Remembering John Lennon

I’ve been wanting to put this in writing for years — and finally have!

I was John Lennon’s optometrist for the last four years of his life, when he and Yoko lived on the Upper West Side of New York City.

Thirty years later, patients are still asking what he was like. I thought it would be a good idea to share some of my memories.

I first met John and Yoko in 1975. I had opened my practice a year earlier, at 284 Columbus Avenue (now a women’s clothing store). Back then, the neighborhood was still kind of “iffy.” But I took the plunge, and slowly started to build a clientele (many still with us today!)

One winter night near closing, I noticed a couple gazing into the store, their faces pressed against the window. A few minutes later, my friend Neil, owner of the Cultured Seed flower shop next door, stopped in to tell me “that was John Lennon and Yoko Ono!”

I was excited but not shocked. John and Yoko had moved into the Dakota on West 72nd street in 1973, and sightings of the famous couple on the Upper West Side were common.

The next night, again near closing, I was finishing with a patient when I heard an English-accented voice inquiring about an eye exam. My receptionist — a middle-aged woman from Guyana who I’m sure didn’t recognize our new walk-in – replied that she would be glad to set up an appointment.

I immediately bolted from the examination to explain that I was nearly done — could I examine him momentarily? John agreed.

I remember my heart pounding while thinking “I’d better get this prescription right!” I was imagining headlines: “John Lennon Trips During Concert, Blames Optometrist for Poor Prescription,” or “Ex-Beatle Now Blind – Optometrist Charged with Misdiagnosis.”

Despite my nervousness, I managed to get through the exam. John picked out some new frames. He always knew exactly what he wanted, staying true to the round or slightly off-round (P3) shapes he had made famous as a Beatle. He also insisted on cable temples (wraparounds), explaining they kept his frames on while jumping around on stage.

After finishing, I asked John for his telephone number to call when his glasses were ready. He appeared hesitant. He seemed pleased, even amused, when I offered to write it on the back of his file in code, and gave me the number.

John was a regular patient for next four years. Between 1975 and 1979, John had two complete eye exams, purchased over a dozen pair of glasses, and dropped in frequently for adjustments or repairs.

John and Yoko almost always arrived around closing time. After taking care of business, they would sit and chat for awhile. Small talk, usually about things going on in the neighborhood.

During those four years, Yoko never availed herself of my services. She mostly stayed in the background, always quiet, polite, and non-assuming. Although John often came in solo, I felt that when Yoko was present, she had a calming, soothing effect on him.

One day John came with his son Julian, visiting from England. In a fatherly manner, he recommended that Julian should make sure that his frames had wraparound temples, similar to John’s preference. Julian selected an aviator shape that was popular at the time, and I managed to find one with the wraparound temples, so he could fulfill his father’s recommendation.

I never asked John about the Beatles, or talked about his celebrity. From what I learned later, he had an ordinary blue-collar upbringing. I reaIly think he enjoyed being in an environment where he was treated like an ordinary person. My wife Julie and I would occasionally run into them in neighborhood eateries, especially Cafe Fortuna on 71st street off of Columbus.

Of course, I remained somewhat in awe. One day, knowing John was coming in, I brought in a beat up copy of “A Spaniard in the Works,” an obscure book of John’s sketches and poems I’d purchased for 25 cents in one of the antique stores still prevalent on the Upper West Side. I was secretly hoping he would offer to sign it, though didn’t feel comfortable asking. He seemed pleased to see the book, but did not offer to autograph it. I still have my copy.

Several long-time patients fondly remember encountering John in my office, offering advice on the frames they were trying on. Another patient recalls trying on contact lenses when John’s voice surprised him from behind: “I tried to wear them, but the only way I could keep them in my bloody eyes was to get bloody stoned first.”

One afternoon, walking back from lunch to my office on Columbus Avenue, I spotted John coming towards me. He seemed shaken. He told me that someone had been following him all morning, and asked me to accompany him. He thought that if we drew attention to this person, that they would leave. Pointing to a disheveled person with a trench coat, John started yelling “that’s the person who’s been following me.” I joined John, pointing and yelling “that’s the person!”

It worked.  He sped up and disappeared around the corner. John and I walked to my office, where I locked the door. John stayed until he was sure the person was completely gone.

One day, John and I were chatting in my office when suddenly he paused in mid-sentence:  “Is that Paul?” I was taken aback, since there was no one else in the office or visible outside the window.  I asked John who he meant. He had heard Paul McCartney singing from my radio upstairs.  I hadn’t even realized the radio was on. I realized then how finely attuned John was to the music of his former band mate.

One day John and Yoko dropped by to pick up new eyeglasses. John was toting a tiny baby in a papoose carrier on his back. They told me that this was the first time they’d ventured out of the Dakota, in public with their newly born son Sean.

On one of his last visits to my office, John finally strayed from his usual metal round frame. Wanting something different for his new sunglasses, he selected a rectangular, clear plastic frame with dark gray lenses. I believe these are the glasses that show up in photographs with blood stains on them, on the tragic night he was killed on December 8, 1980.

In the fall of 1979, I moved to my current location on Amsterdam Avenue. But John never made it here.

A couple of years after John’s death, Yoko came in for an exam. Seated in the examination chair, tears welled in her eyes as she reminisced about John, expressing concern that Sean was now old enough to hear negative publicity about his father. She asked if I would meet with Sean to share my experience with the “real” John. I agreed, but a meeting was never arranged. I never saw or heard from Yoko again.

Years later, however, Sean did come in, with a prescription in hand. I made many pairs of glasses for him over the years.

Getting to know and serve John and Yoko was a defining time in my life. When I was young, I sometimes questioned whether I’d made the right decision to become an optometrist and move to New York. But where else would I have had the opportunity to meet people like John Lennon?

Being an independent optometrist here has given my the opportunity to know many fascinating and diverse people.  It has been a privilege to be a part of the Upper West Side for so many years.

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