I hated these visits upstate to my sister’s house.  Well, maybe hate is a bit strong, but I always came away feeling inadequate and a total failure.  I mean, here I am, the older sister, and she has a wonderful husband with big bucks, two precious little girls (my little sweeties), a house in the boonies, the whole beautiful neat little package.  And me, I have one failed marriage, no babies to show for it, and four years worth of payments left on this car, which I now need in order to get to my sister’s wretched house.  But I need it now, even though I live in New York City (so good, they named it twice), because how else am I going to see my beautiful girls, the little one named for me, her Aunt Valerie?  I am their heroine, after all.

From the moment I arrive, they jump up and down with glee and it’s “Aunt Val’s here!  Aunt Val, take us here, Aunt Val, take us there.  We love you, Aunt Val.”  Aunt Val is cool.  You can’t buy that kind of adoration.  Aunt Val just turned thirty and has no prospects.  1980, a brand new year, and it had better be a better decade.  The 70’s sucked!  I miss my 60’s.  We went from the leftover beautiful innocence of the 50’s to what seemed like total coming of age awareness and enlightenment, only to be pushed into what seemed like total promiscuity and excess.

Usually when I go to my sister’s, Mom will take the ride with me on a Saturday morning and we stay until after dinner on Sunday evening.  We live on the same block, mom and I.  After Glenn left me for his bimbette office trollop, skank, pick your poison, I took an apartment closer to Mom.  I hate being alone.  It has its good and bad points, living this close to her.  I never have to cook a meal, there’s always something simmering on her stove when I get home from work.  But on the rare evening I feel like going straight home or out with the girls for a drink, I come home to “the call.”  “I made so much food, you might’ve called!”  I keep telling her not to expect me, she always cooks more than enough anyway.  Always did.  You can’t tell her anything. 

This visit, for instance.  It snowed quite heavily on Friday night and she announced that we would not be going up there this weekend, that the roads were too slippery.  I told her it would stop by morning and I was going, with or without her.  My sister’s company and those beautiful girls are all I seem to have to look forward to lately.  I got the usual fuss and strict orders to call when I got there.

Don’t misunderstand my melancholy over my sister’s life.  There’s not enough money in the world that would make me want to live up there.  I love the City.  My children, if I ever get to have any before my ovaries shrivel to prunes and my uterus becomes a possible cancer receptacle, will be city street smart, museum-theatre-going, Central Park ice-skating, subway-riding urban sophisticates.  But no, on these many rides home I lament the fact that I am heading home to my empty apartment and the icing on my cake of life is that my made in heaven marriage is over.  I recently heard through the grapevine that he has a child with her.  Cherry on top.  He always told me we were too young to be saddled down with kids and had time for all that.

I usually don’t start to cheer up a bit until I catch sight of the George Washington Bridge.  But this ride was taking forever, despite the fact that I didn’t stay to eat dinner today and wanted to get home while it was still daylight.  There had been quite a bit of snow and the roads really were bad, with lots of patches of that black ice.  I’d passed many cars on the road that had obviously skidded and were left askew, and that was slowing down traffic quite a bit.  Why people always have to slow down and stare is totally beyond comprehension.

I was heading south on the Palisades Parkway which is just two lanes in each direction, and I could see up ahead a black sedan just stopped in the right lane, no hazard lights flashing and everyone slowing down to bottle neck around this idiot moron who obviously doesn’t even know enough to get himself onto the shoulder and out of everyone’s way.  Here I sat, muttering and cursing as I had the heat up full blast and was rapidly running out of gas as I tried to wait long enough to fill up in New Jersey, where gas is much cheaper.  Funny how you’re in New York State, then a brief time in New Jersey, then cross the bridge and back into New York.

I was at the bottom of a hill, so I could see the stalled car about twenty cars ahead of me and I suddenly saw the driver’s door fly open.  A man jumped out quickly, obviously yelling at the person sitting on the passenger side.  He then slammed the door shut, kicked the front tire, and trudged his way through the considerably deep snow on the side of the road and into the wooded area.

I watched him, fascinated, as he sidled up to a tree, whipped it out and proceeded to take an obviously much-needed leak.  I broke into uncontrollable laughter as he shook it out, zipped up and headed back, turning up the furry collar on a short denim jacket, which was certainly not warm enough in weather like this.  I was inching up as I continued watching him, his bare hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans for whatever little warmth they could provide.  He was skinny as all get out, and damned if something about that gait didn’t seem familiar, almost second nature to me.  Then I zeroed in on his face.  Three cars ahead.  I laughed again, because surely he must have been all full of himself, looking so much like…  No.  It couldn’t be.  No.  But it was.  It was.  It was him.  Him.  There is no other “him.”  Only him.  Here.  Now.  Him.  He got back in his car with considerable attitude and slammed the door shut again.

What to do.  You thought of this moment for over sixteen years, Val.  With equal certainty, you believed absolutely that you would run into each other somewhere, sometime, just as much as you believed that it would never happen in a million years. You do, after all, both live in the same city now.  But you never in your wildest daydream fantasies figured it would happen on the freezing cold Palisades Parkway in the dead of winter.

I slowly passed the car, stopping briefly, and strained to see into the tinted windows.  I could see clearly the profile – those glasses perched on that nose.  His nose.  No mistaking that nose.  My John.  The man that made my heart soar with love and music, my brain come alive, my juices flow.  The one and only real love of my life because, of course, we would never know each other and, therefore, never fight, never get bored with each other, will love each other for all eternity.  If I didn’t seize this moment now, would there ever be another?  What are you Val, stupid?

