The Taxi Tale

The driver was older. He sat forward, not so much hunched over the wheel as draped against it, one arm driving, the other gesturing. I found it amazing that he was smoking as he drove, flicking bits of homerolled out the window. You don't find much smoking allowed in taxis anymore.

My accent gives me away every time, but makes for easy entry to conversations. This gentleman told me that his fondest wish is to go to America, to stand outside the building where John Lennon was killed. He wants to go pay tribute to a man he said was the greatest songwriter ever.

See, (and I swear to you, this is just as he told it to me) .. my taxidriver met the Beatles. He was thirteen in 1964, and locked up in a juvie prison/school/home in Liverpool. He said that the Beatles were performing in close by Litherland so he and his best buddy snuck out for the evening.

After the set, the boys were able to get close to the band, to ask for autographs. Well, Lennon asked what they were doing out so late. The boys confessed they'd sort of escaped. John Lennon called them crazy and recited one of his wilder tales of youth. Then he gave them each half a tab of LSD and told them to go home.

I asked the driver.. did you really go back to the home? He said, sure. We loved it there. They had a great gymnasium and decent meals and you really learned things in the classes.

He said the half tabs of LSD left them completely off their heads all weekend. They'd never had a better time in juvie. John Lennon was forever enshrined in this man's heart.

Was it a tall tale, something to entertain the chick with the american accent? Could very well be. But honestly, this is what he told me.