Chapter Text
The man had him sign “Catcher in the Rye.” Okay, whatever. Not the weirdest thing John had been asked to sign. He’d put out an album with his whole dick and balls on the cover once, and plenty of people had asked him to sign their copy. Was that weirder or less weird? “Catcher in the Rye” seemed random. Random stuff was usual too. A playbill for “A Chorus Line,” a bus ticket, whatever the elated fan had.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and as they were driven back to the Dakota, Yoko and him wrapped up in each other, he got an uneasy feeling. He looked out the window and saw that the Catcher was still there.
“I’m not getting out of the car until the man with the book goes,” he said. To himself? Yoko? Their driver?
“Hm?” Yoko said, raising an eyebrow.
“The man with the book. The man who asked me to sign his book, earlier, ‘Catcher in the Rye.’ He’s still there. I want him gone. I’m not getting out of the car until he’s gone.”
Yoko blinked at him. “Alright.”
“Ok, Mr. Lennon,” the driver said. He’d dealt with weirder requests.
They pulled up, and the driver told the security guards to escort the man away before Lennon and Ono would get out. Yoko and John watched with interest through the window.
“Why just that man?” Yoko asked him, as he started getting upset with security, why was he being picked on? What did he do?
“Bad feeling,” John said.
“Is it because he’s a grown man reading a book about an antisocial teenage boy?”
“Maybe. No.”
“Then why?”
“Why do you need my explanation?” John said, testily, when the security guard grabbed a gun hidden on the man’s person. The man grew violent, screaming for his gun back, and some nearby police came and got him in handcuffs. John opened the door, grabbed Yoko, and they booked it into the building, the crowds too distracted by the scene for the rockstars.
“If you saw he had a gun, you could’ve said, love,” Yoko said in the elevator.
“I didn’t see his gun. I didn’t know he had a gun,” John replied, his breath growing short. The elevator was running out of air.
“This is America. New York City. Everyone has guns.”
“Not everyone,” John said shortly, grabbing at his chest.
Her eyebrows pinched, and she looked him up and down. “Are you alright?”
John coughed. The elevator door opened and he stumbled into the apartment. He made it to the bathroom, and he threw up in the toilet. Yoko stood behind him, and crouched down to lift up his hair in case he had to do it again.
“Daddy? Mommy?” a voice came from down the hall.
“He’s awake?” John coughed.
“He must be,” Yoko said. “I’ll go see him. Don’t move, John.”
“Not planning on it,” John said pathetically, coughing again.
Yoko left the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
“Sean! Why are you still awake at this hour?” she scolded gently.
“Had a nightmare… heard you come in… I’m sorry mommy. Is daddy alright?”
“I think he has food poisoning…”
“Poisoning!? Daddy’s been poisoned!?” Sean started to wail.
“No no no!” Yoko said, trying to fix her mistake. Sean was still so little. She wanted to treat him like a small adult but she couldn’t. “He must’ve eaten something bad, he’ll be alright in the morning, no nightmares, no poison. Daddy’s okay…”
She must’ve picked him up to take him to bed, because her voice faded down the hallway.
He didn’t have food poisoning.
Catcher in the Rye was going to shoot him. He knew it. Yoko was right about Americans being gun-toting weirdos of course, and New York City was absolutely full of freaks and weirdos, and some of them must’ve had guns, John supposed. Some of them must’ve carried guns everywhere. But he knew, he knew with all his heart, with all his mind, that Catcher was planning to use that gun. There’s no other reason for him to have attacked security. He was going to shoot him.
He was going to kill John Lennon.
John vomited again.
~~~
He got up, washed his face, and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. He was terribly tired. Where was Yoko? Where was the nanny? He figured Yoko would’ve put Sean to sleep and come back to him, but maybe Sean was really that upset, and worried John was poisoned or there were monsters in the flat, and Yoko would crawl into bed with him and snuggle him until he was asleep. John did that more often than Yoko. Sean loved them both, but Yoko wasn’t good with little kids. He had a feeling that when Sean was about 12 or so, and coming into his own, a little bit more grown and a little bit more rebellious, she would come into her own and flourish as a mother. John would become his sappy old man, the person to rebel against, and Yoko would rebel with him against John. He smiled fondly at the thought. Rebelling against John Lennon, the hippy weird Beatle with the long hair and the drugs and the crazy weddings and divorces.
