I was taking a shower on Sunday evening, May 25, 1969. The portable radio I had borrowed was blaring away on CHUM-FM, Toronto’s premier rock station. I do not remember what was playing when that particular DJ ended the cut with this statement: “Someone called to say he spotted John and Yoko at the Toronto airport. Wild news if it’s true. We’ll try to check it out.” An electric shock went up my spine.
It was the fastest shower I ever had. Dried and clean, I went straight to my room. Without thinking, I picked up the phone and called all the high-end Toronto hotels. I called the Royal York first. “Hello, is John Lennon there?” I asked. “One moment please,” was the reply. I waited. “There is no John Lennon here.” I then called the King Edward. That was where the Beatles had stayed when they came to town on their last tour in 1966. “May I speak to John Lennon, please?” The clerk hung up on me. With such an abrupt reaction, he must be there, I thought; then, I should look like a reporter.
I took out my deep-purple, quadruple-breasted jacket that I wore for my sister’s wedding. My brother-in-law, Haim, had made me a dark-green suede bag that I carried over my shoulder. On it, with black magic marker, I had written: The Beatles Pierre Trudeau Jerry Lewis. In the bag I put my Two Virgins album, a small pad of paper and a pen. I would be a reporter. But I needed camera equipment to perfect the ruse. I borrowed my sister’s Kodak Brownie, a fairly cheap model that wasn’t very impressive, but it would have to do. Steve had a new Super 8 camera. I snuck into his closet and took it. I was ready. I would not go to school the next day. I would get on the bus and find John Lennon.
My alarm was set for 6am, but I woke up earlier. There was never any real plotting or doubt about what I was going to do. My mind and my life had been so consumed by the Beatles that it really seemed like fate. What would he look like? And Yoko, would I meet her too? She should know that I stood up for her and played Two Virgins for everyone. All these thoughts were racing through my mind as I rode the bus all the way downtown.
I got there at about 6.30am. Rush hour had not even begun. I nonchalantly walked through the real stone doorway of the King Edward hotel, into the grand lobby and towards the elevators. Pressing the top-floor button seemed like the right thing to do. I got out and just started knocking on doors. Most of my victims were awakened and went right back to sleep after I politely apologised. One room had a tray on the floor in the hall, the remnants of last night’s room service. A bottle of soy sauce was lying on its side amid the dirty plates and uneaten food. He must be here! My innocent 14-year-old mind presumed Yoko’s influence with John included his seasonings. Knocking with pride and a sense of accomplishment, I was taken aback when a man with a large belly, held in place by a white cotton undershirt and striped boxers, opened the door and yelled at me.
It did not deter me, though, and I kept knocking on doors. I must have completed three or four floors when a grandmotherly maid with white hair tied in a bun walkedup to me. My nerves dissipated when she bent down and whispered in my ear with her Scottish accent, “You looking for the Beatle?” “I am,” I said. “He’s in room 869. Don’t tell anyone I told you, now.” With that she patted me on the back as I swiftly made my way to the stairs. Once on the eighth floor, I turned the corner of the corridor, looking at the numbers, until I saw at the very end a little girl lying on her stomach on the floor in front of a closed door, colouring. I recognised her immediately. It was Yoko’s five-year-old daughter, Kyoko, from her previous marriage to the American film-maker Tony Cox.
Walking up to her, I asked if her mommy was in the room. She said yes and continued to colour. My heart beat fast. For the first time I began to question whether I had the nerve to go in. What if he didn’t like me and sent me away? How crushing would that be? About three or four minutes must have passed when a television cameraman and a reporter abruptly pushed me aside. The reporter knocked on the door. It opened a couple of inches. He mentioned the broadcaster’s name, the door opened a bit more, and the two were sucked into the chamber with a thump.
