If you believe what our Mom's have to say, the whole thing began as an "accident."  Our Moms, two out-of-control Beatle fans, "accidentally" found themselves in a hotel lobby in Boston where Paul McCartney was staying.  They didn't see Paul, not at first, anyway.  But they did have a close encounter with his then manager, Geoff Baker.

That started a series of adventures for our Moms that included everything from disrupting Sir Paul McCartney's concerts to serving as his roadies. 

Our Moms met Sir Paul when he was well past his Beatle prime.  And now, although he's nearly eighty, our Moms still go gaga over him. 

The sad part of the story is that here we are, still in our teens, and we're gaga over Sir Paul, too! 

If you've got some time to kill, you can read about our Moms, Dianne and Jodi, by visiting the Rooftops archives section and looking up the Baker's dozen series.  My Mom, Dianne, is the petite smart one.  Pam's Mom, Jodi, is the not so petite, and not so, ah... well, Jodi tries really hard!  And me, I'm Frankie.

In case you haven't figured this out yet, a few years have gone by since Dianne and Jodi met Paul.  Just to be sure that we're clear, it is now June 1^st, 2023.

Here's our story (Frankie and Pam).  Enjoy!

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“But Mommmmmmmmmmmm…”

I saw Frankie’s mother grit her teeth and I decided to step in before things escalated out of control.

“Don’t worry, Dianne, Frankie and I will be fine!  We’ll be staying with Auntie Grace and we’ll be very careful, I promise!”

Dianne turned her laser glare on me, but my Mom stepped in before her best friend could say anything.

“Dianne, you worry too much!  Frankie and Pam just want to have an adventure.  Don’t you remember our adventures?”

Dianne turned a slight shade of purple.  “Of course I remember our adventures, Jodi, that’s why they can’t go!” she spat.

“We grew up on the stories you and Mom always told us,” I countered, “so you know we have to go.  It’s genetics!”

“Yeah, Mom, we’ve got to see him, we’ve just got to!” Frankie butted in.  “Seriously, if we don’t go, I think I’m just going to die.  I know it, Mom!  We’ve got to go.  Please?  Please, please please?”

Dianne turned back to glare at her daughter. 

Not for the first time, I wondered if Mom and Dianne had switched babies when we were born.  Mom, a tall blonde … well … airhead gave birth to me, a short blonde brain?  And Dianne, a short, skinny brunette brain gave birth to Frankie, an Amazonian brunette airhead?  It simply wasn’t possible.  Genetically, I mean.  Well, it was possible, just not likely; the odds were pretty stacked against the possibility.  Of course, I certainly had Mom’s nose, and Frankie certainly had her mother’s ears.  And I was born two months before Frankie, so it would have been hard to do a switch between a newborn and a two month old, but I supposed it could have been possible.  I swear, anything’s possible with Mom!

I reined in my wayward thoughts and patted Frankie on her shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Frankie, we’re going,” I whispered confidently.

“Really, Panama?  Really?  Truly, really?”

I winced.  I hate it when she calls me by my full name.  What was Mom thinking?  Well, I suppose she wasn’t really thinking.  A long time ago, Dianne told me how Mom went into labor prematurely while they were on that cruise, and she cursed my father from lock to lock, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, before I was finally born somewhere off the coast of South America.  I suppose it could have been worse, she could have called me Grand Explorer or Holland Summit or something like that.  Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be named after a country; it was better than being named after a ship!  Frankie was lucky enough to be born two months later on solid ground.  She got named after a country too.  She was born in France, hence her name, Francis.  I wish I’d been born in France.

I reined in my wayward thoughts and simply nodded.  It does no good to yell at Frankie about my name, or about anything.  She just blubbers and then I end up apologizing because I can’t stand to see her cry.  We grew up pretty close, and she’s like a little sister to me.  A little sister who need a lot of looking after.

I turned to plead with my mother and my pseudo-mother.  

“Look, Mom, Dianne, it’s going to be Frankie’s 18^th birthday present.  It’s just a little trip to Florida.  We’re going to be staying with Aunt Grace.  What could possibly go wrong?  And remember, we don’t know when he’s going to tour again!”

Mom smiled and interrupted me gently.  “In the fall, dear.  He’ll be touring for the seventeenth anniversary of his When I’m 64 tour!  I read it in the Mirror.  Then, he’ll tour next spring for his annual Magical Mystery tour.  Then he’s going to announce his When I’m 80 tour for June and the article said he’d be re-working all the old songs to include….”

“Mother, you’re not helping!” I hissed, but I was feeling pretty triumphant.  I mean, it was three against one.  We’d wear Dianne down, I just knew it!  It was only a matter of time.

***

“Bye Mom, bye Jodi!” Frankie squealed.  “Love you both!”

“Bye Mom, bye Dianne!” I echoed.  “Love you!”