Ah yes, the divorces. All two of them.
He had to call Paul.
They still weren’t on good terms. If John asked, Ringo would supply John with a short update on Paul, and John assumed Paul asked and Ringo did the same for him. It’d been 10 years. John had gone on the record and said he wished he could erase some of his comments from the record. Paul had been publicly more conciliatory too. George was still on the outs with both of them. Ringo was the only connection point.
But, well, John just almost died (had he? Yes, he had), and he had to call Paul. Damn the time difference. Damn the feud, damn the divorce.
He walked through the flat and heard something in the library, he looked inside, and there was Yoko. A lamp was on, not the overhead light, making the light dim and the shadows long and scary. She had a wild look in her eyes, and she was ripping and tearing out pages of a book. She was standing with her legs apart, slightly bent, a focus in her eyes. It was a performance piece, a performance piece for no one.
“Yoko?”
She looked up at him distantly.
“You almost died.”
“I know…”
“How do I know? How do you know?” she asked. It was strange to hear her ask questions she didn’t know the answers to. She asked questions with her art all the time, and she clearly knew the answers, even if she didn’t. She always knew the answers. That’s why John clung to her at first. It’s why he still felt intertwined now, even as their love had matured and grown and lessened in intensity.
“Destroying books now?” he asked, returning her unanswerable questions with a hopefully answerable one.
She straightened her posture, and held it out to him. “I have destroyed about half. I think you should do the rest, if you wish.”
It was “Catcher in the Rye.” Paperback. He took it.
“I didn’t know we owned it.”
“I don’t know where it came from,” Yoko answered.
John ripped out a page, and then another. This was their private performance art now. She watched him, intensely as ever. She was still a part of it, watching him tear out page after page, throwing it onto the ground, making a big mess. It felt good, it felt violent and like they were doing something wrong, destroying a book together. They did lots of things that were wrong together. John loved that about them. John ripped out the pages till there was nothing left but the cover, and he ripped it in half, and passed half to her, and they both tore the paper cover into little pieces. His heart was pounding.
“I feel better,” he said.
“Me too,” she replied with a smile. She stepped towards him, and kissed him on the cheek. “I am going to sleep. Join me soon.”
“I will, love.”
She left, and he went to the phone, and looked at the papers all around it. Somewhere he still had Paul’s number. Yep. In Ritchie’s handwriting. John dialed. No response. He dialed again.
“Hello?” Paul’s tired voice creaked through the line. “Who is it?”
“It’s an old mate,” John said, smile on his face.
“John?”
“The one and only.”
“You do realize it’s like, 3am, here, right?” Paul said groggily, angry, but not very angry.
“I knew it was something like that. I had to call you, though.”
“You had to call me? Now? In the middle of the night? You’re lucky I woke up and not Linda, or one of the kids! We haven’t spoken in 10 years and you call me at three in the fuckin’ morning to--”
“I should’ve been shot tonight,” John interrupted.
Paul’s tirade stopped. “What?” he asked blearily.
“Man had a gun at the Dakota. He was gonna kill me. Yoko felt it too.”
“You are in America--”
“No, Paul, I know it,” John said forcefully.
“But you’re not dead, aren’t ye? So you didn’t have to call me.”
“I threw up. Yoko and I destroyed a book together. Should’ve seen the look in her eyes, Paul, she knew. You’d know too if you were here. I’m supposed to be gone. Off to heaven. Or hell, more likely. Or maybe reincarnated as a stink bug.”
“Okay…” Paul said. “I’m too tired and old for this, John… I’m sorry you were nearly shot at or whatever but--”
“I almost died, Paul. I was supposed to die. In another universe, I’m dead, Paul. I don’t think you understand--”
“Maybe I don’t but in my defense it’s three am and I’m exhausted and we haven’t spoken in years and we’re not friends anymore!”
