Watching the Wheels

My name is Daniel Robert Arby and I’ve spent the last 19 years trying to save John Lennon.

I’ve decided to write this letter because I believe I don’t have much time left. Last year I’ve been to at least fifty different doctors and went through what feels like half a million tests. No one can say for certain what’s wrong with me, but they all agree on one thing – I am very quickly approaching my final day…

I’ve turned 40 last week, but the doctors say that my heart and my other organs exhibit the wear of at least 80 years. I am pretty sure I know why that is, but I am worried that if I go telling people that I’ve aged twice as quickly because of all the time travelling I’ve done, I am going to spend my remaining days in one of those dreadful mental facilities. No thanks!

One thing is for sure: when you read this, I will be gone. I’ve been a devoted reader of the New York Times since I was a college sophomore so it’s only fitting that you folks get first dibs on my story. I am attaching my photograph. I look the most dashing here, make sure to use this one in your article. Maybe even on the front page? Unless you’ll have more important stories than time travel on that day, of course.

19 years ago, in the summer of 1980, I’ve been once again out of a job after a pretty ugly row with my boss Kenny about my punctuality. Kenny didn’t care about the train strikes and my nearly 2-hour long commute from Queens every day, so he fired me from my Hilton Hotel shift manager position and advised me to get a decent alarm clock before applying for a job again.

Like almost any 21-year-old in New York City not busy at college, I’ve signed up with the local temp agency in hopes to get by on some shitty lower management position till I could break through as a writer. My ambitions were high and I was convinced that the next Great American novel is long overdue.

Two sweltering July weeks later, when I was absolutely sure I will melt and turn into a puddle in my sweatbox of a room, I’ve got a call that changed my life. “Strawberry Fields Forever” was playing on the radio that very moment and I had to turn it down to answer the phone.

Her name was Marcy and she sounded like a Mid-Western sweetheart. She told me that the agency found me a placement as a concierge somewhere on the Upper West Side. I was on my last 75 bucks and the rent was due and the fridge was empty except for some Jim Beam (as an up-and-coming novelist, I was predictably searching for my muse at the very bottom of a discounted bourbon bottle). So, when Marcy called, I was elated.

The heat was unbearable and I couldn’t sleep that night, but I still made sure to check the batteries in my watch and set an alarm for an excruciating five o’clock in the morning.

The next day I was amazed to discover that the concierge position happened to be at the iconic Dakota building on 1 West 72nd Street. Not only is this one of the most iconic and beautiful buildings in whole of New York City, a true marvel of Renaissance Revival, but also at that time a place one of my true heroes called home.

John Lennon moved into the Dakota with Yoko Ono around 1973. Since I first read about their move to the Big Apple, I’ve dreamed about stumbling into them in Central Park one day and asking for an autograph. And talking about music and literature. And then inviting them both for a pizza!

My dad used to be the biggest Beatles fan America had ever known, and he loved to play me their albums. We’d sat down in our living room back in the old house in Providence, he’d take out the record from its sleeve as if it was the world’s most delicate object and place it on the turntable. He had a whole ritual before he’d hit play, where he introduced the band in his special “radio” voice: “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, boys and girls, pleeeeeaaaase welcome: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr PLAYING “Rubber Soul” in full for the very first time, LIVE in the living room!!!!”

Interview was on a Friday, and I was wearing my best white dress shirt and my lucky navy-blue striped tie. To be honest, it wasn’t really an interview, more like a friendly chat. The staff manager just wanted to make sure I looked presentable enough and could converse in a polite and literate manner. The salary he had offered was nothing like I expected, but I still took the job and went to Central Park afterward to celebrate with a can of ice-cold Bud and a pack of red Marlborough.

The money was very tight that summer. On the upside, I had plenty of time to think about my next novel. The concierge job was easy; we mainly just collected the mail that came through and made sure the shifts of service workers, housekeepers and cleaning personnel had access to the required parts of the building. Dakota is massive and has very many service hallways, boiler rooms and storage spaces; you could easily get lost in this maze without a guide like me, Jackie, Roman, Eddy or Jose.

Concierge service was operating 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, so we worked on a sliding 3-shift per day schedule with one day off per week. The “graveyard” shift that started at midnight wasn’t my favourite, but as soon as Jose, who was the concierge team manager heard about my upcoming “future classic” novel, he made sure I had plenty of those shifts, and was supplied with a decent ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad. I remember when we first talked about literature, he said “keep writing at night, when the interference of the world is turned down and thoughts float freely”. I thought that was profoundly beautiful. Jose was a nice fellow and we got along superbly from day one.

