"Can you believe this?"  Jodi shrieked.  "Can you believe that we're here and HIM is here and soon WE and HIM are gonna--"

"Be separated by fifty-five rows of chairs," I snarled. 

"What are you complaining about now?"  Jodie whooped.  "We got in to Paul's concert for FREE.  Thanks to our new buddy, Geoff Baker."

I gritted my teeth.  "Jodi, we spent $500 a piece on tickets to this concert, remember?  We had fourth row seats, remember?  We would be sitting in our fourth row seats if you had remembered to bring the tickets instead of leaving them in the hotel.  Now we're stuck here."

"It's not so bad," Jodi argued.  "We're just above the stage.”

I held my breath and counted to ten.  Consider the source, I told myself.  The girl’s oblivious!  OBLIVIOUS!

“Just above the stage?”  I managed to say it in a fairly friendly tone of voice and I was proud of myself for my restraint.  But then my voice rose several decibels.  I was getting quite good at snarling.  Jodi brings it out in me.  “JUST ABOVE THE STAGE?  Jodi, lean your head back.”

Jodi groaned.  "Now why would I do something stupid like that?  I'd bang my head."

"Against what, Jodi?  What's back there that would bang against your head?"  Sometimes I have to spell these things out for her.  Most times I have to spell these things out for her.

Jodi turned and promptly smashed her nose against the ceiling.  "Oh.  Is my nose bleeding?"

"We're so high up you don't even need to smack against anything to start a nosebleed."

"Dianne,” she began haughtily, “need I remind you that we wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for Geoff--"

"Oh, right,” I interrupted, “the same Geoff Baker who is now sitting in our seats, the ones WE paid for."  I leaned forward and squinted.  "What's that in the seat next to him?"

Jodi aimed a pair of binoculars to where I pointed.

"I still can't believe you rented those things," I complained.

"I want to see HIM," she hissed.

"I want to see HIM too," I agreed.  "Only I want to see HIM about all the money he owes us."

"What money?"

I struggled to control my temper.  "Just who paid twelve thousand dollars for the piano that HIM will be playing tonight?  For that matter, who lugged that piano all over Boston?"

Too late, Jodi’s miniscule attention span had shifted and she was busy turning knobs on the binoculars as she stared into the fourth row so far below us.

"Hmmm," Jodi answered.  "Looks like a teddy bear."

"What looks like a teddy bear?" I sighed.

"The thing sitting on the chair next to Geoff Baker."

I sat bolt upright.  "A teddy bear?  There's a teddy bear sitting in my $500 fourth row seat?"

"And a cushion," Jodi reported as she removed the binoculars from in front of her face.  "The bear is sitting on a cushion so he can see over everybody's heads."

"Give me that."  I whipped the binoculars out of Jodi's hands and brought them to my eyes.  "It's a Beanie Baby," I reported, incredulous.  "And if I'm not mistaken, it's the Four Seasons' Beanie Baby Bear."

"There you go," Jodi said as she snatched the binoculars away from me.  "Mystery solved."

"Don't you care that a millionaire and a bear are sitting in our seats?"  I growled.

"I only care about Sir HIM," Jodi said.  "I want to be the first one in the arena to see HIM.  And I can be.  With these binoculars, I can see stuff going on behind stage."  She sounded insufferably smug and content.

"I'm happy for you," I growled.  "Now will you answer one itty bitty question for me?  And will you please remove those binoculars first?"

"No way," Jodi replied.  "It's getting too close to show time."

She turned and looked at me, binoculars still covering her eyes.  I sighed.  She probably had a great view of my nose...... if the binoculars could focus that close.

"Jodi, after the show, what will happen to the piano?  Do we have to carry it off to the airport?"

Jodi shook her head.  "Naw.  Paul probably won't leave tonight.  He doesn't have to be in Cleveland until Friday.  He'll probably return to the Four Seasons."

"Great.  Then what do we do with the piano?"

"It's not our problem," she frowned.

"It is so our problem."  I groaned again, I didn’t even want to think about having to haul that piano back to the hotel.  Not to mention what would we do with it then?  Leave it sitting in the lobby or the kitchen?  Then I got an idea.  "Hey Jodi, do you still have Geoff Baker's cell phone?"

Jodi turned the binoculars back towards the crowd and blindly reached inside a pocket before handing the phone to me.  I promptly hit the Last Caller Dialed option and waited.

