Imagine

Imagine

    Sitting in the corner of a large, open area, the massive oak framed bed looked more than a little out of place.  There were few exhibits on the third floor of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the bed was by far the biggest and most unusual object on display.  It was separated from the rest of the room by a simple velvet rope; a small sign warned visitors that touching was not allowed.  Another sign informed visitors that this was the bed that John Lennon and Yoko Ono had shared during their famous Montreal love-in for peace.  The bed was on display with several other artifacts, part of a tribute to the life and works of John Lennon.

    On the one hand, it was only a bed.  On the other, it was the bed.  It was such a simple thing, and yet somehow so significant.  The bed was unlike the many guitars, outfits, and other affectations of the assassinated icon that were on display in glass cases; it was not only a much more mundane item, but also a vastly more intimate one.  And there it sat, not even an arms length away, ensconced behind a velvet rope and a warning.

    I was two years old when Mark David Chapman shot and killed John Lennon. I didn’t know who the Beatles were; I didn’t know about war or peace.  I was twenty-two years old when I stood in front of the slain Beatle’s bed.  By that time I had became of fan of Lennon’s work, and I had a deep respect for the music he had made and the ideals he had represented.  Standing a mere arms length away from the bed that was inextricably linked with those ideals was profound.  If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch something that Lennon had touched.  I could touch it, and for a brief moment I could be connected to everything that he had been.  The bed would be a conduit to history, a tangible link to an intangible past, a physical connection to a martyred rock star.

    My heart pounded as I contemplated this.  The bed had become so much more than just a bed.  It had grown larger than me, larger than the room which contained it.  I looked again at the smooth, dark wood that had long since parted with its last splinter.  The bed had been made up with simple white sheets and pillows with matching pillow cases.  The headboard was low and unadorned.

           I glanced around the room.  There were some other people milling about, but since there were few exhibits in this area most of them did not linger for long.  A security guard stood near a stairwell several yards away, and she occasionally scanned the room with apparent disinterest.  Surely no one would care if I touched the bed.  I raised my hand, then hesitated.  The guard hadn’t seen me, but I felt suspicious.  I wandered around a bit, trying to look inconspicuous as I glanced at the bed.  I felt like a shoplifter, circling the item I intended to pilfer.  I walked back to the foot of the bed, as if to give it another brief look before moving on to another floor with more exhibits.  I made a point to read the informative sign again.

         Then, swiftly, I placed my hand on the footboard, upon a piece of history.  In that moment I was connected with something infinitely larger than myself.  I closed my eyes and moved my hand slowly along the smooth surface, feeling every minuscule imperfection in the wood.  I imagined John Lennon, smiling at the world from behind his rose colored glasses, playing guitar in this bed, making love in this bed.  I imagined him walking out of a hotel lobby in New York City moments before being gunned down.  For a moment, I tried to “imagine all the people, sharing all the world.”
A sharp yell from the security guard brought me out of my reverie, and my hand pulled back from the bed instinctively, as if I had been burned.  My spiritual experience had become a rules infraction.  As I retreated from the bed, the security guard approached me.

    “I’m sorry,” I said meekly, as if I were being scolded for roughhousing on the school playground.

    “If you do that again, or if I see you touch anything else, you’re outta here,” she replied.  Then, her face softened and she looked at me with almost a smile.  “So, was it worth it?” she asked.

    It was.