One of the most important parts of our job was to help maintain and sometimes enforce the House Rules. The book was so thick it could be used as an efficient lethal weapon. Many of the rules were devised when Dakota first opened back in October 1884.

Residents were only to use firewood provided by the building in their fireplaces. Luggage, trunks and heavy baggage could only be taken through the service entrance. “Domestic employees, messengers and trades people” were required to use service elevators, while child care providers and “nurses/companions” were allowed to use passenger elevators only when accompanying “clients”. Chauffeur-driven vehicles were not allowed to wait in the driveway; when the Tenant arrives in the lobby, the chauffeured car would be directed into the driveway by the doorman or one of us concierges. And so on, and so forth. There was a certain aura of highest class and almost royalty level that had to be maintained.

The rules about the noise were pretty standard except for the no teaching one. The House Rules book said: “No Tenant shall play upon or suffer to be played upon any musical instrument or permitted be operated a phonograph or radio or television loud speaker in such Tenant’s apartment between the hours of eleven o’clock p.m. and the following nine o’clock a.m. if the same shall disturb or annoy other occupants of the Building, and in no event shall any Tenant practice or suffer to be practiced either vocal or instrumental music for more than two hours in any day between the hours of six o’clock p.m. and the following nine o’clock a.m. A tenant is not permitted to give dance, vocal or instrumental instruction in his or her apartment at any time”.

As if you could afford to stay at the Dakota by giving piano lessons!

John and Yoko lived in the penthouse nr 72 and also owned nr 71, which as I heard was used as an office and storage space. They didn’t get much mail at all, but John was receiving regular letters from the representatives of Apple Corps Ltd and EMI with what I knew for sure to be royalty checks. Probably quite substantial ones as well. I couldn’t help myself and tried to decipher some of the letters using my service flashlight, but was unsuccessful.

I saw John for the first time a week after I started working at the Dakota. I wasn’t prepared for it at all. In fact, I was so unprepared to meet my hero that when around 11 in the evening on that faithful Wednesday he walked through the main entrance I had just stuffed my mouth full of tuna sandwich that I was looking forward to since lunch.

Time slowed down, my vision blurred and I applied the best of my efforts to chew the slightly stale bread as quickly as humanly possible and almost choked on the lettuce. Before I could say a word, John looked at me for the shortest millisecond through his iconic round glasses and walked on towards the elevator.

I was absolutely devastated! What an idiotic first impression! I kept replaying the scene in my head throughout my night shift and just couldn’t believe how traitorous that tuna turned out to be. That was my last ever tuna sandwich, I’ve never had one since.

I tried my hardest to make friends with John’s chauffeur Tony during my cigarette breaks, but he was one of the most tight-lipped people I’ve ever met, as if he was sworn to secrecy (he probably was) and the punishment would have been severe. As soon as I tried to steer the conversation towards John or Yoko, he just put his massive finger to his lips and smiled at me. However, he was always happy to talk about John's 22-foot-long cream white Mercedes limo, complete with velour seats, refrigerator, phone, TV, radio, record player, tape recorder, push-button windows, partitions and sun roof.

From August to October John and Yoko spent a lot of time at the Hit Factory recording studio on West 54th street, working together on what would become “Double Fantasy”, John’s seventh and final solo album. I am pretty sure that every single music lover in the world was excited to hear what John and Yoko were writing. After nearly 5 years of self-imposed absence John was back on the front pages of the newspapers and magazines and his songs were in heavy rotation on the radio once again.

Fans were loitering outside the Dakota from early morning to very late evening and we had to regularly go out and help the doormen to shoo away the crowds. John and Yoko would usually enter the limo before it drove out the main gate, but sometimes, John would go out on his own and sign a couple of autographs.

Days were getting shorter and colder and that November I decided that it was finally time to quit smoking for good. I was regularly out of breath and the blood circulation in my fingers was awful. Jackie, the prettiest concierge Dakota had ever seen and the one I had an infatuation with that autumn, used to call me “the one with the deathly touch”.

It was almost the end of my shift and I went out front for what would be my last ever cigarette. I haven’t smoked for the whole day and was craving nicotine badly. I actually had two cigarettes left in my pack. My plan was to smoke one and then keep one as a token. I wanted to practice my will-power on it and never-ever smoke it.