Mom simultaneously blew her nose on a hankie, smiled, cried and waved.  That’s pretty good for her, she usually can’t do more than two things at a time.  Walking and chewing gum come to mind.

Dianne waved me over to the driver’s side of the car.  “Take care of her?” she pleaded with me, glancing anxiously over at her statuesque daughter.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” I replied reassuringly.  “Trust me!  What could possibly go wrong?”

“All aboard!”

I grabbed Frankie by the arm and hustled her onto the train with a final parting wave to the parental units.  Coast to coast in two hours, what a bore.  You’d think by now that we could be transported instantaneously from one city to another.  I mean, it was 2023 for heaven’s sake, not the dark ages of the early century!

I found our seats and plopped down next to the window.  Frankie stood in the aisle and glowered at me, her hands obstinately perched on her hips.

“Why do you always have to have the window?” she complained.

“Because I’m short.  There’s more legroom for you if you take the aisle seat,” I replied.

“Oh.”

Frankie can’t argue with logic.  Actually, she probably wouldn’t know logic if it hit her in the forehead.  With a brick.  Or a bat.  But she deflated and sat down next to me.

The train slowly filled up as we waited impatiently for departure.  Someone scooted into the seats directly behind us and pulled my hair while steadying him or herself on the back of my chair.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed and pulled my head away from the offending hand.

“Sorry.”  It was a he, and his muttered apology wasn’t very sincere.  Jerk!

The train pulled out and was quickly up to its maximum speed.  The landscape was a blur.  Traveling was such a bore.  I wondered what we could do for the next two hours to keep from being bored out of our brains.  Just then, the man sitting behind us chirped.

Well, he didn’t chirp.  His communicator chirped.

“’allo?  Oh, right, you’re up already?  Good, good, now everything’s set.  The limo will pick you up at five and get you over to the airport.  You’ll be in Miami by six and you’ll have plenty of time to settle in before tomorrow evening.”

Definite English accent.  I lazily wondered to whom he was speaking.  Probably his wife or something.  She probably didn’t like trains.  They were so slow.  But Mom and Dianne wouldn’t spring for plane fare, and Dianne didn’t like flying anyway.  I think it all came from her skydiving accident years before we were born.  Something about Mom pushing her out of the plane….  The voice behind me interrupted my wayward thoughts.

“Yeah, that’s right.  First night tomorrow!  You awright, then?  Good, good.  Yes, the band’s all in place and ready, I checked this morning.”

Hmmm, band?  Tomorrow was the concert, Frankie’s 18^th birthday, and it also coincidentally happened to be the first night on the tour.  I stopped breathing and tried to listen a little more closely, and shushed Frankie when she asked me if I wanted anything from the snack car.

“Don’t shush me,” she complained.

“Shush!” I tried again to listen.

“I’m hungry!” Frankie insisted.

“Shush!  I’m trying to…”

“Why are you turning purple?”

Chirp!  The conversation had ended.  I took a deep breath, replenishing my lungs. 

“Fine, let’s go get something to eat, then,” I hissed.

“Don’t be so grouchy, this is a big adventure!”

Frankie jumped to her feet and I crawled out of my seat, stretching.  I froze in mid-stretch as I turned and my eyes happened on the man sitting in the seat behind ours.  The man who’d pulled my hair.  The man who’d talked in an English accent about a limo and a plane and a band.  The man who looked like…..  Oh my gosh, I knew that face!  It was…

“You’re……..” I shrieked, then fell silent when his eyes leaped to my face.  I saw his eyes grow round with wonder, and they darted from me to Frankie and back again.  Or maybe that was fear, not wonder.  Yes, definitely fear.  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.  He seemed to be cowering in his seat.  A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.  “You’re……” I squeaked.

“…hungry!”  Frankie finished my sentence, pulled me into the aisle and herded me down to the snack car with single-minded intensity.

“But… but… but……”

“You sound like a boat,” Frankie said cheerfully.

“Do you know who that was?” I squeaked.  There must have been something wrong with my throat.  I cleared it experimentally.

Frankie ignored me as she pushed open the doorway to the next car.  She spent the next nanosecond intently staring at the overhead menu before punching up two lattes with extra sugar and a twist of lime, along with two couscous salads with dressing on the side.  She pressed her thumbprint to the register.

“Thank you, please proceed to table four,” a mechanical voice reported, and we moved to the designated table and sat down.  I tried again.

“Do you know who that was?” I asked again.  At least my voice sounded normal again.  But my pulse was hammering.

“Who?  That old guy sitting behind us?  He’s the guy that pulled your hair.  I’m not stupid, you know!”

Our food was delivered.  It was about time, service was so slow on this train!  It had been all of thirty seconds since we’d ordered.  I gulped my latte and winced when it burned my throat.  But I was too excited to worry about that!  Frankie poured dressing on her salad and mixed it all together on her plate.

“That old guy was……”  I paused, savoring my excitement.

