Double Fantasy

Bo’s fight or flight instinct kicked in and he punched the cop square in the face. The oversized paddy let out an ‘Oof’ and his legs crumbled while Bo leaped over the turnstile. Sprinting past bewildered tourists and conditioned locals, Bo rushed deep into the midtown subway station scanning frantically for the red line.

A rush of heat brought on by the train hastened the December chill with a familiar screeching halt. Bo had enough time to enter the bustling subway car and think of nothing but how the smell and sound of the New York subway hadn’t changed in 97 years. With that aroma of memory flooding his senses Bo began to remember all sorts of things.

Nobody had chased or followed him, that was good. He scanned the car for an empty seat as his head began to quake with a dull ache. He nudged past a man reading a newspaper and took a seat by the window. Looking out the window into the darkness of the underground Bo saw a reflection looking back at him he barely recognized.

Less than an hour ago he had been an 85- year-old man. And now? Bo grinned at himself and inspected a mouth full of teeth. The wrinkles and weathered wisdom he had earned throughout his lifetime had disappeared. He was 16 again. More memories engulfed him, and he panicked slightly trying to keep up with his own thoughts and excitement.

The recruitment team had stopped by the retirement home a few weeks ago. After a series of cognitive and physical tests they had pulled Bo into a private interview room.

“First of all, Sergeant Vandergriendt allow me to thank-you for what you did for our country in North Korea.”

“I’m retired, son. But thank-you.”

“Are you aware of the semi-recent advances in time travel?” The uniformed officer asked. Bo nodded. The officer continued. “Are you aware of the government’s efforts to alter historical events?”

“I know you guys have been trying to play catch up.” Bo replied.

“This is true. Since the private sector discovered time travel there has been too much change too quickly. Every Tom, Dick and Harry going back to convince ‘Grandpappy’ to invest in something called ‘Google’ has created too many negative rippling effects. The world has changed. That’s why we’ve banned citizen time travel. And that’s why we are seeking recruits like you.”

“Recruits like me?” Bo said with interest.

“Sgt. Vandergriendt how would you like…”

“Call me Bo.”

“Bo, how would you like another shot at life? What if I told you, you could have another 65... hell, 80 years on this planet?”

“So, what do you guys need me to do? Kill Hitler?”

“Unfortunately, nobody can kill Hitler because he is already dead. And he died well before 1970 which at this point is the farthest we’re able to go back.”

1970? Bo marveled at the notion. The was over 107 years ago.

“Time travel is a delicate science Sgt. Van… Bo. There is still a lot to figure out, but things have been moving too fast. Our world structure is too brittle to wait. There is war and famine everywhere on this planet and we need soldiers out there in the dirt of the front lines as well as in the shadows of the past.”

Bo opened his eyes again unaware he had been dosing in deep thought. He was on the subway again. It stank of a musky sweetness which Bo deduced as Tobacco. He hadn’t smelled tobacco since he was in his 50’s. And now he was here in this strange time where seemingly everyone smoked.

He glanced around the subway car and noticed something else amongst the populace. They were immersed in their lives. They were on schedules; they were going to work. They had families and they were free. The horrors of the future were still decades away and they all shared a cocoon of ignorance.

Bo rolled up the sleeves of a denim jean jacket, part of the uniform he had been equipped with before being sent back. He noticed 3 small tattoos in black ink written on his forearm. When they had given him the tattoos less than 24 hours ago, they had been red and raised and they had been his first. Now they were soft and healed, embedded so deep in his young skin it looked as if he had come out of the womb with them.

He ran his finger over the first of the tattoos. The man beside him coughed as he turned the page of his New York Post. Bo eyed the date on the cover and then considered his tattoo. December 8, 1980 was the date on the post. 12/8/80 read the ink on his forearm. More memories came to Bo.

“Naturally your system might be a bit shocked when you come to and in all likelihood, you won’t remember much about the mission.” The recruitment officer had been talking nonstop since Bo signed the release forms. There was a man in army fatigues and the buzz of his tattoo gun rattled Bo’s hearing aid. “These tats will be enough to guide you to the right place and clear any space-time cobwebs.”

Bo gritted his teeth trying his best not to wince as the buzzing continued. “So, if I’m not killing Hitler, who am I killing?”

“We’re not killing anyone, Bo! That’s not what we’re using this technology for. This is about the pres-er-va-tion of life!” He said the word preservation by enunciating every syllable with dramatic fashion.

“So, there’s someone I need to save?”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say that either. Listen, I’d really love to tell you more but the less you know the better. Your involvement is miniscule at best and the risk factor is next to nothing.” He stepped forward and peered at the work being done on Bo’s flesh. “Everything you need to know is being etched into your skin. You wait for the date. You go to the location and when you feel the moment you say the codeword. Easy!” The tattoo gun’s irritable buzz turned off and the man in fatigues wiped Bo’s forearm.

