A Second Chance
As Drew Wakeman sat on his hotel balcony admiring the London skyline, his eyes were drawn to the Tower of London. For almost nine hundred years, the center structure, the keep known as the White Tower, has stood near the banks of the River Thames, outlasting the royal houses of Normandy, as well as the Plantagenets, Tudors and Stuarts. It has survived the Reformation, Oliver Cromwell, the Restoration and, more recently, the Blitz.
While idly watching a sightseeing boat pass the HMS Belfast, he took a brief mental jaunt down memory lane, conjuring up images of his first gig in 1965, first recording session in '66, first gold album in '67 and first Grammy win in '68. These early successes were accompanied by a string of number one hits, gold and platinum albums and sold-out concert tours. By his twenty-fifth birthday, he had become a rock 'n' roll icon.
Yet the night he sat on that hotel balcony in London, in the summer of 1972, he took no joy in his career accomplishments. His personal life brought no happiness to him either. His two marriages, neither of which produced any children, ended badly, and his most recent ex-girlfriend was writing a tell-all book about their short and turbulent romance.
Drew did not know why she bothered. After all, his life was already fodder for the gossipmongers—although he had to admit his problems were more serious than the usual tabloid drivel. He was facing drug charges in California and accusations of statutory rape in Illinois by a sixteen-year-old girl who had sworn she was eighteen and looked like she was twenty. Moreover, the IRS was after him for back taxes.
And here I am in Jolly Old England, hoping to earn enough money to cover my future legal bills!
He closed his eyes and thought of better days. A smile slowly formed on his face as he remembered the glorious Sixties: unquestionably the greatest decade of his life. During the French Revolution, the cry had been "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité," but in the social and cultural revolution of the Sixties it had been "drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll."
Well, at least rock 'n' roll never got me into any serious trouble. I can't say the same for the first two.
Drew must have dozed off because when he opened his eyes again, it was nighttime. The city of London had become a pleasing contrast of light and darkness. The most striking sight was the Tower Bridge with its spotlights reflecting on the Thames.
It looks like two tall, thin castles holding hands, he thought whimsically, like something out of a fairy tale.
Suddenly, Drew had the urge to go out into the night and, at least for a few hours, take his mind off his troubles. He went inside his room, picked up the phone and called the concierge.
"Can you arrange for a car to pick me up and drive me around London?" he asked.
"Certainly. How soon would you like it?"
"About ten minutes?"
"It'll be waiting for you right outside the hotel entrance, sir."
* * *
When Drew exited the hotel, he saw the driver standing beside the hackney. The man immediately recognized his famous passenger and quickly opened the back door for him.
"Where to, Mr. Wakeman?" he asked once he got behind the wheel of the taxi.
"Why don't you give me the grand tour of London?"
As the black cab journeyed through England's capital city, the driver pointed out attractions such as Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Royal Albert Hall and Westminster Abbey.
"Here's a place that might be of interest to you, sir," the cabby announced as he stopped in front of 36 Craven Street.
Drew looked up at the four-story, brick, terraced Georgian house and remarked, "It's not nearly as impressive as the other buildings you've shown me."
"Someone quite famous used to live here."
"Come to think of it, this place does look kinda familiar. I think I attended a party here the last time I played London. This was Ringo's house, wasn't it?"
"I know the building you mean," the driver said. "A house that was similar to this over on Montagu Square in Marylebone, but, no, you're off by about two hundred years. Back in the eighteenth century, this was the London residence of Benjamin Franklin."
"Good old Ben. From what I've read about him, he was quite the character. He had a common-law wife and an illegitimate son by another woman. He also liked to sit in the nude in front of an open window; called it taking an air bath. I don't imagine that's something Ringo would do," Drew laughed.
"Have you ever met him, sir?" the driver asked as he headed toward the Tower of London.
"Who? Franklin or Ringo?"
The driver chuckled at his passenger's joke.
"Have you ever met any of the Beatles?"
"I met all of them. You a fan of theirs?"
"I saw them play at the Odeon. March 29, 1963. One of the best days of my life."
"April 10, 1970," Drew added. "The day McCartney announced he was leaving the Beatles, one of the worst days in music history. Looking back, it marked the beginning of the end."
"I don't follow you, sir."
"In September of that year, Hendrix died, followed in October by Joplin. Nine months later it was Jim Morrison. The glorious era of the Sixties came to a dismal end. We're two years into the Seventies. The war is still going on, and it looks as though Nixon will be in the White House for another four years."
"I'm sure things will get better," the cabby claimed as he stopped the taxi at a spot where his passenger would have the best view of the Tower of London across the Thames.
"I'm sure the poor souls who lost their heads to the chopping block inside that tower once felt the same way," the musician said morosely.
"Excuse me if I'm speaking out of line, sir, but you're a young man. You've got your whole life ahead of you."
"I'm a year older than Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison when they died. And I've got a decade on many of the boys that are being sent over to Vietnam."