I pulled the car over in front of his and onto the shoulder.  I took a minute, gathering my nerve and staring into the rear view mirror, hoping he would get out first, save me the awkward moment of confrontation.  But no.  There he sat.  Did he even realize I stopped for him?  Only him.  How many others had I passed along the way?  But I was meant to pass them, don’t you see?  Otherwise, I wouldn’t have found him.  Must get out now, Val.  Just do it. 

I got out and walked back toward his car, and I could see him sitting there behind the wheel.  I couldn’t make out anyone in the passenger seat, and wondered who he was talking to, and then I made out a dark figure in the back seat.  Damn it all to hell!  I stood there by the driver’s side window and waited.  He did nothing, but his face was turned toward me.  He was talking, but to her.  Lower the window, goddamnit, what is this, the Twilight Zone?  Nothing.  I tapped on the window with my leather clad driving gloves, my fingers stiff with rigor mortis, it’s that bloody cold out today.  I’d gone from the insular warmth of my car to instant deep freeze, not to mention what this meeting might do to my nervous system.  The breath was steaming out of my nostrils, and didn’t he know he was killing me with that unrelenting gaze?

Finally, the door opened about two inches, his eyes boring directly into mine over his glasses, beautiful light brown eyes, thick unkempt eyebrows.

“Yeah?” he asked, all nasal and sarcastic.

I made some feeble idiot gesture, got tongue tied, and managed to get out, “You didn’t have to open the door.  I know it’s cold.”

“Well, the fucking thing’s dead and the windows are electric.  So?”

Help me Lord.  “So…would you like a ride home?  It’s no trouble.  It’s on my way.”  Even if it wasn’t, I’d drive you to the fucking moon, darlin’.

“And how do you know that?”

“72^nd and Central Park West, right?” I asked with a sardonic grin.  “You can always make a call then and have your car picked up.”

“How’d you know it was me in ‘ere?” he demanded.

“I witnessed your little foray into the woods,” I said, and pointed my finger in the general direction of his last comfort station.

He tried to suppress the smile that was playing about his lips.  “What do you think, Mother dear?” he asked, his head turning to her in the back seat, then back to me out in the deep freeze. “Shall we take this lady up on her kind offer?”

I bent in and tried to catch a glimpse of the only woman who made me green with envy and who has made my insides churn every day since 1968 when I learned of her existence.  Even the woman who now had my good for nothing ex-husband didn’t garner this kind of wrath.  As far as I was concerned, she was welcome to that cold-hearted ex-bastard of mine.  He actually knew me and broke my heart and my spirit.

But all I could see of her was her huge shock of black hair sprinkled with gray, dark glasses, and a luxurious black fur coat.  Her miniscule face and body was lost in the spacious back seat, and she looked all warm and cozy.  As far as I was concerned, she was not nearly enough woman for this man, whose face was now three feet from mine and actually speaking to me.  This opinion had time to develop and fester over the last twelve years and had absolutely nothing to do with her stature, but with the entity she had become in my mind.  The fact that he seemed to allow it all had no impact on me whatsoever.  The man was obviously impaired and needed the protection that only I could provide.

She gazed out the front window, assessing my car I suppose, then spoke:  “I don’t think so, but would you mind getting off at the next exit and getting us some help?  I will give you a number to call.  My assistant…”  She began rummaging in her bag, which looked big enough to hold her should she care to jump in.

“Why would you ask this girl to do that when she offered us a ride home, fer chrissake?  It’s fuckin’ freezin’, with no heater goin’, and I ain’t dressed warm enough!” he yelled back at her.

Good for you, my love!

“My heater’s working just fine,” I offered again.  “Come on.  It’s starting to get dark.”  I smiled sweetly.  At least I hoped I did.  I was so cold my face was numb.

She apparently didn’t like being spoken to in that fashion in front of anyone, most especially in front of a nobody like me, and dropped the bag deliberately.

“I’m not leaving this car, John.  Shouldn’t the highway patrol people be along soon for this sort of thing?”

“I could be fuckin’ dead by then.  Me arse is frozen, can’t feel me fingers or toes anymore.  Come on, let’s go!  We’ll be home in no time.”

“No.  Let her get us some help.”

John sighed and looked at me helplessly.  “Would it be too much trouble to take us to the nearest service station or police station, whatever.  Maybe I can call someone to pick us up?”

“Of course not, John.  Whatever you like.”   John.  I just called him by name.  Life complete.

John turned to her again and said, “Come on.”

“No,” she answered stubbornly.  “She can go alone.  She doesn’t need us along.”

“Well, I’m goin’, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ cold and need to warm up.  You comin’ or not?”

“Not.  She can go alone, John,” she said with determination, the ice princess giving the chauffeur lackey what-for from the back seat.  What was that about?

“Or you can sit here alone,” he came back, with not quite as much determination as I would have thought.  They stared each other down and he finally said, “Right,” and swung the door open, almost hitting me with it, climbing out and slamming it shut.

“C’mon,” he demanded of me, seeming to need to hurry before he lost his resolve.  We quickly climbed into my car, which I had left running and where the heater was going nicely, thank you very much.  It felt like heaven, but for him I’m sure, entirely different reasons than for me.

“Oh man,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Fantastic!”

“Here,” I said, throwing him my red wool gloves, which were between the seats.  “They’re nice and warm, but I can’t drive with them, my hands slide all over the steering wheel.”

He quickly slipped them on, big grin on his face, and held up his hands like some prize.  “These are great.  Thanks.”

