The Dreams We Have and The Stories We Tell, with John Lennon

This a short story I wrote from a dream I had the other night. Enjoy!

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One of my names was John Lennon. I died awhile ago. I’m in the afterlife. The afterlife is good! Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.

So I’m on some street here in the afterlife and there’s this drug dealer who died his last time by falling on a bunch of broken glass during a heist. He deals bad experiences, harsh ones, ones he should have learned by now not to share, ones you think you’re getting into but you’re not and he’s tricked you and he loves it. I’ve met him a few times, not a very nice guy. In fact, he’s hurt a lot of people and mostly for himself, well…he thinks he’s gaining from it, but I’m sure he’s just fooling himself and getting off on power trips and that. Then he gets violent, war-like. He’s made a lot of enemies and a lot of people have had to forgive him. But he keeps on doing this and now I’m going to have to help a brother out and give him the business. Not that business, I’m not mean like that. You’ll see.

We had agreed to meet up. When I told him I used to be John Lennon he was as good as hooked and wanted to hear all my stories and artwork, just for kicks I guess. He has a sort of living-celebrity fetish. He might even want to have his way with me. Not smart. On street side, I stroll up to him to greet, smile, and ask, “How are you now sir?”

“Things are fine, you?”

“Same old, same old. Ready for some fun soon?”

“Oh yeah, always am!”

Then the cop shows up. Well, he thinks he’s a cop. He must have died like that in his house fire. He’s got his uniform on and he even drives some crazy looking thing that has sirens on it. I shit you not, he has sirens on the thing he drives. That’s taking it all pretty seriously where we’re at now, and a lot of us think it’s unnecessary. He doesn’t make any positive use of it, which is why I’m meeting up with him as well. Anyway, he rolls up, tips his hat to us, gives a wink to my hooded friend, turns to me and says, “Ready to go?”

“Let’s do it.”

We hop in, I ride shotgun, dumbass in the backseat, dumbass driving. I should have mentioned. This cop, he’s got some bad intentions, too. In fact, I’ve seen both of these fine gentlemen working together to have their way at others’ expense. They’ve hurt, and they don’t seem to care, and it’s getting worse. How are we supposed to interact and share and love with these bozos doing this? They just won’t wake up, it’s sad. But I love them just the same and I need to show them that sometimes love can be tough.

We ride for a bit, crack some jokes, I make sure to be good and friendly (I’m even wearing my glasses to fit the part), impress them with my tales of life, and shut my yap when we reach the apartment.

I have an apartment. George and I built it a little while ago. It’s twenty stories and we live on the thirteenth. Yes, we have a thirteenth story and yes I remember a lot of buildings that skipped on that, no thirteenth floor.

We float on up through the balcony and step inside. That’s when I look back down for a second to make sure that the crowd’s gathering. They are. Thousands. Wow, these two really pissed off a lot of people.

When we get inside, George is sitting there on the couch, along with a couple of old friends. The cop and the dealer shake hands with everybody and take their seats.

“So, hey, when are we gonna start?”

“Right now!”

I take off my glasses and blow into them and watch each piece shatter into little particles and smack those two. Each one of them gets it right in the face. It sends them flying to the floor, and I think it freaks them out a bit. They’re nicely dazed so we drag them towards the couch while George takes his finger and sets fire to the walls and the door.

With the flames all around and the crowd outside, George and I give each other the nod and wake up our two dopey friends. Their eyes are glazing over but I finally get their attention. They’re sitting there speechless and I’m laughing my ass off, I can’t help it.

The crowd starts to sing, and our whole suite is on fire and the walls are crashing down and I’m laughing so hard at these two in front of me. I’m trying to be nice about it, but this is the part that I have to stretch it so they can actually listen, because I get the idea that neither one of them does much listening lately.

I stare at each one back and forth, and I sing it loud and like I used to, “All we are saying, is give peace a chance…”

George and the crowd echo behind me. Their eyes fade out all confusedly so I sound it again and still nothing. So I grab them both by the scruff of their shirts real tight and lean in close so they can hear me this time. I look them each in the eye while my hair is catching fire and the place is going down. I lean in real close and sing at the top of my fucking lungs:

“All we are saying…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!”
“All we are saying…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!”
“All we are saying…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!”
“All we are saying…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!”
“All we are saying…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!”