Assassinated in the city that helped to make his name, on the Ed Sullivan show and later at Shea Stadium. Well, what could you do with that? A beloved musician shot dead in front of his home. Then Howard Cossell came on and said Lennon had just been shot twice in the back outside the Dakota apartment building on the Upper West Side, and was dead at Roosevelt Hospital. The Patriots and the Dolphins were about to go into overtime. I walked back to my rental apartment with a Budweiser in a bag and dried blood on my chin, and turned on “Monday Night Football,” trying to figure out if this was what grown-up life was about. I went over to see what was wrong and for no discernible reason he punched me in the nose. A few minutes after I got there, a homeless guy in a baseball cap with wings on the sides started screaming and banging on the glass doors. Why the place was open that late in a small town, I don’t know. Then, feeling homesick, I went to the library and looked for copies of the Times and the Post. Early in the evening, I’d gone to watch a movie called “Resurrection” in an empty theater, so I could write a review probably no one would read about a film that almost no one would see. I‘ve lived in New York City my entire life, but on the night John Lennon was murdered I was in a grubby little post-industrial ash-heap of a Connecticut town, a newly-minted adult working for a newspaper and trying to earn the right to call myself a writer.
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