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I mean, I’d love to live in Manhattan, personally. You must think I’m crazy for saying that. It was Manhattan, after all, and sometimes I think that everyone who lives there is a kook in one way or another. Some were children and families and old people.
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Half of them weren’t even that weird, I guess. Bums and freaks and yuppies walked, jogged, and roller-bladed by us beneath the emerald canvas of maple and oak trees above. Don’t ask me why.Īnyway, we sat a little while longer in silence. I felt obliged to act cosmopolitan and divulge every little tidbit of information that I knew about New York, regardless of how insignificant or half-true it was. I always tried to impress them with my vast knowledge of the history and culture of Manhattan Island. It was always like that when friends of mine from the suburbs visited me in the city. Mary didn’t answer me, but that was okay, because I knew that I’d told her something that she didn’t know. But I knew that it had something to do with his death or the Beatles or whatever, so I figured what the hell. Hell, I don’t even remember him getting shot since I was only a baby when it happened. I couldn’t remember whether or not that part of the park was called Strawberry Fields before Lennon was shot. I know exactly how Chapman felt, about the doorman at least. What I’ve always loved is that he offered The Catcher in the Rye as his statement, and that he asked the cops to apologize to the doorman. He had all sorts of reasons for killing Lennon, but the reasons have never interested me much. I guess he felt bad that the doorman had to watch the slaughtering right before his eyes. Then he requested that they go back and apologize to the apartment doorman that witnessed the shooting. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye from his coat pocket, and presented it as his statement to the cops. Later on, when Chapman was being booked by the NYPD, he was asked for a statement. If my memory serves me correctly-and it usually does-Chapman approached Lennon one evening in 1980 and shot him in the chest. A few years ago, I read a book about his killer, Mark David Chapman. John Lennon’s murder has always fascinated me. It’s a memorial to John Lennon, named after the song by the same name.” “That’s why this part of the park is called Strawberry Fields. “That’s where John Lennon was murdered.” She let out a quiet “oh,” and I continued. “See that building,” I said, pointing in the general direction of four or five ashen gray Upper West Side apartment buildings jutting into the transparent sky. Compelled by my frayed nerves to break a twenty-minute long silence, I began to speak. Her chubby pale thighs were smooshed next to mine, so I couldn’t avoid her presence even if I tried. I might’ve felt alone in Central Park with Mary, but that’s not the same thing. As far as I’m concerned, the only comfortable silence occurs when you’re alone. I probably never told you this, but it happens to me often. I’ve always loathed those awkward quiet moments, and the feeling of nothingness they create between me and another person. For me, it’s difficult to have a comfortable silent moment with almost anyone, especially a girl, that’s not a close, close friend. And I was humming so low that Mary couldn’t even hear me. I was humming Imagine, by John Lennon, and thinking about how true the song was, and how I wish I could feel peace-in my own life and in the world. After being with any person, even a friend, for almost four hours straight, it’s almost impossible to think of something to talk about. Exhausted and hot, we sat for a while in silence. We were on the west side, a few hundred feet from the intersection of 70 th Street and Central Park West, anchored to a splintery green bench. So there we were, Mary and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of New York’s Central Park. In order to really understand my plight, I need to start with the events of this afternoon… There’s so much to write that I don’t even know where to begin. I just wanted to write and let you know how it all came to this, and to make sure you understand that it was all completely my doing. And I know that despite what you’re feeling now, you will all be better off soon. It is a day that Joel Joseph L’Enfant finally made a mature decision. And Tracy, if you’re reading this, too, you’re thinking about how we used to be such good friends when we were kids, and regretting that since we became teenagers we’ve barely spoken.īut why? Today is a day of freedom.
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Mom, you’re wishing you’d quit drinking just a few years earlier. Dad, you’re wondering where you went wrong.