Yeah; Thirty-Six Years
Speak, Memory: One of the two arrests we made that
day hadn't gone well. After putting the car in the basement garage at
the Federal Building, I'd walked up the underground ramp to the street,
intending to buy my second pack of Marlboros of the day from the liquor
store up the next block. Stepping inside, I looked down at a stack of
the evening edition of a paper which isn't even around any longer, lying
on the counter below the cash register with a banner headline in
48-point type: JOHN LENNON SLAIN. Fuck; I thought, and then said it out
loud.
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| Something About Him Was Always A Kick-Out-The-Jambs Liverpudlian Rebel |
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