The cab driver, a man who expected little out of life and was happy with whatever he got, could not fathom the depression that engulfed his passenger.
Drew turned and faced the Tower Bridge behind him.
"You know, when I heard some guy from Arizona bought the London Bridge, this was the one I thought he bought."
"There's not a soul in all of England who would dare sell this bridge!" the cabby laughed. "That would be like the Mayor of New York selling us the Statue of Liberty."
Drew continued to stare at the landmark for several minutes before saying, "I think I'll see what the view is like from the bridge. Will you wait here for me?"
"It would be my pleasure, sir."
The driver got out of his cab and stretched his legs, all the while watching the rock star head toward the bridge. Fifteen minutes later, Drew, standing midway between the two towers, waved to him. The cabby smiled and waved back.
Moments later, Andrew David Wakeman, one of the most beloved singers in rock 'n' roll, leapt from the Tower Bridge into the murky waters of the River Thames.
* * *
By the time Drew's head appeared above the surface, he felt as though his lungs were about to burst. He greedily gulped in air, as the current swept him downriver toward Greenwich. Thankfully, he had always been a strong swimmer, and he soon made it safely to shore.
As he lay on the bank, half in and half out of the water, he cursed himself for being such a fool.
What was I thinking? One stupid, impulsive action and I was almost history.
Once his tortured breathing returned to normal, Drew crawled out of the river and, soaking wet, walked toward a nearby road, hoping to get his bearings. Regrettably, he found himself in a section of the city where there were no recognizable landmarks. Without a point of reference, the street names meant nothing to him.
What I need is one of those maps with a big red arrow announcing YOU ARE HERE.
Since no one was around to give him directions, he thought it best to follow the river, walking in the opposite direction of the current. Eventually, it would bring him back to Tower Bridge.
Not long after sunrise, Drew found a coffee shop that was serving breakfast. His clothes, although still uncomfortably damp, were dry enough that he would not draw attention to himself. He went inside, sat at a booth and ordered coffee.
Most of the shop's patrons were businesspeople who had stopped for something to eat before going to work. These men and women, for the most part, were reading newspapers and magazines while they ate. For those diners who chose not to read, a television hung on the wall.
As Drew waited for his meal to be cooked, he sipped his hot coffee and watched the morning edition of the London news. He caught his breath when he saw his own face appear on the screen. Although the volume of the television could not compete with the noise of the coffee shop during the morning rush, he was able to hear enough of the broadcast to know that he was presumed dead from a suicidal leap off the Tower Bridge. The cabby who had driven him around London was an eyewitness to the tragic event. The story concluded with the newscaster saying that police divers would be used to search for his body.
The American singer sighed, wondering if attempted suicide was a crime in England.
That's just what I need: another charge against me!
He steeled himself as the waitress brought out a plate of pancakes. Would she scream when she saw him, believing he was a ghost?
"You want some more coffee?" she asked, nonchalantly putting the dish in front of him.
Despite his picture having been shown on the television just moments before, the waitress did not recognize him. Neither, apparently, did anyone else in the coffee shop.
"Yeah, I'll have another cup," he replied, enjoying the anonymity.
As he ate, he considered how he should rectify the situation he was in. Should he walk up to the nearest bobby and announce that the current of the Thames had carried him away, unharmed? Or maybe he should quietly return to the hotel and call his manager and let him contact the police. A third option suddenly occurred to him: don't tell anyone he was alive.
This is fate giving me a second chance. If everyone thinks I'm dead, all my legal troubles will go away.
True, his musical career would come to an abrupt end, but he had not really gotten much satisfaction out of it lately. Besides, if he let the world continue to think he had drowned, he would go out while he was still on top. He would not wind up like Elvis, who had gone from early rock rebel to a Vegas staple in sequin jumpsuits.
I'll be a legend like Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison.
By the time the waitress brought him his check, he had decided to remain a dead man.
* * *
Drew Wakeman soon discovered there were many practical problems associated with being dead, the most pressing being a lack of money. Had he known when he left his hotel room the previous evening that he would be beginning a new life, he certainly would have withdrawn sufficient funds to return to America. However, with less than a hundred pounds on him, he would not get very far. Cashing a check was out of the question as was using a credit card.
I have no place to stay, no way to access my money. I can't even go back to my hotel room to get a change of clothes.
If he wanted to start again with a new identity, he first needed money. In order to get money, he needed help from someone he could trust. He had no family; he was an only child, and both his parents were dead. He had friends, but none of them were particularly close.
My manager? Not likely. He stands to lose a great deal of money if I stop performing.
It was sad that a man, supposedly adored by millions, did not have one person he could truly rely on.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all. Maybe—
Drew laughed when the only logical solution occurred to him.
My lawyer! Even if he isn't the most scrupulous person I know, there's that whole attorney-client confidentiality thing. If he reveals to anyone what I've told him in confidence, he'll be disbarred, and then I'll sue him for every cent he has.
