Can you believe it?  Can you (three pages of expletives deleted) believe it?  How could I have been so (three more pages of expletives deleted) stupid? 

It all started back in 1980, you know.  Some of you are probably old enough to remember how it was back then.  For those of you who weren't around, let me tell you that 1980 started off as the best year of my life.  The marriage was fantastic, I had the world's greatest, most perfect son, and I had just finished making the best solo album of my life.  Paul and I had patched things up, and I had even toyed with the idea of touring again. 

"Nothing can go wrong now," I told Yoko.

Naturally, a psycho with a handgun had to destroy that theory. 

Well, mister psycho had no idea whom he was dealing with, did he?  Or rather, he didn't know whom I had spent a lifetime dealing with.  I had my own personal guru, you know.  My own personal spiritual connection.  Sometimes Mister Harrison really got on my nerves with all that Hallelujah business.  But usually he made a lot of sense.  He used to spend hours telling me how it would be when my number was up. 

He just didn't tell me how early my number would be up.  Well, I can't pin that one on George.  He never claimed to be psychic.

When I got to heaven (yes folks, I did make it), I knew exactly what to do.  Following the advice of my personal guru, I asked St. Pete if it was okay if I stood outside the pearly gates until my friend arrived.  He said yeah, that was cool with him.

Me and St. Pete got along pretty well, you know.  He had lots of stories to tell, as you might imagine.  About famous people and the like.  Sorry, I promised I wouldn't share any of that stuff with the living.  But I'm sure St. Pete will tell you a tale or two when you meet up with him.  Just don't ask him to tell you about the STUPID thing that I did.  That's my story to tell.  And here it is.

Twenty-two years go by pretty quickly when you're looking at eternity and all.  To tell you the truth, I thought I would have to wait a lot longer than that for my friend to arrive.  But Georgie always did like surprises.

And he did like making a grand entrance, too.  Trust George to come riding up to heaven on a white elephant.  Him and that orange-robed, bald-headed Hallelujah chorus of his.  Throwing rose petals at George and tinkling the bells on their toes.  And there's the smiling Mister H., tossing autographed copies of "My Sweet Lord" to all his fans.

"Hey Georgie, remember me?"  I shouted up at him.

"Brought you a present," he shouted back.  "From Paul."

My neck was starting to hurt from staring up that elephant's trunk.  "So get off your high elephant and show me!"  I demanded.

The whole procession stopped as George floated down off the elephant's back.  "Been practicing Yogic flying," he confided.

Eagerly, I unwrapped the package from Paul.  I was hoping it was something from Yoko, or maybe the gold disc from Double Fantasy. 

It was nothing of the kind, of course.  It was a cassette tape labeled "Lennon and McCartney, 2003."

I blinked at George.  "What's all this then?  I died in 1980.  And it's only 2001, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, well, when I was dying I told Paul our little secret.  About my ability to reincarnate the two of us.  So he off and wrote a bunch of songs.  Got Ringo to do the drumming.  He wants you and me to finish it up here, and then bring it back to Earth for the final touches." 

I didn't think it was possible to burst a blood vessel in heaven, but I came pretty close.  "What does he think, that there's a recording studio up in heaven?"

George shrugged.  "It's possible.  Didn't you go inside to check it out?"

"Of course not you nit," I roared.  "I've been waiting on you, just like you told me.  You promised me if I stood outside the pearly gates, you would come along and reincarnate me.  ME.  John Lennon.  Nothing was said about Beatles.  The Beatles are dead.  I'm living proof of that!"

I hate it when George looks at me like that.  You know that little tilt of the head that he does when he wants to call me a moron, but doesn't think it's a proper thing to say in front of St. Pete, the Hallelujah choir, and the white elephant.

"Alright, forget about it, George.  Forget everything.  Just tell me that you know how to do this.  You're not going to screw this up, right?"

George winked.  "Trust me," he said.  "I've been preparing for this my entire life."  

A word of advice to all you boys and girls out there.  Never trust anybody who starts a sentence with "Trust me."  Apparently, St. Pete was well aware of the dangers of "Trust me."  He buried his head under his white robe and giggled.  Too bad I ignored him.

Turns out that reincarnating yourself isn't such a complicated process at all.  Once you're dead, that is.  The thing is, you have to start all over again as a newborn.  And you don't get to choose your parents.  That scared me, you know.  I didn't want to start all over again, not knowing anybody and all.  Luckily, George had an answer.

"We can be reborn as twins," he said.  "And I can make sure that most of our memory stays intact.  So we'll remember who we are and such, and we won't have to spend our lives trying to find each other."

"That's good," I nodded.  "But I've got a question.  If I'm a newborn, that means I'll have to wait about twenty years until I'm old enough to be off on my own.  That would make Yoko about 101. Do you think she'd still be interested in me?" 