I took a deep breath. I looked around. I waited about 10 more minutes, slung the Brownie around my neck, took another deep breath and knocked. “Canadian News.” The door opened in the same manner as before. Then it opened more. I marched right in, staring at my feet as I followed the carpet of the suite into the living room. If I made eye contact, I was afraid I would be thrown out. The base of a tripod was where I decided to sit down. When I slowly looked up, there, about four feet in front of me, sat John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
They were in the middle of an interview and nobody stopped me or said anything. John looked down and smiled. It did not faze him. He was dressed all in white — loose cotton pants and a short-sleeved, tight-fitted shirt. Yoko had a black sweater on with white pants and white stockings. John was barefoot and had a big bushy beard, exactly like the Abbey Road cover. Right then and there I knew my life would be changed for ever. They were giving interviews to the few Canadian reporters who’d been invited into the suite. There were several people in the room, but not too many. One fellow grimaced at me, and so I thought I should play my part. I took the Super 8 camera out of my bag and started pretending I was a photographer. I did not know if there was film in it, and I did not know how to operate it. I bounded up to John and Yoko, placed it to my eye and played with the zoom button. John alternated between smiling and frowning as I approached his face. He was drumming his hands on his legs. I pointed there. He played with his feet. I focused on that. Yoko was beside him, held lovingly and close. I remember thinking she was beautiful. The photos I had seen had not done her justice.
Someone coughed behind me, and I realised I was blocking the real cameraman. John laughed as I got out of the way and sat down reverentially. Nobody seemed to take the initiative to remove me and certainly John gave no direction to do that. John would glance over at me occasionally, smile and tug on his beard. He and Yoko would touch each other affectionately and whisper to each other constantly. I sat there watching all this for about an hour, when a tall, long-haired man with spectacles and a moustache, dressed in a double-breasted black suit and multicoloured tie, came into the room and announced, “I beg your pardon, but you all will have to leave now. Mr and Mrs Lennon have to go to Customs for a chat.” It was Derek Taylor of Apple.
The others started to gather up their notepads and equipment. I jumped up from the floor to where John and Yoko were sitting. He was about to get up. I took out my copy of Two Virgins and my hero spoke to me for the first time: “How did you get that? I thought the Mounties had come in on horses and took them all.” (The nude photograph on the sleeve meant the album was censored or restricted in certain countries.) I caught Yoko’s attention as I told him how I had been at Sam’s (a local record shop) and got it out of the box. “Who is Sam?” he asked. As I explained, he took a marker and drew in the top left corner of the album, “To Jerry Love & Peace Man John Lennon and Yoko Ono”. He then drew a caricature of himself and Yoko. While I was witnessing this monumental moment in my life, I took everything in, thinking it was to be my last encounter with my hero. There was a pack of Gitanes, next to a glass ashtray full of butts. Next to them was a package of spearmint gum. I noticed how trim John’s toenails were. I looked at his long fingers with calluses on them. These were the fingers that plucked away on Dear Prudence and Julia, I thought.
Yoko offered to sign too, and I was elated. The irony of the album cover being a naked photo of the two of them escaped me at the time. I was so innocent and they were so carefree. A photographer for a local paper took out his camera and immortalised the scene of the megastar signing the record. “Thanks so much, John,” I said. “Pleasure, man,” he replied.
Mr and Mrs Lennon got up from the couch and disappeared into the suite. All the others were gone, and I was alone in the room. I decided to leave by a circuitous route and go past the bedroom. There was Lennon, alone, trying to push a large sea chest onto the bed. “Give me a hand, lad,” he said, huffing and puffing. I bounded into the room and grasped the chest, along with my hero. Our noses were inches away from each other. He was taller and thinner than I thought and had a clean, almost antiseptic smell about him. Suddenly an inspiration flashed into my mind. I said, looking directly into his eyes, “John, can I come back later and tape an interview with you about peace and stuff, and let kids listen to it?” As the chest landed on the bed, he said, “Great idea! Great.” Standing up straight, he shouted, “Yoko, Derek!” They both arrived within seconds to see what the fuss was about. “Kid’s got a great idea. He’ll come back later and tape an interview,” he said. “We’ll talk about peace and he’ll take it to his school, let kids hear it. It’s great! It’s why we’re doing this!” Yoko voiced her approval and told Derek to set it up and show me out. I waved goodbye to John and thanked him. “Come back at 6pm, then,” he told me paternally as the door shut behind me. I walked a few feet down the hall. It was quiet and empty. I stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. My God, I thought. I exited the hotel, floating on air.