I smiled contentedly at his big red hands, knowing that those gloves were now my favorite item of clothing.  I was also feeling a bit surprised at how relaxed I was beginning to feel.  I mean, he was sitting right next to me, in my car…the man of my teenage dreams and erotic fantasies, and just last night, come to that. 

I turned on the headlights and was about to pull out when I turned to him.  “Are you sure we should leave her here alone like that?”

“You heard ‘er, didn’t ya?  Besides, I’ll be hearin’ about this plenty, make no mistake!”  Then, in his falsetto voice, he said, “’All our men friends drive, why can’t you ever drive, why don’t you know anything about cars?  Fix it!’ – Yeah, right.  That’s why I need to have all this bloody money, to drive meself ‘round and fix cars.”

“Yeah, I was a bit surprised to see you behind the wheel.  You’re not the best of….” Then I stopped myself, pretending to pay attention to getting us back on the road, and into the mainstream of traffic.

“Not the best of what?”

I took a deep breath.  “Drivers.”

“And you know that, how?”

“Let’s just say I keep up, and leave it at that.  Plus, there was that unnecessary accident in Scotland, and…”

“Yeah, yeah, I even caught it from Cyn that time.  We had the kids in the car.”  His face contorted with painful memories before he turned to me.  “How do you know so much?” he asked.

How could I begin to tell him that I know everything about him that a person can know about him who doesn’t know him at all?  How did I tell him that he’s my life’s work, my hobby, my obsession?  I didn’t, that’s how.  He’d have jumped out and run for the hills.  Play it cool, Val.  Let it go.  When I finally glanced back at him, he was still looking at me askance.

I sighed. “My bag’s there on the floor.  Take out my wallet.”  He rummaged through the debris that is my life and finally happened upon it.

“Open it and have a look,” I said, and clicked on the overhead light.  He did, and the first picture in the accordion photo holder was one of my nieces. 

“Cute.  Your daughters?”

“Nieces.  My sister’s girls.  Keep going.”  He turned to the next.  Beautiful shot of him in a black suit, white shirt, couple of buttons undone, circa A Hard Day’s Night, next to it one of my favorite shots of him from the bubble gum card series, black and white, he in a checked shirt.  He flipped to the next, and it was a funny shot of him and George in their polo necks, George hammering nails into his head…next to it a real snap I bought of him, taken on a London street, he looking delicious in a navy blue suit standing along side his Rolls.  He flipped again, and there were two original snaps of him and Harry Nilsson on a stage taken by my ex in Central Park in 1973.

He chuckled.  “Good ol’ Harry.  I barely remember that day, we were so hammered.  He waits till I decide to produce an album for ‘im to decide to lose his voice.  You take these?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

He flipped again.  A picture I cut from a magazine of him with Julian on his knee.  All this time I was trying to keep my eyes on the road and alternate between what pictures he was seeing and his reaction to each one.  This one does not make him too happy.  His lips tightened up, and he said nothing.  The one next to it was also a photo I bought, of him taken outside his home in Weybridge, wearing a Nehru shirt, along with that hideous Greek necklace he wore for a time.

He flipped again and it was a picture of him hugging Ringo at a press conference during the 1965 summer tour.  I love that shot, and he also smiled broadly at it.  The one next to it was a color shot of him looking all trim, hair newly cut and that Fu Manchu thingy from around Pepper time.

“Wow.  A trip down mammary lane here, with me as the star!  Nothing of Paul here, I see,” he quipped.

I laughed.  “Paul and I aren’t speaking right now.”

“A bit of that goin’ round,” he said lightheartedly.  “We speak, of course, but it’s not the same, is it?”

“It breaks my heart,” I stated simply.

“So…a fan.”  He said this with what sounds like, at least to my very sensitive ears and ego, a bit of dismissal.

I wanted to cry.  Fan?  Is that what he thinks I am?  A mere fan?  Doesn’t he know?  Can’t he realize, see?  No, of course he can’t.  How could he possibly?  After sixteen years of love and obsessing over this person, I am about to drop him somewhere, never to be seen again.  Never to be thought of again, even.  Val, you’re such a moron.

I sighed.  “There’s one more.  The best, actually.”

He flipped to the last leaf at the back.  It was a very old original snapshot, small, maybe 2” x 3”, with the kind of white-framed jagged edges that old pictures used to have.  It had a brownish cast to it and looked to have been taken on that same day in Hamburg as the picture that was used on the Rock ‘N’ Roll album cover, taken by Jurgen Vollmer.  It was, in fact, sold to me as an original Vollmer, from his private collection (stolen, more like it), at a Beatle convention in 1975.  This one was a close-up, not full length, and not one that I’d seen anywhere before or since.  I’d forked over $20.00 for it to the dealer, who originally wanted $25.00.  The whole weekend I kept going back to see if it was still there, and got my bargain late Sunday when everyone was packing up.  I had to have it, that tiny little piece of my twenty-year-old John that nobody else seemed to have now but me.  I found it so hard to believe, the transformation he would make in the two short years from the time this shot was taken to the twenty-three-year-old Beatle I would fall in love with on the silver screen.

I’d slipped it into my wallet for safekeeping, fully intending to have it matted and framed, tiny as it was, but somehow I never got around to it.  I loved that it was always with me, and I looked at it at least once a day.  I still meant to have it framed.  What if my wallet was lost or stolen?

He stared at it for a very long time.  “Where the hell did you get this?  I’ve never seen it.  I’m a bit of a collector meself.”

