N O W H E R E M A N

 

The audience was ablaze. They clapped restlessly, cheering the beat of the drummer. I live for this, he thought as he stepped onto the stage. A rush of adrenaline washed over him as the crowd erupted.

Twenty-nine hours earlier...

He sat on the couch alone in his dressing room, with a half-empty bottle of scotch on the floor next to him. He fumbled in his pockets for his pill bottle, carefully removing it. He twisted open the child-proof lid and poured four black pills into his hand. In one fluid motion, he put his hand to his mouth and tossed his head back, helping the pills down his throat. He lay back on the couch, resting his head on the back of the red leather chair. With his left hand, he felt around on the floor for the bottle of scotch.

He closed his lips around the opening of the bottle of scotch and gulped until he couldn't gulp anymore. He dropped the bottle to the carpet and walked to the door. A cool breeze flowed in as he opened the door. He weakly lifted his hand and pointed to a pretty blond groupie in tight clothes. With every dizzy muscle in his body, he beckoned the girl to his dressing room.

Five hours later...

He sat on the couch, with a woman lying naked across his legs, a line of cocaine on her buttocks. He rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and snorted the powder. I am the Lord of Rock, he thought, as the cocaine kicked in, rendering him dazed and confused. He tossed the naked woman from his legs and walked to the mirror. 

Although he was only twenty-nine, he looked closer to forty. His face appeared long and weathered until he added makeup. He sported shaggy brown hair, a short beard, and mirror-framed aviator sunglasses. He wore the shades to hide the glossiness of his eyes.

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 when he cared how the crowd reacted. All he cared about now were the drugs, alcohol, and women. That was it. His music was no longer burdened by secret messages warning of war and famine. Now he no longer even wrote his own music. Times had changed, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to satisfy his own needs and desires.

He felt the electricity of the crowd and fed off it. As he stood onstage, he belted out the songs into the microphone. The concert was going well, until he felt a numbness in his left foot that shot up his leg and into his chest. He fell to the ground, gasping and shrieking. His entire body felt as if it were on fire. He quickly got to his feet and attempted to continue the concert. However, within five minutes he hit the floor again, but this time, he didn't get back up. Everything went black.
. . .

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. A few clouds could be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly. Trees slowly waved in the light breeze that blew through the field. All was peaceful and serene…yet odd.

He realized that he was sitting beneath a large oak tree, on a little bench made from a tree trunk. On the bench were a glass ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and a green apple.

He stood to get another look at the field around him, and saw a figure approaching him. He leaned against the oak tree, his shoulder propped gently on the bark of the trunk as he waited. As the figure came into view, he realized who it was. He returned to bench and sat down. He saw a thin man with brown hair, bushy sideburns, small soulful eyes behind yellow tinted circular spectacles. His suspicions were confirmed - he was in the presence of John Lennon.

"Am I dead?" he asked John.

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

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

"That is a lot of assuming without really knowing the facts. 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 assume you have many questions, a few of which I have answers to. I'll 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 here as well to convince you to change your ways. Have you ever read Dickens?"

"Yes. Does this make you like the ghosts in 'A Christmas Carol'?"

"No, just the Ghost of Rock and Roll Past," John said with a sly grin. "I don't have time to go over your entire life story - I assume you already know it. I think I'll just help you go over your current life's decisions. Judging by your appearance, you play in a band. Do you write your own music?"

"No, sir. Well, I used to. I don't anymore. It’s too much of a pain in the ass to deal with."

"A pain in the arse? Writing is the best part of the musical process. For me, it 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 you 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?"

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

"All I remember was that I was on stage performing," he said, as he removed another cigarette from the pack.

"You passed out on stage. Your heart almost stopped, and you are currently in hospital. I once sang, 'Living is easy with eyes closed'. But believe me, you’re misunderstanding all you see. I confess, I did 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 arse of myself. 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 as I said many times later in my life, doing things straight without the drugs was so much better. You should try it.

"That’s a good point, John. If I may ask, since we're on the topic of drugs. 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'. Is that supposed to be about LSD?"

"Not at all. My son Julian came home from school with a drawing of a strange looking woman flying around. I asked him who she was, and he said she was Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. That became my inspiration for the song. Any other questions?"

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

"I don't know. Apparently, someone out there thought I would have the biggest effect on your life, to help you change. That assumption comes from the fact that people believed, with my anti-war and anti-violence messages, that I ultimately helped change the course of history. Perhaps I can help change yours. My friend, there is hope for you. Just have faith and do what you can. Believe what I say to you here. I'm afraid my time is up, and you need to get back. You've got a show to perform in a few hours."

John stood up and started to walk away.

“But John…” John stopped and remained still for a moment.

From his seat, the man asked, "What about you? Do you have any questions for me?"

"How are Yoko and my sons?" John asked, without turning around.
"I don't personally know, but I believe they are doing okay."

"That's good. You take care," said John.

He watched John walk away until he disappeared from view. Slowly, the field seemed to spin around him. He closed his eyes.
. . .

He woke up in a hospital bed. His head hurt, and he was struggling to remember what had happened. He was released from the hospital three hours before his next show, and had already sent word through his manager that the show would go on as planned. It was made clear that what had happened the previous night was just a minor setback and that he would be all right.

The night moved quickly, as he stood in his dressing room, frantically throwing away the alcohol and drugs that were left over from the night before. When a groupie knocked on the door, he dismissed her. He remembered Lennon's advice, and decided to perform this show straight. As he stood in the shadows backstage, he listened closely to the crowd, waiting for his cue, as the drummer began. The audience was ablaze once again.

I live for this, he thought, as he stepped onto the stage. A rush of adrenaline hit him as the crowd exploded into a loud cheer. It had taken a near death experience and an appearance by John Lennon, but he would finally really live for the first time. His eyes were truly open.

Now, when he's visited by ego, fear, or grief, at least he will embrace the fact that he will be making his own choices. It won’t always be easy, but living with eyes open never is.