Rolling Stone 1000 and The Mayor of Strawberry Fields

Who's the worst group to give a tour to? Anyone? Any guesses?

Middle school kids from Long Island. Hands down, nobody even comes close. Cause not only are they rich, spoiled, sugarred-up money-saturated and and MTV-brainwashed beyond all hope, a trip to NYC isn't anything special to them. They don't care a single drop about John Lennon, they couldn't bother to hear a thing about the history of the Upper West and Central Park, all they want to do is annoy and harrass each other, and the adults, and of course, me.

And it's always the boys who try to get me to somehow admit that I'm gay (Oh, you have a girlfriend? What's HIS name. Hyuck Hyuck) who also get unbearably close to me when I'm giving my speech. Weird, and disturbing. Nothing but a pack of wild Jackal-monkeys. A combat tour as we call it. Forget about the important sites and stories, just get through it. Thank god they didn't want to see the WTC site, I can only imagine the scene they'd make there.

Anyway, into Strawberry Fields for lunch, a bare minimum of talking, back on the bus and take 'em to Toys 'R Us for an hour, what the fuck do I care? I just-

Oh shit. I left my backpack in the park.

I knew that wasting their time to run off and find it would instantly lose me any credibility I may have had, so I had to risk going back later for it. I slowly made a list in my head of the items in the bag as the kids loaded on to the bus. The bag itself was the most valuable item. Along with it was my most recent journal, which had more to-do lists and raw data than any deeply important creative work. Other than that nothing special. Just the thousandth issue of Rolling Stone I had bought earlier that day.

It seemed like an important collector's item, even though I never read Rolling Stone, it would be packed with significant history of the Classic Rock and youth movements in the late 20th. The cover was also brilliant. A Sergeant Pepper's mock up, except on a stage, and every face in the crowd was someone who was somehow important in the era of Rolling Stone. Kurt Cobain was the angel and Hunter S. Thompson the devil. Perfect. The cover also was a hologram that peeled off and left a regular version on the plain glossy-paper cover underneath. The hologram would be a perfect addition on my developing bedroom wall.

But that was most likely gone, along with the rest of the bag contents, so i just went on with the tour.

As we were circling Columbus Circle, I recieved a random call on my cell:

"Is this Gideon?"
"Yeah?"
"This is the Mayor." Not Bloomy, of course, a different mayor.
"Gary. The Mayor of Strawberry Fields" He continued. Gary, of course, was the unemployed, substance abused (which ones? Don't ask me!) patron of the renowned part of Central Park who has for 13 years (on and off) been putting together flower peace-sign decorations on the Imagine Mosaic in the heart of the Fields, I can only presume are donated by florists, or subsidized by Yoko or her various supporters of the site.

I don't know Gary's last name, his story, his origin, or his future, I just know that for zero dollars and zero cents, he creates an ephemeral boon of beauty to the already legendary tourist site, giving my sometimes apathetic students from far and near an additional highlight to their digital-photo slideshow they'll inevitably show to their friends and family back home.

He doesn't panhandle, he doesn't rant and rave, he only asks that we all hope and pray for peace, understanding, and good-will between all humankind. John couldn't have asked for anything more.

I told him i'd be there at 3pm.

At 2:50, i strolled back into Central Park at 72nd on the west side. The flower expansion upon the twenty-three year old mosiac still stood, but with a new addition to the design: A Rolling Stone hologram. Harvested from a backpack left in the Fields. Gary, of course, went through the bag and found my journal. On the first page had my name and number with the offer of a reward if found. He thought the hologram from the Rolling Stone cover just belonged in the heart of John's memento.

I did too.

He handed me back the bag, all items intact. We shot the breeze for a little while, along with Lisa, his female companion and the Black Lab they kept as guard and companion. I handed him a few bucks, he deserved more. I vowed to, next time I traversed Strawberry Fields, hand him a $20 and a joint as tribute for all he contributed to my tour. But tribute or no, Gary plays an indivisible role to the homage New York pays to the Greatest Rockers of All Time.

The Greatest are never recognized in their time. Or sometimes they are, I don't know, but Gary doesn't ask for fame, and he will not receive it. He only does what's right, and what's in his power to do what John Lennon always asked humanity to do: Make the world just a little bit better place in which to live. Nothing more, nothing less.