“I know.  Isn’t it great?  Beatle convention.  Every year the rumors fly that you’re going to show up, but I never hold my breath.  I think the guy who runs it starts the rumors.  Good for business.  I did get to meet Mal there that year, though.  He was a sweetheart…  and your friend May.”  I gave him a sideways glance.  He looked none too pleased that I brought her up.

“Sorry,” I said in a small voice.  Right on, Val.  There ya go, piss him off.  Just then, I see the next exit sign, Exit #7.  “Uh, I’ll just get off here and see what we can find, okay?”

“Yeah, good,” he said, and I was guessing that he was probably relieved that this awkward situation would soon be over for him.  I’m sure he was also worried about her alone back there in the car and was anxious to get back to her, despite his bravado.  Unfortunately, there did not seem to be much of anything on this road I was on, and since it was late Sunday afternoon, nothing seemed to be open.  We drove in silence for a couple of miles, not even passing an open deli or a cruising police car.

“John, there doesn’t seem to be much of anything this way, and if I venture out of the way of the main highway, I’ll get lost for sure.  I have a terrible sense of direction.  Take me out of the city grid and I’m useless.  I’m going to double back and try the other direction from the exit, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”  All this while, he still held my wallet in his hand, staring down from time to time at the German picture.  Right next to it in a slide-in leather compartment was my driver’s license. 

“So, Valerie DiMarco,” he said, holding the license toward me, “thanks for taking the trouble.”

“If you can’t tell by what’s in my wallet that this is no trouble, well then I don’t know what…” I began, but then I looked at his face, and he was smiling wickedly.  I laughed in embarrassed relief and extended my hand to him.  “So pleased to finally meet you, John Lennon.”  The pressure of his hand on mine sent the electrical current throughout my body, settling mainly you-know-where.

“Handy to be rescued by a woman who carries me in her purse.”

“Ha!  You should see my apartment!”

“Hmmm.”

I must have turned crimson.  “No, I only meant…”

“I know what you meant.  Valerie.  Didn’t we use that name in a song?”

“Yeah.  Maxwell must go free.”

“Oh, jeez, yeah!  He kept us at that one ad nauseum!  George was ready to kill him.”

I laughed hysterically, blissfully happy to be being let in on a bit of the inside story, however little.

“Gotta give it to him, though, doing it all again,” he mused.  “He’s still hungry for it all.” 

“Yeah, he’s great.  Almost as great as you.  But not quite,” I say in a small voice, then look at him shyly.  Oh God, Val.  Shut up!

There was a pregnant pause before he broke the silence with, “Actually, I’ve got a couple a songs put aside, thinkin’ of gettin’ in the studio, gettin’ them down, ya know?”  He looked to me as if he was testing a marketing idea.

“Oh, John, that’s wonderful.  Really?”  I’d been starving for five years for something new from him, but it seemed that reconciliation with Madam Butterfly had put a crimp in his creativity.  At least, that’s how it seemed.  Who could know for sure, other than he himself?  If I could only crawl into that head for a moment, have a look…

“Just thinkin’ about it.  I don’t know if I want to open all that up again, all the bullshit.”

“I understand.  You’ll know when you’re ready.  If you’re not, don’t.  Not until you’re sure.”

He looked at me funny, and again I wished I could yank out my tongue.  Who was I to speak to him with such familiarity?  Giving him advice?  Jesus.  Feeling as if you know someone intimately, when in reality he is a virtual stranger, is hell.

I was also starting to worry that he could see into my soul, knew about all my fantasy adventures that we co-starred in, and I suddenly wanted to crawl into a hole and die.  Please don’t let him think that I’m a lunatic-kook, I prayed.  Please just let him see that I’m a normal girl that goes to work every day, has a life, family, friends.  I just happened to be helplessly, hopelessly, passionately in love with him.  That’s normal, isn’t it?  No.  It is not.

“Right,” he stated simply, still with that quizzical look on his face, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me.

A couple of minutes went by as I forged ahead, not having much more luck in this direction.  The silence was starting to feel awkward.

“Do you really stay in and bake bread?” I asked.  Never know when to quit, do you Val?

“Had to say I was doin’ something, didn’t I?  I did it once.  I do like lookin’ after Sean, though.  He’s amazin’ and quite the little conversationalist and my best friend these days.  But even that can get wearing all day long, and when I’ve had enough, I just give him over to the nanny.”

“Nice to be rich.  He’s very beautiful.”  I was dying to ask him about Julian, who was coming up on seventeen now.  What he’s doing with his life, does he see him much, but this time I do bite my tongue and let it go.  I already got the drift that Julian is a sore subject and don’t want to pry.

“Thanks.  And I am gettin’ out a lot more now, traveling even.  We were just coming back from seeing some investment property Mother just got for us.  The stars were just right the orbits, just so.”

I did give him a smirk at this point.  I have low tolerance for that sort of nonsense, and when I read about him and his quests for the ‘next big thing’, I always wonder if he really swallows it all, or if he’s just entertaining us or having us on.  All that was okay in the ‘60’s, when you were young, and what do you do with all that fame and glory and insanity?  You do drugs and Maharishi, that’s what.    Come on, John, you’re much too smart and cynical for all that bullshit!  Tell me that you are.

I looked into his eyes.  They were twinkling, and the grin takes my breath away.  Oh, John Winston, if you only knew how much I love you.

“I’m glad you’re out and about now,” I said.  “You looked absolutely pasty five years ago.  That picture of you in the papers the day you got your green card had me worried sick for you.  I wondered where my handsome Adonis had gone.  I’m glad to see he’s back, and looking great, but much too thin.”