"Hey cool, Dianne," Jodi nudged me, still glued to her binoculars.  "Geoff Baker is getting a phone call."

"Baker here," I heard over the phone.  Pretty good connection for being inside the arena like this.

“Hi, this is Dianne,” I said brightly.  “How do you like your seat?”

"Not bad," he said.  "I've had better."

"Who's your friend?"  I asked.

"None of your business," he snapped.  “What do you want, anyway?”

"I want to know what happens to the piano after the concert," I asked.  "Do you expect Jodi and me to hand carry it across Boston again, or will the roadies take care of it?"

Geoff sighed.  "Dammit, Jodi, I'm a press agent, not a logistics expert."

“Watch it, buster, I’m Dianne, Jodi’s the bubbleheaded one!  And for your information, I'm a newspaper editor, not a pack horse," I shot back.

"You're a receptionist at an eye clinic," Jodi reminded me.

I put my hand over the phone.  "Geoff doesn't know that, you dunce," I hissed.  "Remember, he thinks that you and I own a newspaper.  We've got to keep our story consistent."

"Yeah, right, whatever," Jodi shrugged.

I picked up the phone again.  "Well?"

"Well, all right, the roadies will take care of it.  Now look, the show's about to start so I have to keep this line clear."

"Gotcha."  I hung up the phone.  "Good news, Jodi, we don't have to carry the piano anywhere anymore."

"I can see somebody moving backstage," Jodi whispered.  "Is it Paul?  Could it be HIM?  Oh, I bet it's HIM.  It's HIM, it's HIM.  Up here, HIM!"

Jodi stood suddenly.  "OUCH!"

I grabbed hold of her jacket and pulled her back into her seat.  "Now what was our rule about standing up suddenly?"  I asked in a singsong voice.  "Remember how close we are to the ceiling and all?"

"But I think I saw HIM!"  Jodi protested.  She waved one free arm and shouted, "We're up here, HIM!"

I squeezed my hands into fists.  "Jodi, do you know how stupid you sound calling HIM, HIM?"

The binoculared Jodi turned towards me.  "You just called HIM, HIM."

I groaned.  "Of course I called HIM, HIM.  It's okay for me to call HIM, HIM, because I'm not talking directly to HIM.  But if I were talking directly to HIM, then I would refer to HIM as Paul McCartney."

"Ha!"  Jodi whooped.  "I caught you.  I caught you in a mistake.  You're the one who wanted me to call Paul McCartney HIM in the first place.  You're the one who said ‘Don't go shouting Paul McCartney in public because you will either start a riot, or you’ll identify yourself as a Paul McCartney nerd, depending on who's listening in’.  And now, out of the blue, you're breaking your own rule.  What gives?"

What gives is that one of these days Jodi and her sense of logic are going to give me a brain hemorrhage.  But until that day, in the interest of maintaining our friendship, I have to remain calm and try to explain things.  I counted to ten.

"Jodi, it's all right to shout 'Paul McCartney' in a Paul McCartney concert.  Everybody in this entire arena knows why you're here."

Jodi frowned.  "How do they know what I'm up to?  Maybe I've got a secret reason for being here."

Like I said, one of these days I'm just gonna hemorrhage.  I counted to twenty and changed the subject.

"Jodi, Paul isn't going to be the first thing on stage tonight.  He's got a warm up show."

"Oh.  Looks like it's on it's way now."

We sat quietly as the lights dimmed and a group of elaborately-dressed individuals made their way through the audience.  Suddenly, something was drastically wrong.

"Eeeeek!"  Jodi screamed.  

"What's wrong with you?"  I hissed as Jodi buried her nose in my shoulder.

"It's... it's..."

"Horrible!"  I exclaimed as I caught it too. 

"Eeeek!"  Jodi screamed again.

Oh my.  How can I explain this?  How can I say this in such a way as to maintain a G rating for my story?  Hmm.  Let's just say that somebody, or possibly an entire row of somebodies, or more likely an entire section of somebodies, suffered from a terrible case of gastric distress.  You catch my drift?  Jodi and I were sure catching some drift.

"EWWWW!!!" she hollered. 

Jodi has got a set of lungs like nobody.  Fifty-five rows below, the startled actors looked up in dismay.  I pinched my nostrils shut and tried to breathe through my mouth.

"It figures," I groaned.  "How appropriate to be gassed inside a place called the Fleet Center."