Bo wiped his own forearm in the subway car as it came to a screeching stop at 59th street. A lifetime in the city gave a man a sixth sense for public transportation and Bo knew he was one more station and a 10-minute walk away from his new destiny.

The destiny of his old life had been to die alone and bitter in a retirement home. His new destiny had been written the minute the recruitment officer shoved a pile of documents under his nose to sign. In Bo’s eyes living 85 years was enough, here was a new start, why waste his time reading print too small for those very same aged eyes. For all he knew he didn’t have much time left.

“And you’re sure I’ll be… young again?” Bo asked looking at his new tattoos.

The recruitment officer grinned but held up his hands and shrugged. “You’ll definitely be younger, but like I said, ‘time travel is tricky.’ How much younger? We don’t know, it isn’t an exact science and we’re still figuring things out. Hence the reason you can’t go back to 1936 to kill Hitler. Anyone who goes back past 1970 ends up being far too young. We can’t have 8-year-old operatives on assignment completely blind with zero comms! Hell, can you imagine an infant infiltrating the third Reich and killing the goddamn Fuhrer?! This is exactly why we recruit the elderly.”

The recruitment officer continued for some time about the intricate process of time travel and how to avoid several paradoxes. Bo sat and listened, but the technical mumbo jumbo went 44 stories above his head.

“You’ll be stricken with a mad case of puberty, and I can get you within a few hours of the event. Then you’re on your own for the rest of your life, all we ask is this little favor.”

Bo considered the thought. I’ll be a teenager again. “So, this codeword. What does it mean?”

“All you need to know is you wait for the date…”

“I wait for the date, I go to the location, I wait for the moment and say the codeword.”

“Easy!”

“Yeah, one more thing.”

“How will you know when it’s the right moment?” asked the officer.

“Yeah.”

“We just have a feeling you’ll know!”

“You’re trusting a mission spanning time and space to a feeling?”

“It’s like I said Bo, this isn’t an exact science.”

The subway began to slow down approaching Bo’s stop. 66th Street Lincoln Center.

He eyed the second tattoo blended into his young flesh. The Dakota.

Bo walked from the station towards the fabled building. He walked alongside Central Park as yellow taxis honked at one another. The Dakota apartment building loomed ominously ahead, but Bo hadn’t felt this good in years. His knees didn’t ache or protest the movement and his eyes scanned the old New York architecture with youthful exuberance. The initial shock of arriving in 1980 was wearing off and he was taking in the city from a bygone era.

“C’mon sonny, let’s take a stroll downtown.” The cop spoke with the stereotypical Irish droll the cops from ancient movies always displayed. He nudged at Bo laying on the pavement as Bo’s eyes opened for the first time in the 20th century. His first thought was that everything seemed gray and blurry. There was more trash fluttering through the streets, but the biggest difference was the lack of a screen or hologram on every structure. The cop hoisted Bo to his feet and began to drag him. Bo struggled, shocked with the immediate response of his fast twitch muscle fibers. Bo had twisted free and fired off a haymaker.

His knuckles ached where he had punched the cop’s mouth loose. His hand might’ve been broken but still Bo walked on towards the Dakota. A woman in a green dress passed and Bo watched her walk down Central Park W. He had a strange feeling that he knew the woman. The same feeling came to him as he marveled at the Dakota. The 19-century apartment was grim and laced with gothic iconography.

Bo stood by the entrance gate, mindful not to encroach near the security guard. He stood there in the December air observing the cast of characters also mingling near the building’s entrance. Wait for the date. Bo mused to himself. That was easy it was 12/8/80 already. Go to the location. He was at the Dakota and scanned the 10-story structure. Wait for the moment and say the codeword. Bo tried the codeword on for size. Practicing it and playing with it under his breath. He could see the warm air exhale from his mouth into a smokey vapor. Maybe when this was all done, he’d try smoking. After all, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Bo took a seat against the wall of the building and began to watch and wait.

**********************************************************************

Mark David Chapman had been waiting for 3 days. Like Bo, he had a date with destiny. Unlike Bo, he knew what it was. His hand caressed the 38. Special revolver hidden in his jacket pocket. He had placed a piece of cardboard in front of it so the gun’s outline would remain hidden. So the king of the phonies wouldn’t see it.

Mark had been pacing outside the Dakota apartment building for the last 3 days mingling and putting out the vibe. He looked cool and trustworthy as he told anyone who would listen that “I came all the way from Hawaii just to get John Lennon’s autograph.” Which was true, he had gotten John Lennon’s autograph. Mark marveled at the copy of ‘Double Fantasy’ he had clutched under his arm. John Lennon 1980 it had read. There were too many signs to ignore it, this was Mark’s destiny. But he had just stood there dumbfounded as the man he had been waiting outside to shoot for the last 3 days asked him if there was “anything else?”