“You know what they say.  You can never be too rich or too thin.”

“You’re too thin.  Must be that weird-o macrobiotic diet you’re on.”  There, I said it, and at this I didn’t care if he took offense.  He was much more handsome with a few more pounds on him, but don’t get me wrong, I’d take him any which way.  Literally and figuratively, if you know what I mean.

“And you’re very opinionated,” he stated tersely.

“And you’re very lucky, I think I see a service station up ahead.”  Relieved to get to momentarily drop the direction the conversation is taking, I drove in and pulled up to the lit-up office.  We both got out of the car and went inside to find a rather beastly looking guy in navy blue coveralls and work boots, his feet resting atop the desk strewn with papers, eating a sandwich with blackened fingers that looked as if they could never ever get clean again.

“Uh, hi,” said I.  “My friend’s car died on the Palisades and probably needs a tow.  And we need to make a phone….

“No can do.  My pick-up’s out.  I just got a dispatch from a trooper to pick up a car on the Palisades between Exits 7 & 8.   My guy called in that some rich broad didn’t want to be towed here and offered my guy $200 bucks just to tow her all the way in to New York.  Nothin’s doing, so I told him to go ahead.”

“That’s me!  We have to get back there,” John said excitedly.

“What do you mean?” the man asked.  “They already left.”

“They what?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah, he hitched her up and they’re on their way.  Probably at the GWB by now.”

“She wouldn’t have left me here.  She knows I was comin’ back for ‘er,” John said, quite annoyed now.

“What she knows is you left her there alone, and that you have a ride home,” I gently corrected him.  “My gas tank’s almost empty,” I said to Mr. Coveralls.  “Can you fill it up please?  Regular.”

“Fuck,” John muttered through gritted teeth.  “Do you mind getting back on at the far exit and make sure she’s not still sittin’ there, just to make sure?”

“Let’s go,” I said with a smile, almost as if I was indulging a child.  God, he loves her so much, I thought.  At least that’s what I chose to think.  Best to leave other thoughts aside so I didn’t say anything stupid and blow this lovely encounter.  Looks like I do get to drive him all the way home after all, I thought happily.  Great day.  Greatest of my life.

And so, after my tank was filled, I got on at Exit 8 and when I see that same familiar hill approaching where I first spotted their car, of course, it’s gone.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe it!” he yelled, slamming his hand on the dashboard.  “She just left me here.  Imagine me doin’ that!  Never fuckin’ live it down!”

“Don’t  worry,  John.  I’ll get you home.  I’m sure she realizes…”

“Not the goddamn point, is it?  Bitch!  Get off at the next exit,” he demanded, his face a contorted mask.  Why, I wondered.  Never mind why.  To the moon, my love, and I did as he asks.

We drove along for about a mile before I heard him yell, “There!” as he points down what looks like a fork in the road, now lit up by twinkling lights, towards what looks like a restaurant and a small inn.  I pulled into the parking lot, as there was nowhere else to go, and stopped.  I turned to him nervously, and waited.

“I’m hungry.  You’re hungry, aren’t ya?” he asked.   Only it was more like a demand. 

“Starving!”  Of all the things to ask!  I’m that transparent, aren’t I?  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Val.  Even if that’s his intent, make no mistake, you’re just payback.  She’s Don Corleone, holding the strings. Only I don’t care!

He unceremoniously got out and headed into the warmth of the restaurant.  I followed helplessly, wondering what would happen next, and immediately worried about what would happen if he was recognized, and I wanted to protect him desperately.   I had an overwhelming urge to place a blanket over his head, not let anyone see him.

“John, wait!” I whispered urgently and stepped in front of him as we were greeted by a hostess near the door with menus in her hand.

“Two, please,” I interceded, as she greets us, she barely noticing that this man behind me was, well…  It was only matter of seconds, moments, before all hell would break loose and the entire restaurant would start screaming…Bedlam!

“This way, please.”  Are you out of your effing mind?, I telepathically asked the hostess, who was not even looking at either of us.  Whoa!  Take a real look and see what you have here!  The biggest star, the greatest celebrity song-writing genius ever to cross your threshold.  Are you blind?, I wondered.  How could she not notice?  Had it been that long?  Was she that much younger than I?  Had the world desensitized?  Gone balmy?

We were seated in a dark corner near a window, a candle burning on the table.  She handed us each a menu and asked if we cared for anything from the bar. 

“Brandy Alexander,” he said deliberately, without hesitation. 

“Those go down like milk shakes,” I threw back at him.

“For me, lethal,” he said with a grin.  “Ice cream with a kick.  Can’t handle ‘em.”

“And you decide to unleash them on me?” I asked with a laugh.

“You look like you can handle it,” he answered, and fixed me with “the look”.  The self-same look he gave, to a tee, to Victor Spinetti when he said, and I quote Mr. Spinetti, “I won an award.  It’s on the wall in my office.”  That look.  Just kill me now.  “Don’t you want anything?”  He seemed insistent.

“I’d like to get you home in one piece,” I answered.

“I’m sure you will,” he replied. “And if not, this place looks decent enough.  Have something.”

“Glass of red wine.  Burgundy.”

“Atta’ gurl!”  His look was smug, like round one was his.  Didn’t he know that there would not be a fight, that I was a sure thing?  That all he had to do was give me a come hither look or a “Come ‘ed”?  Funny how the “good girl” was so easily replaced by the easy whore when it came to Mr. Right.  Stop setting me up, John.  I’m here, I’m yours.  A minute, an hour, a day, however long you want.

