On my way to her apartment, I would often share the elevator with John, Yoko, and their toddler, Sean. John always nodded a hello and called me “young man” in a cheeky formal way, as if we were in on his joke together. I was too shy to tell him that I treasured a photograph of me shaking his hand at a charity event where rich kids had lined up all the way down Benedict Canyon to meet the Beatles. It was during their first American tour, and they sat on stools for hours shaking hands with children as a photographer snapped shots every fifteen seconds so everyone would get a picture.