"What are you talking about now?"  Jodi complained.  "The Fleet Center is named after Fleet Bank."

I rolled my eyes.  “Yes, you poor naive ninny.  Fleet is also the name of a company that makes enemas.”

Jodi just looked at me with utter incomprehension.  I had to explain a little further.  I could see the lightbulb go on, it was very clearly reflected in those vacant eyes.

"Oh.  OH!"

Did I mention that she’s dense sometimes?  I don’t think science has yet quantified that degree of denseness. 

I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed.  "Look, there's Paul," I said with a nasaly voice. 

While the audience rose to its feet and cheered, a single voice from the rafters roared across the entire stadium.

"SAVE US, PAULIE!"

A startled Sir Paul glanced in our direction.  Geoff's phone rang.

I grabbed the phone before Jodi could go for it.  "I know, I know," I shouted.  "I'm trying to control her.  But we've got a serious problem up here."

"Don't you dare ruin this concert," Geoff warned.

"Can you get us different seats?"  I begged.  "Please.  There's this guy up here who's got..."

"It's a sold out show," Geoff snapped.

"Can't the Beanie Bear sit on your lap, and Jodi and I will share the seat next to you?"

Even from fifty-five rows up, without any binoculars to give me a clear picture, I could still see Geoff bang his hands against his head.  "No, you can't possibly do that.  They're going to film me, you know.  I can't be seen with a Beanie Bear on my lap."

"But the bear is already sitting next to you and--"

I didn't think it was possible to slam down a cell phone, but Geoff managed it brilliantly.

Meanwhile, an oblivious Sir Paul was on stage and singing All My Loving, while the fumes continued building around us.

"We have to leave," I shouted into Jodi's ear, my eyes stinging.  "We can't stay here.  Even if we miss the entire show, it's not worth it to get gassed."

"Yes it is," Jodi argued.

"How do you like the show so far?"  Paul cried.

"IT'S A GAS, GAS, GAS!!!!!  Jodi bellowed. 

Paul looked up towards us and gave a puzzled grin.  "Sounds like somebody thought this was a Stones concert," he said.

Everybody in the arena began to giggle, except for three people:  Jodi, me, and Geoff Baker.  I ignored the ringing cell phone.

"I never saw anybody stuff a jacket up her nose before," Jodi commented, pinching her nostrils shut with one hand.

"How would you like me to stuff those binoculars up your nose?" I threatened, my eyes burning with unshed tears.  Frantically, I waved a hand in front of my face as I prayed for a little untainted air.

"I wonder if Paul can smell it down there," Jodi mused. 

"It wouldn't dare tickle his nostrils," I informed her.  "It only attacks chumps like us."

"Where do you think it's going?"  Jodi asked me.

I wrinkled my brow.  "Where's what going?"

"All the gas," Jodi replied innocently.  "I mean, there aren't any windows in this arena.  And if the pressure keeps building and building..."

"Oh Jodi, where do you get your stupid ideas from, anyway?  Why don't you shut up and pay attention to the show?"

Jodi nodded.  "You're right.  My favorite song is coming up next.  Live and Let Die."

"Live and Let Die?"  I winced.  "Ugh, Jodi, isn't that the one where they have that loud bang?"

"Yup," Jodi grinned.  "And those cool pyrotechnics."

Pyrotechnics?  Explosions?  Suddenly I shrieked.  "Give me the cell phone!"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Now, now, NOW!  GIVE ME THE PHONE!"

I grabbed hold of the phone and hastily punched in some numbers.

"Wow, you should see the expression on Sir Paul's face," Jodi marveled.  "He looks like somebody just bit him."

"Uh, ladies and gentlemen," Paul grinned sheepishly.  "I know this is most unusual, but somebody is calling me on my cell phone.  I hope you'll pardon me a second while I get it."

"What dope would call Sir Paul McCartney in the middle of a concert?"  Jodi asked.

That's when I remembered what number I had dialed.

Sir Paul flipped open his phone and smiled.  "Hello?"

The knight jerked his ear away from the cell phone as my scream tore out of the telephone, hit Paul's microphone, and then bounced around the entire arena in quivering, radiant glory.

"Wow, that scream sounded familiar, didn't it?"  Jodi marveled.

I threw my jacket over my head.

"Hmmm," Sir Paul mused as he flipped his phone shut.  "Wrong number.  I think she wanted Yoko Ono."

