I don’t find my work boring. It doesn’t exactly enchant me either. I mean, I don’t enjoy it the way I enjoy beer, ice cream or the Hawks’ games. That’s obvious. But doing your duty, as my father used to say, is not something to be measured by how much you enjoy it, but by how important it is. And doing an important job is an honour not everybody can claim, you know. I mean, guarding our borders so that no criminals get in is not the same, with all due respect, as washing cars or serving hamburgers, for example. Those jobs are as honourable as any other, but they don’t give you the same sense of pride. I know because as a youngster I served hamburgers and washed cars. You can see the difference just from the uniforms. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. And anyone who prefers to wear a fuckin’ apron rather than a badge, well, let them swear it on the Bible.
The days pass by slowly, you know. The faces, questions and gestures are always the same. You can’t move from your seat because there are dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. Your fuckin’ arse starts to ache so much you can hardly walk when you go to the toilet. The airport noises drill so deep inside your head that when you leave the airport you can still hear them. You hear them in the car, the subway, the shower, in bed. But in the end you get used to it.
When I arrive home, you know, when I take off my uniform, shirt and shoes, sometimes I feel distant from it all. I lie there stretched out. I watch TV until late. I don’t talk to my wife much. And when I explain something to my children or draw their attention to something, it’s as if I’m speaking some foreign language.
MONOLOGUE OF THE MONSTER
YOU DON’T DECIDE to kill a child. At most, you decide to clench your teeth or tense your muscles. To aim at the head or lower the barrel. To open your hand or squeeze your forefinger a little. No more than that. Afterwards the consequences flood in at once. To me, that doesn’t seem logical. You think you are capable of doing something and you do it. It’s a verification, not something done to anyone. People are wrong when they start searching for motives. Destruction is a goal in itself, a solitary mission, it’s not about anything or anybody. It is something that is strangely possible. And the possibility itself is what convinces you. It is hard to do things in life. We all want to achieve our aims. I had an aim, and I carried it out. Maybe I made a mistake over what I was aiming for, but I made no mistake in accomplishing it. There’s a subtle difference there that not everyone understands.
I decided to obey an impulse, but at no moment do I recall ever having accepted the consequences of that impulse. I think it is out of all proportion for so many things to be unleashed at once, under the guise of a single one. For us to be responsible for our actions, it would be only fair to be asked for approval one by one. Reality ought to ask us: Do you accept making this movement? Very well, now do you agree that your movement causes this other one? Very well, now are you ready to accept that the second movement causes these reactions? And so on.
I am not in any way avoiding my responsibilities. I am simply distinguishing their different parts. Your curiosity is not the same as your decision. An impulse is not the same as a sentence. Anxiety is not the same as hatred. From not paying attention to these nuances, I did what I did. I am speaking from the heart. If at that moment I had known the child would really collapse, I would never have pulled the trigger. The rest I can accept.
HOW I KILLED JOHN LENNON
IT WAS ME who killed Lennon, but I wasn’t his murderer. That winter was turning cold. I fired the gun.
I was hanging round on 72nd Street like so often before, the collar of my coat brushing my ears. I was trying to pluck up enough courage to walk over to the Dakota. However much of a coincidence it was, I am ashamed now to think that on that damned 8th December a lunatic and I had more or less the same idea. I am not what I appear to be. So I walked trampling the frost. That’s all. A night-time stroll, an autograph, and there you go. Let me take you down.
With my back to a frozen Central Park West, I was assailed by that fear, which, ever since, I have been unable to stop seeing as a portent. A fear icier than the wind, more slippery than the frost, more uncertain than the guard I began to mount, posted opposite the entrance to the Dakota, waiting for Lennon. My heart was pounding or, as it were, wouldn’t stop spinning round like a record underneath the black wool. The single and the ballpoint pen were waiting inside my overcoat. From time to time I felt them and tried to calm myself with their familiar shapes. At that moment in my memory it seems like it was drizzling, but I think I am mistaken. It was about ten at night and I was surprised: according to the information I had, he should have been back by now to give his son a goodnight kiss. It was said that these days he rose early and led the life of an exemplary parent, which, at our rebellious age, was foolishly inclined to disappoint us. Although he also strove to be a symbol of peace, which, as starry-eyed youths, was naively inclined to excite us.
After checking my watch for the umpteenth time, I was thinking of giving up when an awkward figure, less tall than I had expected beneath his flamboyant leather coat, turned the corner at Central Park West and 72nd. He came towards me with a zigzagging, rather comical gait. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a pricking sensation in my eyes: The eagle picks my eye. I had promised myself over and over that when the moment came I wouldn’t even blink, and yet I was screwing up my eyes trying to focus when I saw Lennon’s elongated back pass by two yards in front of me. I could see he was shaven, if imperfectly, and that his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, more in the manner of a Southern grandpa than an Oriental sage. These details vaguely reassured me, as if the possibility of going up to him had become much more feasible and natural than a moment ago. Come together right now over me.
He pressed a button on the panel beside the arched doorway, while with his other hand he rummaged in his leather coat the way someone looks for a lighter. Regardless of what everyone would keep repeating later on, I must say that Lennon was alone. And there, next to the outside entrance to the Dakota, I realized if I didn’t speak to him then, I would never be able to do it. I took two steps forward, my blood froze. But I took another two steps and felt an almost animal euphoria, as if I had crossed an invisible frontier and from then on anything could happen. He didn’t notice me until I opened my mouth and three hoarse words issued from my frozen lips, three vaporous words that ran out of steam: Sorry, Mr Lennon…
He turned abruptly, although his expression seemed quite relaxed. He scrutinized me, and I am afraid he instantly summed me up. I don’t know why in some way that hurt my pride: yes, I was a simple fan, but he didn’t have to realize it so instantly and without any introduction. I felt upset, I choked on my words. Half of what I say is meaningless. Mercifully, Lennon broke the ice by asking me my name. Sometimes I think he was probably just being polite; other times I think that was the best question Lennon could have asked me. Nowhere man, the world is at your command. Restored to my modest identity, I replied, pronouncing my surname very clearly as though I wanted him to memorize it, and next I said I would like him to sign my single as well as a separate autograph for me to carry round in my wallet. To my surprise, or at least contrary to what I had feared, Lennon said “my pleasure” and then “come on in”. I was about to say where to; but, having recovered from the shock, I stood aside to let him pass and followed him in.