George grinned.  "What do you think?  She'd be thrilled to have a twenty-year-old reincarnate interested in her.  Anyway, your sons would love to see you again, don't you think?"

I scratched my head.  "Sean will be forty.  And Julian will be sixty.  Won't that be kinda weird to have a younger father?  I could have grandkids older than me!"

George shook his head.  "Didn't one of the Stones manage to do that without dying?"

I blinked at George.  Sometimes he really boggles my mind. 

"Stop fretting," George assured me.  "This is going to work.  Trust me."

So I did.  I trusted him.  I trusted the (five pages of expletives deleted) George Harrison. 

And now I'm going to tell you to trust me.  But I mean it, you really can trust me.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, is weirder than spending nine months in the womb with the former lead guitarist of the world's greatest pop group.  It's a wonder that our future mother survived us.

Since I don't know who is going to be reading my notes, I will spare you the details of the actual birth.  We'll just say it was wet and gory.  And scary.  So scary that I actually hugged my "twin" and we emerged together.

"Two healthy boys!" somebody shouted.  There was a chorus of congratulations and lots of applause.  "Look how well they get along," some woman said.

It wasn't that we got along so well.  It was that I absolutely refused to let go of George.  Okay, I admit it.  I felt petrified.  I didn't like being a naked, helpless baby with the full faculties of an adult.

Now our new Mum began to coo over us.  Lots of blond hair, that was the impression I got.  George seemed to have a different impression.  He screwed up his face and started to shriek.

"What's your problem?"  I tried to ask him.  Much to my horror, I discovered that it isn't easy to talk when you've got no teeth and slimy stuff down your nose.

George, of course, had no problem at all communicating.  He stopped wailing and whispered in my ear.

"She came on the scene after you died," he hissed.

"What are you talking about?" I tried to say.  Instead, I just blew bubbles into George's ear, but I think he caught my drift.  He turned away from our new Mum and slowly pointed.

"Look at that," said a male voice.  "He knows his Dad."

That voice!  How could I ever forget that voice?

Trembling, I turned my head in the direction of George's pointing finger.  George began to wail again.  I did too.

Our new Dad didn't mind all the screaming.  He just kept babbling away.  "Hang on a second, luv, I have to get a photo of this.  Can you believe our babies are pointing at me?  It's as if they know me already.  Wave to the camera boys."

Oh we waved all right.  Guess which finger we waved.  Paulie didn't care, of course.  He just kept on filming us.  And singing.  What kind of nut brings a guitar into a delivery room?"

"Okay now boys," Paul was saying.  "Stop hugging each other.  Let's see what you look like.  Are you guys identical?  Wouldn't that be fun, eh?"

George squeezed me until my eyes started to pop.  I hugged him just as tightly.  But Sir Paul was just too strong for us newborns.

"There you go," he said as he pried us apart.  "Aren't you...hey, what's this?"

George made a grab for it, but the tape slipped out of his baby fingers.  "Hey," Paul mused, "This looks like the cassette tape that I gave to George when..."

George and I shut up as Paul started to shake.  "You're kidding, right?  I mean, this is some kind of a joke, isn't it?"

"Paul, what's wrong?"  Our new Mum asked.  Paul ignored her.

"And this time 'round, I get three songs per album," George snapped.  He did sound kinda cute with that newborn's voice and all.

Paul nodded dumbly.  "And no more jokes about me being the baby of the group."

Paul swallowed. 

"He's talking," one of the doctors marveled.  "This is impossible.  That baby is talking.  And he's making sense."

Well, no way was I going to allow George to get all the glory.  I puffed up my baby chest.  "Murph!"  I said smartly.  "Smmmmrrrtgle!"

Darn!  How does George do it?

"Shurrup, Lennon," George hissed.  "I'm negotiating."

The medical team came to life as a nurse fainted.

"It's a deal," Paul said.  "Three songs per album and no baby jokes.  When do you want to start rehearsing?"

"Rehearsing?"  George snorted.  "How can I possibly hold a guitar?  John can't even talk yet.  Anyway, I want a cuppa first.  And some clothes.  "

"Right," Paul nodded.  "Well order some tea, get you some pajamas, and then start working on a custom-made guitar.  Sound good?"

George nodded.

"John, you agree?"

As I couldn't talk, I kicked my new Daddy in the chin.  Then I bit George.  Biting doesn't work as well when you don't have teeth.  George smirked.

Paul strummed a couple of chords.  "Great, that's all settled then." 

That is one of the things that I admire about Paul.  The whole world can go to heck, and Paul will make like everything is perfectly normal.  And he'll write a number one song about it.

"Paul, are you ever going to show me the babies?"  Mummy demanded.

"In a second, Heather," Paul winked.  "I have to call make a phone call.  Hey George, do you remember Ritchie's number?"

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.