When the waitress had gone, he said, “So, Valerie DeMarco…is there a Mr. DeMarco?”

“Never was, though I am divorced.  I dropped the slime-bucket’s name.  But there is a formidable Mrs. Lennon, I noticed.”

“Fer now,” he threw out dismissively.

“Bad come-back, John.  Even I know it would take a whole lot more than, well, leaving you behind on the road.”

“When did this become ‘analyze John’?” he asked with considerable attitude.  “Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re the Lennon expert.”  The sarcasm in his voice was so overwhelming that I quite admit, it got me so embarrassed and flustered that I was afraid to meet his gaze.

“Sorry…I had no right.”  I felt my cheeks go hot, and I’m sure turned crimson with humiliation.  We both got quiet and remained so until the drinks arrived, whereupon John downed his in two swigs before demanding another.

John’s eyes darted around the room, I guess trying to ascertain if he’d been noticed at all.  The room was about half full, no one seated immediately near us, and no one gave us a second look.  He took a deep breath and seemed to relax, especially when the waitress brought him his second drink.  I nursed my wine.  I had to drive.

“John,” I started, “I only meant that your relationship is just so…out there.  You hold nothing back, it seems.  I’m sure those of us that give a damn are bound to form some sort of conclusions, both good and not so good, based on what you give us.  I do know how very much you love her.  It’s evident in your music.  She’s a very lucky woman.”

I tried to keep my voice even and not betray my emotions.

“She kept me from self-destruction,” he stated mechanically.  Not another word on her Val.

“Well then, I thank God for that,” I said, and gave him a big, bright smile.  I’d always been told my smile was my best feature.  I guess it must be true because he seemed to break down and dazzled me with one of his.

“So what do you do with yerself when yer not picking up strangers on the road?  You have a job?”

I scrunched my nose and mouth, then stuck my tongue out at him.  “No, I’m independently wealthy.  Granddad’s trust fund kicked in a while back and I only drive that economy shebang because I can’t stand any ostentatious shows.  I like to keep in touch with the common schlub.  Keeps me humble.”

He smiled and gave a little snort, then a conspiratorial giggle.  “No really, what do you do?  I want to know.  Really.”

This would excite him.  “I work for a trade association.  It’s a small place, only eight people, which I like, and I’m sort of the office manager now, a little of this, of little of that.  Since I’m there I’ve had to learn everyone’s job, filling in for the bookkeeper who only works part-time, the member services director who is out on the road a lot meeting with the membership, justifying his almost, but not quite, six-figure paycheck.  I also organize the yearly national convention, blah, blah, blah.  A glorified secretary really, since when it comes to having to type, I’m the only one who everyone brings their shit to.”

“What sort of trade is it?” he asked.

“Builders’ hardware…doors, door knobs, locks, keys.”  I stopped, and we looked at each other and both burst out laughing at the same time.

“So you’re the one looking after the knob and key people?” he asked, pointing at me.  “I’ve asked meself a thousand times, stayed awake nights wondering.”

“Someone has to.  It’s the job I was born to do,” I said, then thought, how utterly sad!  I turned my thoughts to the exciting ride they must have had to the top, trying to make it, both the good and hard times, and found myself envying him so much the struggle that paid off – never for one moment not giving him his due of both hard work and incredible talent.

“I like office girls,” he said quietly, almost shyly.  “They’re my favorite kind really.  I hate show biz types, both the talent and behind the scenes people, and most especially the press.  Stab ye in the heart as soon as look at ya.  I learned that soon enough.  They love ‘ya on the way up, the great story, the ‘exclusives’, then can’t wait to uncover the good shit and knock you on ‘yer ass.  And teachers are a bit prissy.  Cyn would’ve probably been a teacher if she hadn’t gotten involved with the wrong sort.”  He made a mocking, self-deprecating face.  “But office girls are quiet, unpretentious, smart, and fun.”

“How well you know me!” I acknowledged with a grin.  “Though I don’t know how quiet I am anymore.  Having your heart broken can turn you into a foul-mouthed bitch soon enough.”

“I like those too,” he hastened to assure me.  Round two – Lennon.  If I could just get one fantastic kiss out of this, please God, that’s all I ask, I would scrub the church floors for the rest of my miserable lonely life.

The waitress returned for our dinner order, whereupon John ordered us several appetizers to try, a huge steak dinner with potatoes and the works for both of us, stopping only to ask how I like mine (we both like medium-rare), more drinks, and asked if they had chocolate cake for dessert.  She hastened to assure him that they had a wonderful German chocolate Black Forest cake and that she would bring a dessert menu later.

“How’s that for macro-biotic, miss?” he asked, all smiles, slurring just a bit after the second drink.

“Delicious.  I’m very proud of you.”

He very quickly looked into my eyes.  “Why would you say that?  It’s only food.”

“Maybe after all these years I just needed to say that to you and the food was as good an excuse as any.  You’re an incredible man and I am very proud of you.  There are so many things, but even if it was only the music, that would be more than enough.”

Something happened to his expression, and I wasn’t quite sure if he was flattered and touched, or if he thought I was giving him a snow-job – kissing up like people tended to do with celebrities when they wanted something from them.  The truth was, I wanted nothing and would have paid a king’s ransom for these precious moments with him.  He’d probably laugh out loud at me if I told him that this very moment in time was the happiest of my entire life.  Things like that are better left unsaid, aren’t they?  People tend to think you’re not quite right in the head. 

His third drink was placed in front of him and he took a slow sip this time.

