I Met the Walrus_ How One Day With John Lennon Changed My Life Forever - Jerry Levitan [17]
The first person I needed to see was my mother. I wanted to tell her about the amazing thing that had just happened. There I was, on the bus going back to north Toronto. It was about 11:00 A.M. People were carrying on their business oblivious to the fact that I had found, met, and talked to the most important person on earth. My smile was serene, but purposeful. I stepped off the bus at the corner of Bathurst Street and Eglinton Avenue, the epicenter of Jewish Toronto. Bakeries, creameries, religious shops. Bubbies, yentas, and busy men abounded. My Aunt Chana slaved away at Village Kosher Meat Market, a small shop that was always busy and packed with mothers buying poultry, eggs, and prepared foods. Aunt Chana worked all day in the back, grinding the stuffing for kishke and making blintzes and kreplach. She was one of three sisters, out of six, who had survived the concentration camp. My mother would help out here and there by working at the counter. A white-haired butcher with a neatly trimmed mustache owned the meat market.
My mother screamed when I walked in. “Why aren’t you at school? What happened? Are you sick?” She barraged me with worry and anxiety. And then the flood began: “Ma, I found John Lennon! I was in his room. He’s here! In Toronto! He’s so great! Yoko was there too! I talked to him. I’m going back later! JOHN LENNON, Ma. Can you believe it!! Here, look, he signed my album.” My mother gasped as I spit out those phrases in that small shop amidst a few customers looking for giblets and chicken shmaltze. It caused such a scene that the butcher came running out from the back and pulled us away from the customers, and into his office that was filled with greasy invoices and huge bags of kosher salts.
“What’s wrong with your boy, Judy? Is he sick? What’s going on?” he asked. My mother was speechless as I began my adrenaline-fueled recitation of the greatest story ever told. The butcher stood there, looking prim and proper, his bowtie neatly positioned at the top of the bloodied apron that hung from his upper chest to his ankles. He said nothing until I pulled out my now precious Two Virgins album. “And look!” I said holding my artifact high in the air with pride and flair. “He signed it. Yoko too!”
The circumspect butcher made a high-pitched, very short squeal. His head spun around for fear of customers, or worse, the rabbinical inspector, walking by and witnessing John and Yoko’s genitalia. “Put that away right now. It’s filth,” he said in an uncomfortable whisper as he pushed the album into my bag. Indignant I looked up at a girlie calendar he’d hung over his desk next to a poster for the United Jewish Way. “What do you call that?” I asked, pointing at a voluptuous woman in fancy lingerie. The butcher answered with composure and confidence. “That is art. This,” he said with a look of disgust on his face, “is pornography!”
I exploded. My mother turned to him and told him she would deal with it. He went to the front with a huff. She took me right to the back where my aunt was squishing stuffing into stomach casing. When my aunt saw me, she too asked what was wrong and if I was sick. “Jerry, what is going on? What are you doing?” my mother asked. She was worried and confused. She probably thought I was on drugs. None of what I was saying made sense to her. “Ma, I really met him,” I answered calmer now and cognizant of the turmoil I had caused. “John Lennon. I met him. And I’m going to see him again later.” “Jereleh,” my mother said softly, stroking my hair. “Go to school. Don’t do anything meshugah. Please. Go to school.” “Okay, Ma. I’ll go to school,” I told her. Walking out, I passed the butcher who was talking to a customer from behind the counter. I gave him a defiant smirk, which was met with a harrumph. My anger was tempered by my knowledge