The sky was clear, but you could never see any stars in New York – too much light pollution. As soon as I got my trusty Zippo lighter out of my pocket, I’ve heard a familiar purr of the Mercedes pulling up into the driveway. John climbed out of the car with a smile on his face, wearing an off-white blazer over a brown turtleneck, shiny black dress shoes and light grey jeans.

He looked at me and started walking my way. I felt my throat instantly constrict and dry up.

“Arright there, lad. Could ya give us a fag?”

For a second, I couldn’t believe I was being talked to by the greatest songwriter in the history of Western music.

“Erm…. ehh… ahh… Of course… Let me just get one for you!”

My final Marlborough was meant for John Lennon!

“It’s freezing out there tonight, innit?” – John was buttoning up his blazer. “Are you one of the concierge boys then?”

“Umm… well…. yes, I am. Daniel Arby, pleasure to meet you. I am the biggest fan…”

“Oh yeah? Was there a competition?” – said John and laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, I do appreciate every single fan I have”.

“I’ve really loved your interview in the New York Times last week. So excited to hear “Double Fantasy”, I am sure it’s going to be incredible.”

“Well, let me know if it’s not. I’ll make another one, no problem! I’ve been a stay-at-home dad for 5 years, so might have misplaced some of the talents.” – John was clearly in an elevated mood. He was also a bit drunk; I could smell whiskey on his breath.

“Concierge service is 24 hours, right? So how do you spend your time when we are all asleep? Must be creepy down here on your own at night?”

“I have many different duties I need to attend to during any shift, but when I am done with those I like to write.”

“Write? What do you write then? God, I hope not songs! There’s enough of those in the world, mark my words!”

“I am trying to write a novel, but it is proving tricky…”

“I could never do that. All the spelling involved. I think I am dyslexic. But I like reading. Have you read “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac? Now that’s a truly great American novel! Lots of musings about purpose and meaning of life and a whole lot more drinking and faffing about. That’s real life, you know.”

“Kerouac’s work is very inspiring. I wish I could have had all those experiences before I would sit down and try to put them down on paper. I have to invent a lot, because I haven’t really experienced life that much yet…”

“Well, those who say that a writer can only write about what he’d experienced are damn fools! There would be no 1984 or Alice in Wonderland if we’d stick to those kinds of rules. Keep at it! Just keep showing up every day, and don’t expect it to be easy. But keep writing. Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted, regardless if you get a book out of it or not.”

John extinguished his cigarette against the wall, leaving a little black smudge on the sandstone brick and threw the butt into one of the tall bins with ashtrays on top.

“Lovely chatting to you, Daniel. But I have Yoko waiting for me with a cup of tea upstairs. Thanks for the fag, have a good one!”

And he was gone as quickly as he appeared. I couldn’t feel the cold November bite anymore, my heart racing. I realized that now I cannot have a cigarette ever again, because then I won’t be able to say that I’ve smoked my last one with John Lennon.

17th November rolled around and “Double Fantasy” hit the shelves of the record stores, to the delight of the fans, but to quite mixed reviews. Many journalists were questioning the songs about the joys of domestic bliss and fatherhood, accusing John of “losing his edge”. First single “(Just like) Starting Over” failed to crack the charts and the album sales were reportedly quite poor in the US.

I saw John plenty of times in those last two weeks of November and he always looked very determined, yet deflated and maybe even anxious, his gaze lower than usual, as if thoroughly examining the laces on his brown Oxfords. Surely, the star of his calibre could take some criticism in the media? What do those journos know about music anyway?

I got my copy of “Double Fantasy” on the day it was released at my favourite “House of Oldies” on 35 Carmine Street. I’ve listened to it a bunch of times, and had my thoughts about the songs lacking “the edge”, but I’m not going to go into a full-blown album review here. All I want to say is that it wasn’t a bad record at all; the stakes were just way too high.

Despite the snobby media write-ups, the crowds outside the Dakota were getting bigger every day. From teenagers to 60-year-olds – everyone had “Double Fantasy” and wanted it signed. The holy grail was to get both John’s and Yoko’s autographs, but that was nearly impossible as Yoko rarely signed anything.