“Have a taste,” he said, handing me the glass, not breaking eye contact.  I took the glass from him with both hands, making sure to gently touch his hand with one of mine, slowly turning the glass to the spot where I knew his mouth had been.  It didn’t go unnoticed.  Well, no sense in hiding the fact that there’s a woman in here, just in case…

“It’s wonderful.  I’ll have to be sure and have one sometime.”

“Are you coming on to me, Miss DiMarco?”

“You handed me the glass…”

“And you made sure we exchanged spit.”

“Not quite yet, Mr. Lennon, but on the subject of spit-exchanging, I’ve been told I’m quite adept.”

“Good.  Now I can relax and enjoy my dinner.”

“Good for you!  Now I won’t be able to.”

He laughed wickedly, and it was contagious and good-natured.  I finally had a good feeling that he genuinely liked me.  What happens, happens.

                                                           *    *    *

The food wasn’t the best.  I am from New York and Italian, so I know, but he ate like a man having his last meal on death row.  It made me wonder if she ever let him eat a goddamn thing at home, he was that surprisingly slight.  I did enjoy the stuffed mushrooms appetizer, most especially when he hand-fed me a couple with his fingers.  At that point, I became quite sure I would wake up very soon, or at a much more inopportune moment.

When the waitress came with the dessert menu, all he said was, “Chocolate cake and another drink!”  He was happy and feeling no pain.  I felt happy for him.  I got the distinct feeling that he didn’t let go like this much any more, he seemed to be enjoying this a bit too much.  Imagine that!  When he looked to me for my dessert choice, knowing his fondness for chocolate, I ordered chocolate mint ice cream with lots of whipped cream.

“Chocolate sauce?” the waitress asked.

“Yes,” John answered for me.  We both giggled.

“Well, Mr. Chocoholic…”

“Shhhh.” He held his finger to his lips.  “Don’t tell Mother.”

Mother!  I may puke.  This poor man has some definite issues, and that woman is many things, but maternal is not something that jumps to mind.

We dug into our desserts, and he kept reaching over the table to dip into my ice cream and hogging up all the whipped cream.

“Good?” I prodded him.

He laughed and almost choked.  “Sorry, did you want some?”  He then took a large piece of his cake onto his fork, along with some of my ice cream and whipped cream and held it up to my mouth.  I was forced to open my mouth unattractively wide to receive it and got some cream on my face in the process. 

“Very good girl!” he said suggestively, wiping the cream from my chin with his finger.  He waited expectantly with it at my mouth, then downed his entire brandy in one gulp.

After licking the cream from his finger, I laughed suddenly and had to cover my mouth to keep everything in.  When the waitress returned to ask if we wanted anything else, I just asked for the check, but John ordered one more drink along with it.  I wondered what kind of shape he’d be in when we stood up, even though he was quite charming and seemed to be in control.  He did have about six drinks.  I remembered the trouble he had in L.A. with those things.

When the check arrived, John immediately starting digging in his pockets for his wallet and didn’t seem to be able to find it. 

“Damn, damn, fuck!  Don’t do this to me,” he muttered through clenched teeth.  “It’s in the goddamn car.”  He dug in his front pocket, and came up with some cash, but only about $23.00.  “God, back in the day in England, all we had to do is show our faces and sign.  Anywhere.  Then they’d send a bill off to the office.  I don’t suppose that would work here.”

“It’s okay, John, how much is the check?” I asked.

“That’s terrible.  I can’t let you do that, you’ve been so…”

I took the check and saw that it came to $67.00.  I didn’t have enough cash to make up the difference plus a tip, and immediately reached for my fairly new credit card.

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”  I laughed to myself.  Story of my life.  My dinner with the millionaire.  Guess who paid?

“I’m sorry, girl, I’ll get you the money, don’t worry.  I think I’m good for it, honest,” he said sheepishly.  “This is really embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry,” I said smugly as I signed the slip and got up to don my jacket. “Now you owe me.”

“I owed you before this.  You’re a very nice person,” he said, pointing at me, as he stood up and swayed a bit, then threw the whole $23.00 on the table.  I grabbed his arm.

“You okay?”

“Maybe if I just leaned on ‘ya a bit…” he said as he threw his arm around my shoulder.

I could feel his breath on my cheek.  Kill me now!  

We walked unsteadily toward the door and when he got me in the vestibule, he backed me into the side wall and planted his chocolate/brandy tasting mouth on mine.  Delicious, and it had nothing at all to do with the brandy or the chocolate.  It had been so long since I’d been kissed, and to be on the receiving end of a kiss from the man of my most impossible dreams was totally overwhelming.  My tongue hungrily devoured him as I pulled him to me, my hands brazenly pulling his butt toward me, feeling him, really him, hard against me, my eyes shut tight, lost, totally lost.  This was happening, really and truly happening. 

After a time, I opened my eyes, slowly, almost afraid to face him, only to find him looking directly at me.  Very sobering.  He’d been watching me fall apart in his arms.  He continued to just look at me and I immediately felt foolish and unconfortable.  I felt beads of sweat break out on my forehead.

Then the sweetest moment of my life – he leaned in and kissed me again, softly at first and then hard and urgently, and this time I watched and he closed his eyes.  When he pulled away he stroked my cheek and said, “Take me home with you?”

I weighed what I should say and decided that anything at all would sound lame, and so I just took his hand and led him out into the cold and into my car.

                                                                 *   *   *

We sat in the parking lot, waiting for the car to warm up, making out like rutting teenagers. 