John took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to be the John Lennon of 10 years ago. He was better now. He’d gotten better. He’d grown.
“We’re still friends, I mean, we could be friends, I mean, I just, I wanna get the band back together.”
Silence on the line. “What?”
“I wanna get back together. One of us is gonna die, at some point, Paul. One of us is gonna go. And then poof! No more Beatles forever. Never ever forever. All gone, no more, bye bye, so long--”
“You’re rambling, John.”
“And so I figure, fuck it! If I’m going out before I’m an old man with no teeth, I want you to do me in yourself, or George, or hell, let Ringo crack and go nuts and murder suicide us all, but I don’t want it to be some random dickfuck with a gun! Whaddya say, huh?”
“Quite a pitch…”
“I’ve got songs that Yoko don’t like and I need you to work on. You gotta have more songs that could use me, I know you, Macca, you always got more songs. George got songs, Ringo got songs, we all got stuff in our heads and fingers waiting to get out, and I don’t wanna waste any more time!”
“Are you high? Cocaine? LSD?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Really??”
“Yeah!! For fuck’s sake, Macca, can’t you believe me??”
“You did betray me--”
“Water under the bridge! You betrayed me, I betrayed you, We’re all married now with kids and wrinkles and we’re not getting any bloody younger!”
Paul sighed. “Can I sleep on it, John? Can you sleep on it? Maybe you’re not high but maybe tomorrow you’ll wish you never called me.”
Paul got him there. Maybe John would regret this. He felt high. He felt like he was on something sending him shooting through the stars. Maybe it was the fact he’d live to see another day.
“And besides, what if Ringo and George aren’t in? There’s no point in even considering if they say no.”
“Ringo won’t say no.”
“George probably will.”
“Fuck… he probably will… How’d you feel about the three of us having an equal number of songs, ey? Plus one or two for Ringo? See how it goes?”
“Fuck, you’re serious.”
“Dead serious, Paulie.”
“Okay… let’s sleep now, ey? Call me back at a reasonable hour. A reasonable hour for both of us, got it?”
“Ey ey captain McCartney!”
“Ta.”
“Night.”
John rushed to the bedroom and saw Yoko reading by her nightlight. “Gonna be a bit, darling, don’t wait up for me,” he said, before rushing out to head to the studio on another level. He sat down at the piano and started banging out a quick tune. Up down up down up down up down.
Got an old rock rolling
Been 10 years going
Get up now
Get up now
With the old fights fading
And our hearts swayin’
Get up now
Get up now
Ohh oh-oh oh-oh
Get back in the spotlight
Yeah!
Ohh oh-oh oh-oh
Not pack up and goodnight
Yeah!!
Been a long long road
Still more to go
And never meant to say goodbye
I missed you all
The screams and calls
And so now I!
Ohh oh-oh oh-oh
I’m getting back in the spotlight
Yeah!
Ohh oh-oh oh-oh
Can’t make me say goodnight
Yeah!!!!
He got up, turned on his guitar, and started jamming and hoping around like he was 17 again. He let out some cathartic screams and vocalizations. He played some old riffs and spun them into new ones. Yoko would hate the song he just made up. It’s horribly pedestrian, and far too simple. Whatever. John wasn’t sure he liked it. It was horribly honest of him, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be happy tomorrow. But moods come and moods go and he kept moving, fast or slow.
Paul would like it, Paul could see it, a simple little rock and roll song. It was an opener for sure. He couldn’t help it, he was already visualizing the album. If he got the opener, then George could get the closer. Maybe John would be too embarrassed about it tomorrow and George could get another opener. Maybe Ringo. Maybe Paul. Maybe it didn’t matter. It was a new decade, still, technically, and John wanted to take on the 80s like a bull by the horns.