As Drew walked through a discount store looking for an inexpensive change of clothes, he formulated a plan. He would call his lawyer and have the man wire him money under an assumed name. For a price, he could obtain false documents, including a passport. Once he returned to America, he would have his lawyer draw up a will, dated prior to the drowning, which would transfer his bank accounts and property to the new identity.
Satisfied with this strategy, he paid for his jeans, shirt, sneakers, cap and dark glasses. Then he went to the men's room and changed. Lastly, he went in search of a payphone. As he was crossing the street, he heard a nearby church clock chime ten.
That makes it two in the morning back in California. My lawyer's probably in bed asleep. I'll give him another five hours' sleep and then call him back, the singer concluded. Come to think of it, I could use a few hours of shuteye myself.
However, after buying breakfast and a change of clothing, Drew had very little cash left over—certainly not enough for even an inexpensive hotel room. He walked for more than a mile before finding a public park. The benches there were hard and uncomfortable, but he sat down, stretched out his legs, lowered his head on his chest and slept.
Shortly after noon, he was awakened by a group of teenage girls who decided to eat their lunch at a nearby picnic table. One of the girls turned on a portable radio, and Drew instantly recognized Mick Jagger's voice. The Rolling Stones were followed by Pink Floyd and Elton John.
The girls were still talking and giggling when the music ended and the station's newscaster came on. Naturally, the top story was about the American rock star who did a high dive off Tower Bridge. Despite a massive search effort, police had yet to recover his remains. One of the divers, when questioned, admitted it might take days or even weeks to find the body. He also expressed his confidence that eventually his team would locate it.
That's what you think! Drew thought with a smile.
Unable to go back to sleep, he decided to take a walk. Ten minutes later he found himself approaching Tower Bridge. Police were still searching the area. Believing no one would recognize him with dark glasses and his hair tucked under the cap, he walked to the police barricade where a group of people had gathered to watch the rescue efforts.
If they only knew they were standing next to me.
As the singer watched the valiant but futile efforts of the police divers, he listened to snippets of conversation from his fellow spectators.
"An American. It figures. They're all bloody daft, if you ask me."
"Why couldn't the bloke stay in his own country and jump off the George Washington Bridge?"
"He was probably stoned out of his mind," offered a middle-aged American tourist.
Disgusted by the total lack of compassion from those around him, even from his own countryman, Drew headed toward the nearest red telephone box. The call to California took nearly half of the money he had left. As the phone rang, his eyes went to the Tower of London, taking comfort in its seeming permanence.
"Hello?" the attorney said.
"Irving, it's me, Drew."
"Hello?" the lawyer repeated.
"I want you to disregard everything you may have heard about my mishap in London. I want to assure you I'm alive and well."
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Irving, can you hear me? I need you to ...."
Drew heard the click of the receiver on the other end of the line and knew his lawyer had hung up the receiver.
"Damn it!"
Annoyed, he put the rest of his change in the phone and redialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
Come on and answer already.
Four, five, six. Irving had apparently left his house and was probably on his way to his office.
That means I'll have to go through his secretary to speak to him. I wonder if attorney-client confidentially extends to her.
He hated the idea of revealing his secret to a young woman he barely knew, but he had no other choice. He needed his lawyer's help.
I'll wait forty minutes and call his office. Even with traffic, that ought to be plenty of time for him to get there.
As Drew put the change back in his pocket, he heard shouting from the riverbank. A chill coursed through his body when a woman's piercing scream rent the air. He wanted to walk toward the river and see what all the commotion was about, but his feet seemed glued to the ground. When he was finally able to move, his steps were robotic as though his limbs were being controlled by a puppeteer with a remote control unit.
The turmoil near the river continued, and the shouting grew louder as one of the rescue boats headed toward shore. Every person in the immediate vicinity rushed toward the barricade, pushing and shoving to get a better view. A reporter broke through and snapped two pictures before one of the policemen chased him away. Somehow, Drew was able to walk right up to the river. Not even the police attempted to stop him as he neared the bank.
The first thing he saw was the wet shoes. As his eyes travelled up from there, he recognized the pants and the shirt. At first, he illogically thought some vagrant had taken his clothes from the trash bin in the discount store. There could be no other explanation.
Then he saw the face.
"I told you we'd find him," one of the drivers reminded a reporter on the scene.
"There must be some mistake," Drew called. "That's not me!"
No one seemed to hear him.
"Look at me! I'm alive," he shouted.
The body pulled from the mud beneath Tower Bridge was placed in a body bag.
"I'm not dead. I made it out of the river alive. Ask the waitress where I ate breakfast this morning or the cashier who waited on me when I bought these clothes. Look at me, damn it! I'm right ...."
Not only were the people surrounding him unable to hear his cries, but his voice faded from his own ears midsentence. The last sound he heard was the zipper being closed on the body bag.
Drew Wakeman's second chance had proved to be nothing more than a cruel false hope.
When the TLC television network found out that Salem VIII had six wives and nineteen kittens (and counting), they offered him his own reality series. They withdrew the offer only after they learned he wasn't married to all six at the same time.