“You don’t mind if I warm my hands, do ‘ya?” he asked as he slipped them under my sweater and caressed my breasts.

“I insist,” I said, as we both started taking liberties that would very soon be out of control if we didn’t stop right now. 

“John,” I said breathlessly, “can we…please wait?  I don’t want this to happen out here in the cold this way.  Do you mind?”

He smiled, and he was quite drunk, but he held my face with both hands and kissed me sweetly.  “Okay babe, start driving.”

“Thanks,” I answered, both my hands and voice shaking.  I pulled out of the parking lot slowly and carefully, and asked him to buckle up.  I was very nervous about protecting my precious cargo.

Before we even reached the George Washington Bridge, John had curled up sideways into a fetal position and was sound asleep.  On the ride down the West Side Highway, I constantly turned to look at him and tried to play the scene in my mind when we got downtown to my apartment.  Waking him up, taking him upstairs half-asleep…it all of a sudden seemed so awkward.  I decided to take him directly to The Dakota and offer him the option of an out if he wanted it.  While I knew I was not with John the Baptist here, I also didn’t want him to feel obligated to perform just because I gave him a ride and a dinner.  If he convinced me that he really wanted to come home with me, we could always continue downtown.

You’ll only be a one-night stand, Val.  Can you handle that? On the other hand can you live with never having the experience, the memory to cherish?  The truth was, I didn’t know.

I pulled up next to the gate at The Dakota and gently shook John awake.  “Rise and shine, babe,” I said.  He stirred and sat up straight and looked around.

“Why’re we here?” he asked.

“Just to make sure you really want to continue to my place or not.  I thought maybe after your nap, you might think better of it.”  Val, you really are certifiable.          

“Well, I haven’t,” he said.  He sounded sincere.

“I just don’t want to incur the wrath of…she probably already did a Dun and Bradstreet on me.  Not that there would be anything at all to find.”

He laughed.  “Quite scary, the things that come out of yer mouth.  You’re probably right, tonight might not be the best time.  But I really do want to see you again.  Please?”

I searched his eyes.  The streetlamp was shining right in his face, and I asked, “You mean it?”

“I’ve been known to tell a fib or two, but yes, I mean it.  You’re…”  He stroked my arm gently.  “You’re very easy to talk to, and I want to…”

“Oh, who do I think I’m kidding, you know I’m a sure thing.  Don’t be cute!”

He gave me a sort of tee-hee giggle and bent in to kiss me.  When I came up for air, I noticed the doorman in the enclosure by the gate staring at us with a grin on his face.

“John,” I said apprehensively, and I gently pushed him away while not taking my eyes from the doorman. 

John turned to see what I was looking at, then said, “Oh, don’t worry.   That’s Phil.  He’s a mate, ‘specially at Christmas.”

“I’m sure,” I said sarcastically.  “Well…”  I reached down for my bag, rummaged through and found a piece of mail addressed to me, separated the envelope, and quickly added my phone numbers, both home and office, to it.  I then folded it up and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jacket. 

“Button up,” I said, as I buttoned up his jacket.  “And don’t go out again in this weather with such flimsy clothing!  You must be crazy leaving the house like that.”  He seemed a bit taken aback at my general aggressive bossiness.  I figured he liked bossy women, and might as well have a taste of one who obsessed over him personally.

“Well, I usually just run out of the car and into wherever I’m going.  I never anticipated this.  Or you, madam.”  He hugged me with both arms, hard, and I returned the favor.

“Don’t lose those numbers,” I demanded.

He sighed.  “That’s a distinct possibility.  Here,” he said, as he rolled back the sleeve of his jacket. “Write them on here.”  I scrawled them on the inside of his sleeve with my ballpoint pen and suggested he also tattoo them somewhere on his person. “I will call you.  I promise, Val.  Safe home, luv, and thank you.”

“No, thank you,” I said, and a tear dripped from my eye.

He wiped it away and said, “Don’t.” 

He got out and closed the door gently.  I watched him walking into the building, silently praying that it would not be the last time I ever see him.  He turned and waved before disappearing from sight.  Oh, that walk!

                                                                 *   *   *

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  No other word for what I was.  Talk about your lost opportunities.  It was now one week, and I still had not heard from him.  Every time the phone rang at work, I jumped for it.  I looked like the model of efficiency.  By day four I went out and bought one of those answering machines.  Nothing.  I was in most of the time anyway, staring at the phone, willing it to ring.  By day five I came down from the high, could no longer actually feel his lips on mine, and did nothing but blubber like a baby.  All I could do was lament the fact that I walked away from the opportunity to make love to the man of my dreams.  Perhaps if I wasn’t a total imbecile, we could have had a somewhat wonderful affair that would have lasted years, a lifetime.

Or…we could have had one night of incredible passion and I also might be in this self-same situation right now, looking at the phone, willing it to ring.  Which was worse?  I couldn’t tell you, because nothing was worse than this.  The one and only undeniable truth about pain is that it was undeniably yours.

Part Two Coming Soon!

Lena King a New York State Supreme Court Clerk, and she loves her job.  In a prior incarnation she worked as a secretary and married quite young (twenty) to a Beatle person (twenty-one), a match made in Beatle heaven, or so she thought.  Would you believe his birthday was July 7th?  Typically, he had is mid-life crisis at thirty.  He got his new trollop and she got their beautiful daughter, who ironically, is now in her mid-twenties.  She knows almost as much about the Fabs as her mother does, whether she likes it or not.  (She does.)  "How did they get outside the train mommy?" she giggled at four.  She's been spoon fed the stuff ever since.

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