Mark felt outraged and disgusted with himself upon this reflection. There he was, the king of the phonies and I just stood there waiting for my autograph like a good little phony. Mark spat on the pavement as his pace quickened in time with his heartrate. He glanced to see if that kid was still there and of course he was. He’s the reason I got cold feet. Mark thought to himself.

Mark could feel the kid’s eyes burning a hole through him has he walked up and down the street. This new phony had showed up in the afternoon, popped a squat in front of the Dakota and just sat there, all day. He was weirding everybody out. Mark had gone up to his buddy Jose the doorman.

“You see that kid, Jose? I really think you guys should arrest him or something.”

“Arrest him for what?” Jose replied.

“Loitering!” Mark said. “Obviously.”

Jose sighed after staring at Mark and just shook his head.

Arrest him for what?! That phony doorman should be fired for incompetence.

Mark’s hand remained fixed on the revolver as the night deepened. It would be midnight soon.

“It has to happen tonight.” Mark said aloud to nobody but himself. “There’s too many signs.” He was determined to follow through this time. It took convincing, especially when the congress of little people that Mark sometimes saw abandoned him. But he had put his trust in the word of Holden Caulfield. He had resonated with Holden’s outlook on life and was taught everything that is to be ‘anti-phony.’ As Mark walked, he removed the weathered copy of J.D. Salinger’s ‘Catcher in the Rye’ from his pocket. He opened the book and read on, smiling for the first time since the king of the phonies signed his record.

“’People never notice anything.’ Right, you are Holden Caulfield. You’re right about everything.” Mark cited one of Holden’s favorite quotes. After all he practically was Holden Caulfield. Mark’s fleeting response to receiving the autograph was to hop into a cab, take his signed copy of ‘Double Fantasy’ back home to Hawaii and show his wife. That option was now securely off the table. He had come here to write the 27th chapter. He had come here to pump 5 hollow point bullets into John Lennon’s phony body. He would then lay beside the body and together they would melt into ink and soak into his copy of the world’s greatest book.

“But that kid’s going to screw everything up!” Mark glanced slyly over his shoulder. There was the kid still staring directly at him. “Shit!” Mark exclaimed under his breath. Suddenly Mark felt overwhelmed with a new unforeseen problem. He thought this was supposed to be easy. This phony knows something is up. Mark pivoted walking back towards the entrance gate and the phony kid who just sat there, staring.

One hand clutched the .38 with the copy of ‘Double Fantasy’ tucked in his armpit. In the other he held ‘The catcher in the Rye’ up in front of his nose, with one eye peeking over the book at the kid. The kid sat there with his mohawk, ripped up jeans, a frayed jean jacket and an awful safety pin through his ear. For one terrible instance Mark met his gaze and immediately looked back into his book. The phony knows. Mark’s thoughts nearing the edge of panic.

How could he know, though? How could he know everything Mark had been through since first reading Anthony Fawsett’s ‘John Lennon: One Day at a Time.’ How could he know the murderous rage he felt at the sheer hypocrisy of the man to say ‘imagine no possessions’ when he was comfortably holed up in his exclusive apartment. With his millions of dollars and his yachts and his estates. John Lennon was the ultimate phony and the only person that hated a phony more than Mark David Chapman, was Holden Caulfield.

Rediscovering ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ was another watershed moment for Mark. Suddenly everything was clear, and he compared his last 3 days in New York to Holden Caulfield’s 3 days of self-discovery in the very same city. Even the prostitute Mark paid to give a massage to last night was wearing the same green dress as in the book.

Everything had been lining up for him, he had even met the son of the phony King this morning. He shook the hand of 5-year-old Sean Lennon and called him a ‘beautiful boy’ quoting one of his Dad’s songs from the album he still clutched. The uncomfortable look the nanny had given him as she hushed Sean away seemed to indicate that she knew Mark had a secret, she just didn’t know what.

Mark glanced at his watch; it was almost 10:40 PM. He knew Lennon would be back before midnight, but the anticipation was killing him. It was not lost upon Mark that he had felt a kinship with a 16-year-old kid from a novel, but it was more about the state of mind that they both shared. After tonight, he would get everybody in the world to read this novel. Then they would understand, then the phonies would be exposed.

Mark investigated the direction of the kid; he was sitting down again, and he finally wasn’t staring back at him. It looked as if he had his sleeve rolled while massaging his forearm and whispering to himself. He’s probably an absolute nut. Mark was suddenly blasted with a revelation. Maybe this kid thought HE was Holden Caulfield.

The thought pierced deep into Mark’s brain. The sheer audacity of the notion paralyzed Mark with fear and anger. Now that Mark thought about it, the kid did look like the Holden Caulfield in his mind’s eye. Sure, he was dressed like De Niro from ‘Taxi Driver’ but the vibe he gave off reeked of Holden Caulfield’s angsty perception. “What a phony!” Mark snapped, louder than he had meant to.