December sneaked up upon everybody once again, and New York looked prettier than ever, dressed up in fairy lights and ready to get mighty jolly. A massive 27-foot Christmas tree was put up in the lobby of the Dakota and me and Jackie spent a whole week decorating it with all sorts of ornaments, most of them looking very expensive and quite old. During those 7 days we talked about many things, but mostly about literature, because Jackie was what you call “a bookworm”. She told me about a novel by Jack Finney called “Time and again”, where the protagonist travels into the past from one of the apartments in the Dakota.

I bought the novel the next day and devoured it over two “graveyards”. Jackie was right: this was a beautifully composed work of fiction and to this day one of the best time-travel books I’ve ever read. Jackie was also right when she pointed out that I must focus on my writing if I want to compete with such talents and we should just be friends for the time being. I was sad about this, but I also had a plan now: I will write the most incredible novel about time-travel and impress Jackie with my wit and creativity, and she will fall for me, head over heels.

I am going to go ahead and spoil the anticipation for you: Jackie and I were never meant to be a couple. In the spring of 1981 she was accepted into Vassar College in Poughkeepsie to study creative writing and we’ve lost touch.

In early December I had to take time off work because of a nasty case of the flu. I haven’t been this ill for quite a while and spent most of my days in bed, trying to sleep it off, but also reading and watching idiotic late night television shows. I missed the Dakota and Jackie a lot.

On the morning of the 8th of December, I got a call from Jose. He politely enquired about my health and when satisfied with my improved condition asked me to do a “graveyard”, because Eddy was now down with the flu as well. I said I will be there and went back to sleep.

While I was sleeping, John and Yoko took part in a photoshoot with then up-and-coming Rolling Stone magazine photographer Annie Leibovitz. That iconic picture with a naked John holding fully clothed Yoko on the bed in their Dakota penthouse was made that very day. After the photoshoot they did an interview with Dave Sholin for RKO Radio San Francisco at their apartment.

John mused about getting older: “When we were kids, 30 was death, right? I’m 40 now and I feel just… I feel better than before”. And then later on he said: “I consider that my work won’t be finished until I’m dead and buried and I hope that’s a long, long time.”

I’ve heard the interview a couple of days later, and it had a profound effect on me.

That evening my aim was to get to the Dakota earlier so I could catch up with Jackie before her shift ended and mine begun. My third and final train was delayed for about 40 minutes. The announcement plainly stated “a person on the tracks.” Why would they specify that someone just tried to kill himself?

When I finally arrived at 72nd street it was nearly 23:30. There were two NYPD squad cruisers parked in the driveway and bright yellow police tape installed across the main gate. I was stopped by an officer asking for my ID, but then Jose came out and talked to him, explaining that I was part of the concierge team. Jose looked visibly shaken and had no colour left in his cheeks.

And then I saw the puddle… In the orange glow of the streetlights it looked very black and viscous, and had an oblong shape, cascading down from the steps.

Jose took my hand, looked straight into my eyes and almost whispered, “John has been shot… I think he might be dead…”

For some strange reason my first thought was about John Cayne, who worked as a messenger at the Dakota. I couldn’t figure out why someone would shoot John. And then the jigsaw suddenly fell into place.

“John? John Lennon?”

“Yes… I saw the killer; he was waiting outside when John and Yoko arrived. He shot him 4 times. In the back. 4 TIMES! And then he wasn’t even trying to run, he just stood under that streetlight and read a book!! HE READ A BOOK! “Catcher in the Rye”. I took the revolver from him. But I couldn’t save John. I couldn’t save him…”

Jose was sobbing and I felt my eyes well up. The unfathomable has happened. But I refused to believe John was dead. Surely, he has been revived at the hospital and will recover quickly!

He cannot die!

He’s John Lennon!

I was questioned by the police in the lobby, but I couldn’t really give them any information they didn’t already get from Jose, who was their prime witness.

Apparently, the shooter’s name was Mark Chapman and he was taken into custody on the spot. Meanwhile, John and Yoko were at Roosevelt Hospital.

As I learned the next day, John arrived at Roosevelt with no pulse and died shortly after in the emergency room from loss of blood.

When 8th of December finally turned into the 9th, only one police car remained at the premises and Jose left in the other car to the station to continue his witness statement.

I went out front to catch my breath and try to process these horrific events. I had a gnawing thought that if my train wasn’t delayed, I would have arrived on time and could have spotted the shooter and saved John. I knew this was a far-fetched conclusion but I clung to it for dear life.

