"The Last Days Of John Lennon"
JSeraf7064
There seems to be an interest in this book, so I'll post part of my favorite
chapter.... (Thank OCR).
6
Voodoo Justice
In the fall of 1979 the Lennons embarked on a massive real estate
shopping spree. They already owned a farm in upstate New York,
which they never visited, and a loft on Broome Street in SoHo, not to
mention the three apartments in the Dakota. It was unclear to me
why they needed to buy more property, but I suspected that Yoko
wanted to send John and Sean away. Then she would have them "at
home" but also out of her hair. And for his part, John talked about
the pleasures of having a country house where he could occasionally
take LSD and psychedelic mushrooms in peace and quiet.
The key considerations in John and Yoko's search for new proper-
ties involved seclusion, security, and safety from earthquakes, tidal
waves, and other natural catastrophes. Marlene Weiner, one of Yoko's
psychics, had advised her that Long Island, upstate New York, Vir-
ginia, and Florida were "safe:' and so she focused her house-hunting
efforts on these areas. Yoko subscribed to a glossy real estate catalog,
"Holiday Homes International", and with Marlene's help she picked out
houses that might be suitable for her and John.
Living through the telephone as she did, Yoko did not like to ven-
ture into the real world unless it was absolutely necessary, so I was
assigned the job of scouting potential properties. Standard procedure
was to call a real estate agent and say that I represented a wealthy,
"internationally prominent" couple, thus ensuring maximum cooper-
ation by brokers and owners without giving the Lennon name.
John believed that it was good business sense to remain anony-
mous. "Once they know it's us:' he complained, "the price goes up!'
I spent many weekends driving around the recommended areas,
Long Island, upstate New York, and Virginia, as well as Maryland,
Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Rhode Island, and elsewhere, to meet with
local real estate agents and to photograph houses. I even flew to To-
ronto to scout properties. I would return from these trips bearing
voluminous notes, promotional brochures, and stacks of Polaroid
snapshots that I would show the Lennons, adding my own impres-
sions of the properties. If it had been up to Yoko, she would have
bought most of the available properties. "I love all these houses:'
Yoko once exclaimed while poring over a stack of photos from one of
my outings. "If I had more money, I would buy them all!"
John did not always share her passion.
After my debriefing by the Lennons, I would have a similar confer-
ence with Marlene, the real estate psychic, who lived with several
large dogs in a cramped apartment a few blocks from the Dakota. She
was a good-natured, tremendously obese woman who required a con-
stant supply of chocolate brownies and other treats to fuel her enor-
mous bulk. Marlene would place her hands over the photos, taking in
the house's "vibes' She would then call Yoko to report her psychic
impressions. Sometimes, in payment for services, Yoko would send me
to Marlene with a blank check for her to fill out. Fortunately for
Yoko, Marlene did not appear tempted to take advantage.
John frowned upon Yoko's habit of letting a psychic decide which
properties to acquire. He often complained that this was a foolish way
to go about buying real estate, and he began to insist on inspecting
the properties in person. He was prepared to accompany me on my
house-hunting trips, but Yoko refused to ride in the Mercedes. In fact,
she had never been in the car, and that, too, was an issue for John.
One morning in late October, I was getting ready to visit a house in
upstate New York, when Yoko told me to see John in the bedroom.
"Don't get too excited,' John said, "but the Lennons are riding with
you this time."
He told me that the two of them had been up all night arguing
about whether she would go. Obviously, John had prevailed. Yoko
complained and dawdled for hours that morning, and when we fi-
nally hit the road, she cowered in the backseat, huddled beneath a fur
coat, virtually paralyzed with fright. "Fred, please drive slowly:' she
said. "This is very dangerous...drive very carefully."
I caught sight of her in the rearview mirror. Her hair was thick and
black and shone nearly blue in the sunlight. Tucked behind her large
ears, it flowed below her shoulders. Her lips were thin, her face flat
and triangular, a grim mask. John sat next to me and cheerfully chat·
ted away, repeatedly reassuring Yoko that I was an expert driver and
that she had nothing to fear. But when the tool kit in the rear began
rattling, Yoko immediately grew alarmed.
"What's that!" she asked nervously.
Both John and I did our best to assure her that it was nothing
dangerous, only some loose tools, but Yoko remained unconvinced.
"Can't you make it stop!" she whined.
Just before we got on the West Side Highway, I pulled over and
rearranged the tools. However, after a few minutes on the road the
rattling commenced again.
"Please, Fred, stop the noise!" she begged. "It's driving me crazy.'
I was fairly annoyed by the time I zoomed off the road at the 158th
Street exit. Yoko let out a scream that could have shattered glass. She
must have thought I was putting an end to her misery once and for
all. The tools finally secured, I was doing sixty miles per hour in the
center lane, and Yoko began insisting I drive in the right lane. John
said no, that was a bad idea.
"What if we get stuck between two cars and someone recognizes
us!" he worried. "We'll be trapped and won't be able to get away.'
When Yoko stubbornly continued to insist that I pull into the right
lane, John angrily snapped, "Look, just shut up and go to sleep,
okay!" Yoko seemed offended and became very quiet.
When we reached our destination, Livingston Manor in upstate
New York, John saw a group of teenagers drinking in front of a store.
"Rednecks' John muttered anxiously under his breath. "I don't like
the looks of this one bit. If they spot us, we'll never get out alivel'
He was only half-joking. John had a fear of beer-guzzling teenagers
that bordered on the phobic. By the time I reached the local real
estate office, he and Yoko had managed to whip each other into a
state of near-panic. They both had amazingly active imaginations
about what horrors might befall them. They were too afraid to leave
the car, and had me buy tuna sandwiches and chicken soup, which
they ate while I went to meet the real estate agent. The man insisted
that John and Yoko come into the office so that he could give his
standard sales pitch on the merits of the house, a secluded cottage
named Irongate. I tried to explain that my clients--I had not told him
their names--were a reclusive couple and that if I told them they had
to come in, they would, in all likelihood, just turn around and go
home.
"Nah,' said the agent with confidence: "Not after you drove 'em
four hours to get here.
He did not know the Lennons. When I reported the broker's re-
quest, Yoko flipped out. "Tell him to go fuck himselfl" she screeched.
"Let's go!"
She eventually bought the property, sight unseen.
Going home, I took the scenic route, crossing the Verrazano Nar-
rows Bridge. John thought the view was breathtaking. Yoko worried
that we might fall into the river below. I turned onto the FDR Drive,
and John suddenly decided that he wanted to have dinner at one of
the South Street seafood places. One of the truly amazing things
about John was that he had an unerring sense of direction. He knew
things intuitively. Somehow he managed to steer us to a dark, funky
old dive with wooden tables and floor. John swashbuckled his way in,
with tiny Yoko wrapped in her white fur. She looked like a rotund
stuffed animal on his arm. The faces turned from the bar. I could
imagine what they were thinking--who's this modern-day pirate and
where'd he get the koala bear!
Then they saw John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
As soon as we took a table, John started talking twice as fast as
before, his old defense mechanism kicking in. Talking nonstop staved
off John's anxiety while keeping potential intruders at bay. People
watched, waiting for him to stop, but John knew better than to let up.
"Check out that guy over there--he's about to fall off his stool,"
John threw a quick glance toward a young, bearded fellow who was
Staring at us, transfixed. "He's going to come up and shake my hand
in about five minutes. Look at that one over there--he's going to nab
an autograph." The odd thing was how well he could call them.