I was living in Lefrak City, a crappy apartment complex in Queens. I was married to someone else. I was not yet a father. I was working in book publishing, working in sales, and the notion of making a full time living as a writer had not yet entered my mind.
I had the radio on and I heard that John Lennon had been shot. I was sure that he would be okay. It couldn’t end that way. Not at the hands of some random lunatic. Several hours later, I found out I was wrong.
PAD





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