John got to his feet.
The thing he had been lying on, from what he could see, was shaped like a black-and-white sunflower. Though he had trouble telling for sure at this distance, it looked as though it had the word "Imagine" written on. Nice - though John couldn't think why this word in particular would be chosen for his tribute. Or why it wouldn't look more bright and cheerful. And why a tribute to him? He hadn't realized that the Americans had even known about the Beatles long enough to make a tribute to him. And why only him? Why hadn't they just made one for all the Beatles? But none of this really bothered John at the moment. He turned to the crowd of people, plenty of whom were still watching him indignantly, and said, "Is this a new thing, then, none of us are good enough to lie on our own tributes?" He smiled cheerfully, like he always did at times like these.
The people were not appeased, nor did they seem to really understand what John meant. John was used to that, of course, but what one man said next confused him right back. "You young people, no respect for the past. John Lennon was a great man, and you go lying on his tribute like you own the thing!"
John was determined not to let his confusion at this remark show. Really, the only part he'd understood was the establishment-age man scolding the youthful John. "Well, I do own the thing, seeing as it's my tribute, mister." Another winning smile.
By now the argument was attracting other people's attention. "Your tribute? What, you bought it or something?"
"Can you believe him? So full of himself!"
Okay. John knew the Beatles were new in America. But if the people here knew him well enough to make a tribute to him - to him specifically, not even to all the Beatles - why couldn't they at least be bothered to know him when they saw him?
"It is my tribute," he insisted, "seeing as you keep saying it is. Or did you just see me name in the paper and think you'd name this thing after me?"
The people stared at him. "Your name, young man?" several of them demanded.
"Are you telling us your name is...."
"I'm John Lennon," John announced, beginning to feel a little fed up with all these people who went to the trouble of building him a tribute, said he was a great man, and then couldn't even recognize him.
There was a moment of silence, and then a chorus of laughter.
"He says he's John Lennon!"
"He's not a bit like him!"
John felt his face going red. "How d'you reckon that one out?"
"John Lennon had long hair, and glasses, and this sad expression all the time," the people explained, as though they shouldn't have had to mention all this. "And he's much thinner than you are." John scowled; he was sensitive about his weight, though there really wasn't a thing wrong with it. "But enough of this. You know perfectly well that you can't be John Lennon."
What were they on about? What made them think John spent all his time looking sad? How did they know about his glasses, when he was so careful not to wear them when anyone was looking? These were the first people he'd ever met who didn't think his hair was long. And what did they mean, "You can't be John Lennon?"
It was mostly the older people in the crowd telling John these things, but now some of the younger people had begun to take notice. Most glanced up from some strange, little rectangular things in their hands, which John couldn't make out.
"He is cute, though," a teenage girl said. She turned to John. "Could I take a picture of you for my Facebook page?"
John didn't know what she meant, but someone was treating him the way he was used to, and so he agreed. The girl then held up the thing in her hand - a sort of rectangle of pink plastic - and aimed it at John for a few seconds. John didn't understand what she expected to happen, or why she stared at the screen in frustration a minute later.
"It won't come out," she complained. "You keep showing up all blurry. I don't understand."
John gave her a look. "Of course it doesn't work. Why don't you try using a camera instead of that funny plastic thing you've got there?"
And with that, he turned and walked away from this rather disturbing scene. The people here weren't making him very welcome, and he didn't understand why his mates would have left him lying there for that crowd to find. Where were they? Why had they left him?
Something was wrong here. He needed to find them.
The thing he had been lying on, from what he could see, was shaped like a black-and-white sunflower. Though he had trouble telling for sure at this distance, it looked as though it had the word "Imagine" written on. Nice - though John couldn't think why this word in particular would be chosen for his tribute. Or why it wouldn't look more bright and cheerful. And why a tribute to him? He hadn't realized that the Americans had even known about the Beatles long enough to make a tribute to him. And why only him? Why hadn't they just made one for all the Beatles? But none of this really bothered John at the moment. He turned to the crowd of people, plenty of whom were still watching him indignantly, and said, "Is this a new thing, then, none of us are good enough to lie on our own tributes?" He smiled cheerfully, like he always did at times like these.
The people were not appeased, nor did they seem to really understand what John meant. John was used to that, of course, but what one man said next confused him right back. "You young people, no respect for the past. John Lennon was a great man, and you go lying on his tribute like you own the thing!"
John was determined not to let his confusion at this remark show. Really, the only part he'd understood was the establishment-age man scolding the youthful John. "Well, I do own the thing, seeing as it's my tribute, mister." Another winning smile.
By now the argument was attracting other people's attention. "Your tribute? What, you bought it or something?"
"Can you believe him? So full of himself!"
Okay. John knew the Beatles were new in America. But if the people here knew him well enough to make a tribute to him - to him specifically, not even to all the Beatles - why couldn't they at least be bothered to know him when they saw him?
"It is my tribute," he insisted, "seeing as you keep saying it is. Or did you just see me name in the paper and think you'd name this thing after me?"
The people stared at him. "Your name, young man?" several of them demanded.
"Are you telling us your name is...."
"I'm John Lennon," John announced, beginning to feel a little fed up with all these people who went to the trouble of building him a tribute, said he was a great man, and then couldn't even recognize him.
There was a moment of silence, and then a chorus of laughter.
"He says he's John Lennon!"
"He's not a bit like him!"
John felt his face going red. "How d'you reckon that one out?"
"John Lennon had long hair, and glasses, and this sad expression all the time," the people explained, as though they shouldn't have had to mention all this. "And he's much thinner than you are." John scowled; he was sensitive about his weight, though there really wasn't a thing wrong with it. "But enough of this. You know perfectly well that you can't be John Lennon."
What were they on about? What made them think John spent all his time looking sad? How did they know about his glasses, when he was so careful not to wear them when anyone was looking? These were the first people he'd ever met who didn't think his hair was long. And what did they mean, "You can't be John Lennon?"
It was mostly the older people in the crowd telling John these things, but now some of the younger people had begun to take notice. Most glanced up from some strange, little rectangular things in their hands, which John couldn't make out.
"He is cute, though," a teenage girl said. She turned to John. "Could I take a picture of you for my Facebook page?"
John didn't know what she meant, but someone was treating him the way he was used to, and so he agreed. The girl then held up the thing in her hand - a sort of rectangle of pink plastic - and aimed it at John for a few seconds. John didn't understand what she expected to happen, or why she stared at the screen in frustration a minute later.
"It won't come out," she complained. "You keep showing up all blurry. I don't understand."
John gave her a look. "Of course it doesn't work. Why don't you try using a camera instead of that funny plastic thing you've got there?"
And with that, he turned and walked away from this rather disturbing scene. The people here weren't making him very welcome, and he didn't understand why his mates would have left him lying there for that crowd to find. Where were they? Why had they left him?
Something was wrong here. He needed to find them.