The audience erupted into laughter as Geoff's cell phone began to ring in my hand.  I decided to brave the press agent's anger.  I opened the phone and began speaking at once.

"Before you say anything to me, just listen!"

"Get out!"  Geoff ordered.  "Get out of this arena.  I don't want to see either of you ever again."

Geoff hung up on me, and I rang him back immediately.

He hung up again. 

That did it.  "Jodi, you have to do something."

"Me?  Why do I always have to do something?"

"Because I can't do this," I explained.  "My voice isn't loud enough to carry over the crowd.  Yours is.  You have to tell Paul not to play Live and Let Die."

"But it's my favorite," Jodi wailed.  "You never let me do what I want to do.  And I want to hear this song."

"Jodi, this is an emergency!"

"I don't care.  I don't care what happens, I won't stop them from playing, I won’t---"

Too late!

"Live and Let Die," Paul sang.

As the pyrotechnics did their stuff, we heard the mother of all explosions, and then an orange fireball lit up at the top of the arena.

"Cool special effects!"  Jodi shrieked as she trained her binoculars on the flames.

"Jodi, you dumb head, Paul's pyrotechnics plus your gas, gas, gas just blew the roof off the Fleet Center!"

Close to one hundred thousand people, stared upward as the roof disappeared into the night sky.  Even Paul stopped mid-stream.

Geoff's cell phone began to ring.  Gingerly, I opened it.  "I tried to warn you about all the gas," I whispered.

"Hey Dianne, where do you think the roof is headed?"  Jodi asked.

I put my hand over the phone.  "Bickfords Pancake House," I hissed back.  "Tonight's Tuesday, they have a two-for one dinner special."

"Oh."  Jodi nodded.

I rolled my eyes and returned to my negotiations with Geoff Baker.

"Well folks," Paul said a little too brightly, "Looks like I really did bring the house down tonight.  Everybody okay?"

There were nods and sounds of agreement across the shell-shocked audience.

"Right, then.  Let's bring out the new Yamaha piano that two very dear friends of mine purchased for me today, and maybe you'll be amazed."

Geoff Baker made some sort of strangled sound over the phone.  "I don't know how you managed it, but it sounds to me as if Paul forgives you.  I don’t believe it, but perhaps this will work out for the best."

"Uh-huh," I said shakily.  "Now what?"

"Look, before the encore, I want you and Jodi to come down to the area where the tour buses are."

My heart took a flying leap.  "And then?"

"And then I'll brief you on the press conference you'll be handling.  All right?"

"Uh huh," I stammered nervously, then I hung up.  What had he said?  Press conference?  And “you’ll be handling”?!?  I gulped.

"Hey Jodi."

"If you're going to make me go outside and lug that roof somewhere, you can forget about it.  Not 'til the concert's over anyway."

"Jodi," I tapped her on the shoulder.

"Not now, Dianne!  I'm busy watching Paul.  The show's almost over, and I probably won't be seeing him ever again."

"Uh, Jodi, put down the binoculars for a second.  I've got some news for you."

I told Jodi about my conversation with Geoff, and then she taught me a very important lesson.  She taught me what happens when you sit in the very top row and you decide that it's time to faint.

At least she didn't have to walk down all those stairs.  And since it was a sold-out show, all the people she banged into helped to cushion her fall.

I sneaked a look at Geoff Baker to see if he’d caught sight of Jodi's swan dive.  Honestly, I'm not sure if he threw the Beanie Bear over his face before or after Jodi's performance, but I guess it doesn't really matter.  Just pray that Jodi doesn't show up anywhere in the concert video.

I sighed, gathered up all our souvenirs (thank heavens the vendors didn’t have time to check the credit limits on our cards!), and headed towards Jodi's landing spot.  I hoped that she’d regain consciousness by the time that I got to her side.  Otherwise, I wasn't sure whether I could manage both her and the souvenirs.  I would hate to have to leave Jodi behind.

On second thought, maybe a press conference sans Jodi would be better than a press conference with Jodi?

Well, there was no sense wondering about that, poor Jodi would never survive in this city without me.  There was nothing to do but slap her a few times to bring her ‘round, and lead her out of the Fleet Center to where the buses, Geoff Baker, and maybe the Beanie bear awaited.

Stay tuned for Jodi and Dianne's next batch of misadventures in the Baker's Dozen series.

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of many years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.

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