“Who?” Frankie asked obligingly, shoveling a forkful of couscous into her mouth and chewing contentedly.

“Geoff Baker!” I announced triumphantly.

My triumph didn’t last long.  It’s hard to feel triumphant when your face is splattered with a mouthful of partially chewed couscous.  I vainly tried to clean it off my shirt and face and wished I’d waited to say anything until her mouth had been empty.  Of course, if I’d waited, the little twit would probably have spat on me or turned her drink over on me in her excitement.

“How?  Who?  We need to….” Frankie shouted, leaping to her feet.

“Sit down,” I commanded.  “Let’s act like normal human beings for a change and finish our meal before QUIETLY going back to our seats.”

“But wasn’t he fired?”  Frankie ungraciously collapsed into her chair and picked up her fork, her eyes round and wide, staring at me in a slightly maniacal manner.

“Which time?” I asked, eyeing my plate of couscous and mixed greens, wondering how much of it was mine and how much of it was Frankie’s.  I scraped the top third off, just in case.  “Mr. Baker has been fired at least seventeen times in the past twenty years.  He always gets hired on again.”

“But wasn’t he fired just yesterday?” Frankie insisted.

“H-MPL said it was just a publicity stunt and they hired him back again two hours later.”

“Himple?"  Frankie wrinkled her nose.  "What's Himple?"

"H-MPL," I took care to pronounce each letter.  "They added Heather's name onto MPL, remember?"

"Oh."  Frankie thought for a moment.  "Which Heather?"

"Paul's wife," I gritted my teeth. 

I missed that,” Frankie complained.

That didn’t surprise me.

"I also missed the part about Baker getting rehired again."

That didn't surprise me, either.

I think I’d choked down two mouthfuls of couscous before Frankie had wolfed down her entire plate full and sat impatiently drumming her fingers on the table.  I sighed and pushed my plate aside.  Within half a second, she was pulling me to my feet.  It was okay, though.  I really wasn’t hungry, I was too excited to be hungry.  And I didn’t really like couscous, either.  I can’t believe Frankie had forgotten that.  Actually, I couldn’t believe I’d eaten any of it!

Frankie impatiently grabbed my arm and stilled my wayward thoughts.  We rushed back to our train car and paused as the door banged shut behind us, savoring the moment when we would actually meet his second-in-command.  I stared as the Englishman at the other end of the car looked up at us and I saw his eyes go wide again.  I smiled and he recoiled with a gasp.  Oh no, did I have couscous stuck in my teeth?  I turned to Frankie and grinned broadly, all teeth.

“Nothing, you’re okay,” she assured me.  It helps to have grown up together, you know each others’ quirks and idiosyncrasies.  Mine was having food stuck in my teeth.  Relieved, I looked towards the other end of the car again.

Geoff was up and out of that chair, down the aisle and out the opposite door faster than you’d expect such an old man could move.  Of course, those miracle vitamins and herbs do wonders nowadays.  And I’d read he had the big three ‘done’ last year; a double hip, knee and ankle replacement.   He was probably feeling pretty sprightly.

“Mr. Baker!” I called to his departing back.

“Geoff, wait!” Frankie shouted, but it was too late.  The door banged shut behind him.

We started off at a dead run for his door, but the aisle wasn’t big enough to allow the two of us to run side by side.  We tangled up somewhere near our seats and landed in a heap on the floor.

“Get off!”

“You get off!  He’s getting away!”

“Get your knee out of my …. Ouch!”

“You pulled my hair!”

“No hoverskating or running is allowed in the aisles,” a mechanical voice stated.

“We weren’t…” Frankie started to argue.

“Don’t argue with it, you can’t win an argument with a pre-recorded message…” I grumbled, picking myself up after several false starts.

“Arrival at destination in three minutes, please take your seats,” the voice continued.

We looked longingly at the door Geoff had exited.  Sighing, I pushed Frankie into the window seat.

“Hey, I’m all squished in here, I want the aisle seat!” she complained.

I sighed again and switched places with her, my mind working furiously. 

We’d have to be off the train first thing so that we could watch Geoff and see where he was going.  We’d follow him.  He’d never know we were there.  We could find out where … he … was staying!  We could … we could … meet him! 

I frowned.  We’d have to give Auntie Grace the slip, and we’d worry Mom and Dianne terribly.  Something clicked and I smiled happily as it all fell into place.  How could we not do this?  It was genetically programmed into us!  Mom and Dianne would understand!  And Auntie Grace was 90 or 100, she’d probably forgotten we were even coming to stay with her!

“This will work,” I whispered to myself, nodding.

Frankie frowned.  “What will work?”

I explained.

Frankie’s frown deepened.  “But … but … we can’t!  We’ll get in trouble!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control,” I stated emphatically.  I smiled reassuringly.  “Trust me, what could possibly go wrong?”

 Stay tuned for the further adventures of Frankie and Pam!

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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