I wrote. There would probably be no Strawberry Fields, or Walrus. In fact Sgt. Pepper's would probably have never been created without the use of drugs. But I said it many times later in my life, that doing things straight without the drugs was so much better. You should try it. Otherwise we'd be having this conversation about how you should have done these things differently because look at us, we are dead!"

"If I may ask, since we're on the topic of drugs. 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'. Is that supposed to be about the use of LSD?"

"I answered this one during a television interview once. My son, Julian I think, came home with a drawing of a strange looking woman flying around. I asked him what it was and he said it was Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. That became my inspiration for the song. Are there any other questions you wish to ask?"

"Why did you, of all people to come to me here in the Neither Here Nor There?"

"I do not know. Apparently someone out there thought I would have the biggest affect upon your life, and helping you to change. That assumption comes from the fact that people out there believed with my anti-war and anti-violence messages that I ulimately helped change the course of history. Perhaps I can help change yours. My friend, there is hope for you. Just have faith in it, and do what you can. Believe in what I have said to you here. I'm afraid my time is up, and you need to return to Earth. You've a show to perform in a few hours." John stood from his chair and began to walk away. He stopped and stood still for a moment.

"Is there anything else, John" Lennon was asked by the man, who remained in his seat.

"How are Yoko and my sons?" John asked without turning around.

"I believe they are well. I don't personally know."

"That is good. You take care." John said, as the field became a blur and everything turned to black.

. . .



He awoke in a hospital bed a few hours later. His head hurt, and he was struggling to remember the things he had dreamt. Could it be possible that the late John Lennon was reaching out to him, personally, in the afterlife? Thoughts of that nature swirled through his mind, and puzzled him through the remainder of the day.

He was released from the hospital three hours before his next show, and had already sent word through his manager that the show will go on as planned. That the previous night was only a setback and that he would be alright.

The night moved quickly, as he stood in his dressing room, frantically throwing away the alcohol and drugs he had left over from the night before. When a groupie would knock on the door wanting to give him a gift which would question his newfound morals, he would quickly dismiss them. He would take John Lennon's advice, and perform this show straight. The remainder of the tour would be put on hold as he would check himself into rehab so that he could quit cold turkey.

With minutes remaining until his next performance, he stood in the shadows backstage. He listened closely to the crowd, and listened for his cue, as the drummer began his cadence.

The audience was ablaze. The crowd, restlessly clapped and cheered to the beat of the drummer's cadence.

I live for this. He thought as he stepped onto the stage. A rush of adrenaline hit him as the crowd exploded into cheering. It had taken a near death experience, and an appearance by John Lennon's ghost, but he would finally live for the first time in his life. His eyes were open to the things that were truly great in life. He could see clearer without the drugs, than he could with them. This was the first day of the rest of his life.

Living was easy with eyes closed.