~~~
When he got tired and sweaty, he went back up to the flat and had a quick shower and shuffled into bed, and put his arms around Yoko. He wanted Yoko, he wanted Paul George and Ringo, he wanted it all. And Paul had Linda and George had Olivia and Ringo had Barbara and that was fine and he could see it all picture perfect, he could see it all tonight. It was a weird night, a manic night, but the good kind of manic, the kind where he still had a hand on the wheel as his foot pushed the gas pedal into the sky. He wanted to fly, he wanted to grab everyone and fly and punch through the atmosphere into space and keep going and going and going.
“You called someone,” Yoko said sleepily. “Which one?”
“Paul.”
“Interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m glad you called him. It’s time to make up.”
“Yeah… it is.”
~~~
Someone was shaking John’s shoulder.
“Hrrghh,” John said sleepily. Damn him staying up too late as an old old man.
“Daddy?” a small voice asked quietly.
John opened his eyes and turned to see Sean, looking at him so concerned.
“You’re alive!” he said.
“Course I am,” John said, ruffling his hair and sitting up. He picked the boy up, put him in his lap, and gave him a big kiss.
“I was worried. I had a nightmare you got shot and died forever, and then mommy said you were poisoned and I was worried you’d never ever wake up.”
John frowned, and he pulled his boy close. “I’m alright, Sean, no shooting, no poisoning.”
God, what a horrible thing for a child to be concerned about. All of the Beatle children were vaguely terrified of losing a parent young, John thought. As soon as they were old enough to talk, they knew Something. They knew their dads were Famous and the world was Dangerous. Sean was still so little. But he lived in New York City, so… John and Yoko weren’t exactly protecting him from the fact that the world was a dangerous place. And it was. It wasn’t safe for the biracial son of two deeply damaged famous people with 10 million issues. Still.
“I’m okay, daddy,” Sean said, as if he sensed he’d upset John somehow. “I love you.”
“I love you too, beautiful boy.”
Sean giggled at that, and John tickled him and kissed him all over his silly head some more, before Sean wiggled out of bed and ran off, probably for breakfast or cartoons.
When John was a boy, being called “beautiful” was one of the worst things a boy could be called. Now the whole world knew he thought his son was beautiful and precious and wonderful.
John thought about Julian. All the more reason to go to England and get the band back together. All the broken families… Where do they all come from…
~~~
“You alright, Johnny?” Ringo asked, after John rang him up and told him he wanted to get the band back together.
“Peachy,” John said. “Best I’ve felt in ages, to be honest.”
“Are you high?”
“No, I’m not high! God, Macca asked just the same thing!”
“Well in his defense you-- you spoke to Paul?!”
“Yeah, last night. After I was nearly shot.”
“After you were what?!?”
John started the conversation over, a bit more slowly this time. Maybe he couldn’t blame Ringo for responding the way he did when he’d called over, said hello and asked him if he wanted to be a Beatle again.
There were a few moments of silence as Ringo took John’s story in.
“Alright…” Ringo said slowly. “If Paul and George are in, and if it’s not miserable, then yeah, mate.”
“And we don’t have to do anything,” John added. “I want to write music together but we can just jam or just have brunch or anything, really, it’s just, someday someone’s gonna die, you know? And that’s it.”
John swore he heard Ringo nodding. “Yeah… maybe brunch first, then if you all don’t bite each other’s heads off, we can maybe try jamming… I miss jammin’.”
“Me too.”
“Alright, well--”
“Wait, Rings, can you do one thing for me?”
“Sure.”
“Can you… can you be the one to ask George?”
Another pause.
“You chicken?”
“No! Just…”
“He might say yes to me and he’ll almost certainly hang up if he hears your voice on the phone?”
“Er, yeah… that…”
Ringo sighed. “Fuck… alright, I guess… Ringo the old messenger boy is back, I guess.”
“Hopefully you can put yourself out of a job.”
“Hopefully I’m still a decent enough drummer to keep the job I want.”
“You got it forever, babe.”
Ringo chuckled. “Alright, ta, darling, have a good one.”
“You too,” John said, adding a kissing sound.
Ringo was laughing as he hung up the phone.