Mark could pinpoint the exact feeling he had right now to how he had felt staring at his wife’s copy of ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.’ He was staring at the picture of John Lennon when he knew that he had to kill the man that was once his favorite Beatle. It was his only option.

And now he knew as he stared at the kid, that he had to kill him too. The physical embodiment of Holden Caulfield, this kid. The king of the phonies, John Lennon. He would kill them both and they would all melt into his copy of ‘Catcher’ together.

The copy of ‘Catcher’ that Mark had inscribed inside the front cover. ‘To Holden Caulfield, from Holden Caulfield. This is my statement.’ He had underlined the word ‘This.’ Then everyone in the world would know him, he would be famous, and he would finally be free. The last thing Mark had wondered before the limousine pulled up was if 5 hollow point bullets would be enough.

*********************************************************************

Bo sat shivering up against the Dakota. He had arrived shortly before noon and had patiently staked out his surroundings. It took him less than 10 minutes to notice Mark David Chapman and decide this man had to be involved somehow in whatever it was he needed to do. The strange behavior, the pacing, and the constant stuffing of his face into that old red book. The hand never leaving his front pocket.

In his previous life, Bo had made a career out of psychology and was a behavioral analyst for the Army. He had saved countless lives by predicting violent tendencies and terrorist attacks by simply analyzing drone footage of crowded public places. He knew right away that Mark was dangerous he just didn’t know if he was a danger to himself or to somebody else.

Around 5 o’clock he got his answer. He had been eyeing Mark, nonstop for a few hours when suddenly a posse of people emerged from the Dakota. Bo saw the flashbulb of a camera snapping pictures. He watched the strangely heavy man in an overcoat and tinted glasses nervously hand over what looked like a vinyl music record and a pen to another man in leather jacket.

The body language spoke volumes and Bo almost blurted the codeword to illicit whatever response his destiny called for. But he waited and he watched. He watched the eyes and the micro facial reactions of Mark as whomever he had been waiting for got into a limo and rode off with his wife. As Mark began to pace again, Bo knew that when the limousine returned, whatever he had been sent here to do. Whatever he had been sent here to stop, would happen.

Bo sat patiently, never taking his eyes off his target.

At 10:50 PM on December 8, 1980, the limousine carrying John Lennon and Yoko Ono returned to the Dakota. Everything that happened next took less than 30 seconds.

The door of the limo shut and the two people that Bo recognized from earlier walked briskly past the heavyset man waiting in the shadows. As they passed, Bo could see the man with the pointy nose glance at the man in the shadows and a sliver of recognition crossed his face. Bo jumped to his feet inhaling a gulp of air to deliver his singular line that he had spent the last 10 hours rehearsing. At the same moment, Mark pulled a gun from the front of his jacket pocket.

“HEY, MR. LENNON.” Mark shouted stepping into a combat stance aiming the .38 special directly at the back of his victim.

At the same moment Bo shouted, “HEY PHONY!” The word ‘hey’ hadn’t been tattooed on Bo’s arm but it still escaped him.

There was a brief hesitation and the gun quivered in Mark’s hands as his mouth gaped in astonishment. He tried again, “Hey, Mr. Len…”

“PHONY, PHONY, PHONY, PHONY.” Bo yelled the codeword at the would-be attacker, he was improvising now. “HEY, PHONY!”

Mark turned towards Bo who was in the sightline of John Lennon just sightly to the left. “I’m not a phony!” Mark exclaimed. “I’ll kill you, phony bastard!” Mark’s aim shifted to Bo has he squeezed the trigger repeatedly. 5 loud gunshots blasted the cold air followed by the sound of a struggle. Bo slumped back down against the Dakota, blood soaking through his jean jacket.

The struggle for Mark’s gun continued as John’s hands gripped Mark’s wrists with shocking strength. Jose, the Dakota doorman joined the fray and tackled Mark David Chapman to the pavement. The sound of Yoko’s high-pitched screaming was as piercing to the ears as the bullets were to Bo’s sternum.

Mark was yelling now, putting up the fight of his life against the seemingly unstoppable force of John Lennon’s wrath. “No! No! Kill the phonies!” Mark yelled with tears streaming down his face. The gun hit the sidewalk and was kicked away from the pile of human bodies. “No! I’ll kill you all!” Mark screamed as he squirmed.

The former Beatle felt like he weighed a thousand pounds pinning Mark to the cold ground, chest to chest embracing Mark in an apocalyptic hug. Jose pinned Mark’s legs as John Lennon laid across his upper body, arms wrapped tightly around him with his face next to Mark’s ear. Mark could hear the unmistakable voice that had brought so much joy and love to the world.

“Easy mate, give peace a chance.”