Imagine 

He looked from the third-floor window of the YMCA he was staying at. His black hair and piercing brown eyes looked down at the people below. He called himself John, though his friends and parents called him Mark.  

He planned to correct that within the next couple of days though. That other person was an imposter. He stole his name. That man must pay, he told himself many times. 

The December day felt cold and dreary. Overcast clouds blanketed the New York City skyline.  

He shivered, not just from the humid cold that affected everyone and everything, but also at the excitement of what he had planned. His wife, Yoko would understand and leave that imposter for him once he was finished, once that imposter was gone, she would go to him.  

But first, he still needed to purchase the gun that would take him out finally. His fingers trembled with anticipation. He even signed out his real name when he quit his security guard job two days ago. 

His boss didn’t notice, but then again, his boss rarely noticed anything he ever did. Just up the street was Dakota, where he was supposed to live, but that imposter stole that from him too. He listened to the recordings of his songs from the early days with Paul and George and Ringo, to his later cuts with his true love Yoko. “Soon,” he promised as he listened to ‘Imagine,’ “I will win you back and we can make music together again. 

He listened to his music through headphones and his Walkman as he walked to the gun store nearby and went inside. The middle aged, balding man behind the display case where many small and medium caliber handguns exhibited themselves shiny and begging to be held and admired by someone like him. He eyed the young man with a cautious weariness, as though measuring whether he was a true law abiding American or someone up to no good. 

He looked at the store owner and smiled bashfully. “I’d like a .38 revolver. I don’t care which brand,” he told the owner. 

“Well Smith and Wesson are a good solid gun. We also carry forty-five Colts too. They have better knock down power. Did you serve?” 

“No, I was a security guard, and I like thirty-eights. “That one there will do nicely,” he stated calmly to the gun store owner. 

“I’ll need you to fill out this here form and then if everything checks out, that gun is yours.” 

The gun buyer smiled and grabbed the pen and form. He knew he had use his real name to buy the gun. A name he has hated since he could remember. He liked John much better than Mark. He pulled out his driver’s license and his concealed permit from Virginia and handed both to the gun owner after he signed the form. 

He rang up the charge and told the buyer “That will be $599.00 please. The governor also wants his cut,” he chuckled while the young man pulled out his wallet and laid down $600 in cash. 

The register rang and the dollar in change was handed back to him. “Thank you very much. My wife and I will greatly appreciate this.”  

“Have a good day Mr. Chapman.” 

He walked deliberately to the apartment building. He asked the doorman on duty, “What time are the Lennons coming home?” 

“Another one! Okay, for the fiftieth time, probably not until after ten or eleven. They are doing a recording session and don’t come home until later. Damn autograph hounds anyway.” 

Mr. Chapman smiled and walked into a multitude of autograph seekers and fans of the great John Lennon. He could have told them that he was the one but knew, deep down inside, that they wouldn’t believe him. 

Cold wind came on them from the east, swirling about and blustery. He commiserated, thinking only about how he would explain to Yoko how terribly things got messed up; he drugged him and took his place, though he couldn’t remember if it was 1969 or 1970. But after tonight that imposter would not profit from his true calling anymore. 

The wait felt endless when a cab pulled up and a rush of fans streamed toward the car. The driver got out of the car and opened the back seat. Mark saw the petite middle-aged woman with distinctive oriental features emerge first followed by the taller urbane personage of John Lennon with wired frame glasses and long thin Grecian nose, waving and smiling at his adoring fans. 

Mark went up to him holding paper with a pen. John just saw him as another adoring fan. He took the sheet and pen and began signing his autograph. Mark’s right hand was now freed, and he pulled the gun from his coat pocket. He fired into John’s stomach. Screams were heard. 

“I’ve been shot!” John gasped as he fell to the concrete sidewalk to the horror and distress of Yoko who kneeled down and over protectively her dying husband. 

Mark ran from Dakota and down the street. His job was complete. He sat on the curb, hearing numerous sirens wail in the distance, coming closer. Mark David Chapman sat and waited.