Another Spaniard in the Works Read Free Page A

reverentially, as if he were somehow related to the family. (My superintendent father, on the other hand, told me, shaking his head, “You do not want to end up like him.”)
    “So what’s going on?” Max cheerfully asked me after I had finally sat down.
    “Well, you’re not going to believe this, man, but just a few minutes ago I actually met John Lennon.”
    And I told him the whole story and showed him the signed book. He looked it over, and we drank a lot, and by the time the evening ended, Max, in one of his more lucid moments, declared: “Hey, John Lennon, we got to get our music to him.”
    Okay, this is a true story—granted, with a lot of holes in it—but in the following week, after Max and I had worked hard to make up the best tape of our songs, we went over to Lennon’s building, the Dakota, on West 72nd Street, and tried to leave a cassette in an envelope for John Lennon with a doorman whose station was an entryway booth. He would not accept it, saying, “Please move along or I’ll call the police.” For a few hours, standing out on the sidewalk, we watched people walking in and out of the Dakota’s majestic entranceway, among them Rex Reed, the movie critic; and Lauren Bacall, the famous movie actress. We saw Shelley Winters go inside. Then for hours nothing happened. But along the way, I had noticed a couple of building workers in gray uniforms standing outside by the Rosemary’s Baby railings, near a hot-dog cart on the corner, talking amongst themselves in Spanish. I went up to one of them, a stiletto-thin dude, and in Spanish asked if he could just do us the big favor of dropping our little manila envelope in John Lennon’s mailbox. I also handed him a twenty-dollar bill, and, with a shrug, he said he would.
    In the accompanying letter to Mr. Lennon, which I had carefully typed out in the office, I mentioned our chance meeting and that I had included a cassette for “ one of my idols to listen to.” I went into a mini-history of my admiration for what he—John Lennon, as the “greatest Beatle”—had meant to me. I ranked “Norwegian Wood” as one of the best of the Beatles tunes ever, and before I could become too gushing about “A Day in the Life,” I signed off with a humble plea that he might listen to our songs. I ended it with a “respectfully yours” and included my home telephone number.
    So here’s the thing: Though I never once really thought he would respond, the notion pecked at my head. For a month, even though I considered that the whole business might be taken as an intrusion into John Lennon’s privacy, and I did not for a moment really believe that it would lead to anything at all, whenever I came home from work I’d ask my mother if anyone, aside from friends, had called. Night after night, she’d say that no one had. But then one evening, while my pop was out attending to some emergency, as we sat for dinner in our kitchen, the pipes click-clacking around us, she told me, “By the way, Hijo, this afternoon a man called, but, I’m sorry, I could not understand everything he was saying. El tenìa un acento horrible ,” she concluded, making a face as she passed me some rice.
    Great, I thought: So perhaps John Lennon himself had actually taken the trouble to call me, only to baffle my mother with his lilting Liverpool accent.
    “Did this man leave a name?”
    “No, he only asked if you were at home.”
    “But did he at least give you a telephone number?”
    “Yes, yes,” she snapped. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
    “No, of course not, Mama,” I said consolingly, having learned to never pick on her faulty English over the years. Then her mood changed. “I’ll get it for you,” she said happily.
    From the bedroom, which was just off the kitchen, she got the piece of composition-book paper on which she had thickly written down, in what looked like an eyeliner pencil, three different numbers.
    “I don’t know which one is correct,”