I just got this the other day. It's pretty creative, I admit, but I'm not sure I get it...but maybe one of you Jeanketeers out there will—Jean
December 8, 1980
By instantkarla@shineon.net
He had been waiting outside the grand old apartment building for hours now, a small reddish groove forming in the flesh of his palm where the album cover rested. His other hand was plunged deep into his jacket. It was a chilly December dusk. What is the big deal? thought the few passerby who noticed him. Another strange, dreamy fan, living vicariously through his world-famous idol. Doesn't he have anything better to do? But that was the extent of their suspicion. Lots of weirdos in New York. His hand was thrust in his jacket because it was cold. Went without saying.
Another dreamer emerged from the grand old apartment building. He was accompanied by his petite wife as they passed through the building's arched side entrance. Except for those signature round spectacles, he looked like any other unassuming New Yorker, in his faded jeans and bomber jacket. A real working class hero. The first dreamer thrust out his album, and without hesitation the other one signed it. How many albums had he autographed over the years? Ten thousand? One hundred thousand? Then he and his wife got into an awaiting limo and sped off into the encroaching Gotham night.
*******
Hours passed, yet still the fan remained, in the exact same place. The doorman of the apartment building thought nothing of it. It was not uncommon to observe fans waiting this long. Sometimes they came from very long distances to see their idol.
The dreamer had remained because his work was not yet done. Before, he was of two minds, and their conflict stopped him from carrying out his deed. But now he was of one.
He had propped the signed album on a nearby planter.
December 8, 1980 was drawing to a close as the white limo pulled up. Out emerged the bespectacled one, accompanied by his wife.
Here was the chance, at long, long last.
He who had waited for hours in the December cold pulled his hand out of his jacket. I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this, he thought. No more inaction. I'm solving this problem once and for all.
Smoothly, methodically, he pulled out the pistol, unlocked the safety, and took aim.
Then, all of the sudden, a figure came rushing out of the darkness of Central Park West. A faceless blur of murky lavender, it panted heavily, almost wheezing. It headed straight towards the bespectacled dreamer.
"John, watch out, he has a gun!" it cried in a female, vaguely Midwestern accent.
The figure thrust out its short, stocky arms and with all its strength knocked him away just as the gun fired. A couple bullets sank into the figure, a couple ricocheted away as the shooter realized that his quarry had been scared off. He looked around anxiously, but the bespectacled dreamer was nowhere to be found. He had recovered quickly enough from the violent shove to realize what was happening, and had raced into the building.
The horrified doorman thought fast. Noticing that the attempted assassin had frozen after the incident, baffled by what had happened, the doorman raced over and tackled him from the side, knocking the gun loose. A couple bystanders ran up and swiftly held him down before he could escape.
Another object fell out of the would-be assassin's pocket and ignobly hit the ground: A battered copy of The Catcher In The Rye. Within a minute, a squad car had pulled up. The cops quickly cuffed him and packed him into the car. He could only sit by in rage and frustration as the events unfolded. He could dream no more.
*******
The bespectacled dreamer emerged from the shadows, much as his rescuer did. Under the glare of a streetlight, passerby had surrounded the fallen figure.
"She did it...she must have seen the gun and pushed him away!" someone whispered
The security personnel had wanted to rush him to his top floor suite but he felt that he should have some words this mysterious savior. Ignoring the advice of his wife to stay away from strangers—what if there were more shooters?—he walked through the crowd, who parted with a hush as soon as they saw him. So much for blase New Yorkers!
She was a petite, plump woman, with long, straight hair, and wire-frame glasses. One of the lenses was cracked and broken. She was attired, unseasonably, in a sweatshirt and sweatpants of a strange hue, lavender. Blood flowed from the eye of the teddy bear applique sewn to her sweatshirt. But she felt no pain, just ebbing strength, as if she was falling asleep.
She wore an oddly serene, almost visionary expression on her face. As though she didn't really belong there. As though she was a person from another time, another place.
Later on, as her personal effects were examined by police, they would be puzzled by some strange information printed on the tag of her sweatpants: copyright 2001 Hanes For Her, All Rights Reserved. 2001? A movie fan, perhaps? How did that explain the lavender? No stores sold Hanes in this shade. But that was yet another, probably unsolvable mystery about this strange, unidentified woman who sprang out of the cold, dark shadows.
Well, almost unidentified.
The dreamer worked his way up to the woman and gently bent down beside her.
"My God," he said, his voice thick with emotion, but that familiar Liverpudlian accent still shone through. "You saved my life. Thank you. Bless you. You're amazing. My God, I...How did you know? Look, try not to talk. 'Ere, someone please call an ambulance for this woman!"
The woman smiled weakly. Her serene expression seemed to take on a further radiance.
"You...you still had so many songs to sing," the figure blurted. "Without you, the world would have been so empty. I couldn't...I couldn't let it happen."
"Who are you?" he asked, taking her hand. "What is your name?"
The figure paused.
"J-Jean," she said. "Just...Jean."
The streetlight went out and all went dark.