And then I saw something white poking from behind one of the front gate flower planters. I went to have a look. It was a copy of the “Double Fantasy” record, with John’s autograph on the front.

Why would anyone get their record signed and then hide it in the flower planter??

Then I remembered Jose saying something about the shooter getting an autograph from Lennon earlier today. Apparently, Yoko recognised him.

My head started spinning and the streetlights blurred into fuzzy blobs of orange. I was looking at most probably the very last autograph that John Lennon had ever given on the very last album he’ll ever record…

At this moment I couldn’t hold my emotions in any longer, tears streamed down my face and I wept.

When there seemed to be no more water left in my eyes and I could feel the rivulets on my cheeks frozen solid by the cold night air, I went back inside, with the record hidden in my backpack. I had mixed feelings about keeping it, but I knew that I would never ever give it away either.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of emotions. Every newspaper, radio station and TV channel in the world were reporting on John’s death and celebrating his life. Candlelit vigils were held in front of the Dakota and the traffic had to be diverted until further notice.

The world was in mourning.

In one of his later interviews John was once asked if he’ was afraid of death. He said, “I'm not afraid of death because I don't believe in it. It's just getting out of one car, and into another.”

“To rob a life is the ultimate robbery in life. The perpetual encroachment on other people’s space is taken to the limit with the use of a gun.” That’s George Harrison, sharing the loss of his friend and colleague with the whole world.

The main question that was on everyone’s lips at the Dakota was why did John and Yoko get out of their limo on the street, instead of staying in it until it reached the courtyard of the Dakota. I wanted to ask Tony, but I never saw him again. The white Mercedes was now driven by some other chauffeur, who showed no desire to make new friends.

For a long time, I couldn’t listen to any of John’s or Beatles’ songs. I just couldn’t.

Then, slowly, the planet started spinning again.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Jackie was gone to college, Jose retired shortly after the incident (he was approaching his retirement age) and Eddy had been put in charge of the team. Yoko was still living in apartment 72, but every time I saw her in the lobby she was in a rush, her eyes focused on the door handle of the limo and her back slouched, as if the whole world suddenly became heavier.

25-year-old Mark Chapman was deemed borderline psychotic and instructed to plead insanity, but instead he pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced to 20 years to life. Apparently, he had been a Beatles fan as a teenager, but as a born-again Christian was angered by John Lennon's claim in 1966 that the Liverpool band were "more popular than Jesus". He wanted to “be someone” who “did something important”.

I was glad that on the 8th of December 1981 I was off duty. I didn’t want to allow all those emotions to come out again. I was healing, but it was a slow process.

That evening was the very first time I took the signed “Double Fantasy” record out from a dusty cardboard box that was stashed under my bed. John and Yoko were frozen in an everlasting kiss on the cover. John’s signature was right there, in black ink. When the needle touched the vinyl and the first chords of “(Just Like) Starting Over” poured out of the speakers I felt an indescribable and never-before-experienced connection to this man and his music.

It was around 11 in the evening when track nr 8, “Watching the Wheels” reached its outro and John sang “I just had to let it go” for the third time.

And then I wasn’t in my room in Queens anymore.

I was on 72nd street, right around the corner from the Dakota…

The sound of a gunshot pierced the air and I heard a window shattering.

Then 4 more shots.

My ears were ringing and I started running. I saw John bleeding on the steps and Yoko holding him and Jose running inside to call the ambulance… I saw Mark Chapman leaning against the streetlight, reading “Catcher in the Rye”, revolver in his hand…

And then it was all over and I was back in my flat, rain lashing against the window sill.

It wasn’t a dream.

I played the song again, but nothing happened. I’ve tried it the next day to no avail.

It only worked on December the 8th. And only when listening to “Watching the Wheels”.

For the last 19 years I’ve been back to 1980 exactly 19 times. The time of my arrival varied a little, but I could never get to the Dakota before the shooting. Trains were cancelled, cabs were stuck in traffic, phone lines were dead, passers-by called me a looney.

I lived through year after year just waiting for the 8th of December to come. I always had a new plan of action, scrutinized till the last detail for endless sleepless nights – and it never worked.

The vinyl is now very worn and skipping, but the autograph still looks fresh, as if only signed yesterday. John and Yoko are still kissing on the cover.

It is the 8th of December today, but I have a strange feeling this will be my very last attempt to save John Lennon.