Paul McCartney chuckled and held up his hands.  "Thanks fellas, but I really don't need to hear all the mechanical details.  Just call my office when you've fixed my jet.  In the meantime, I'm fine taking a commercial plane from London to Edinburgh."

"Yeah, yeah, real fine," Paul groaned as he recalled his brash words.  His ears reddened as he remembered how quickly he had dismissed his road manager, his press secretary, his personal bodyguard, and even his chauffeur in much the same manner as his airplane mechanics.  "Really," he had protested, "I'm a big boy.  I can handle one little flight entirely on my own.  Why would anybody want to bother with an old geezer like me?  Nobody's going to even notice I'm around." 

The blush spread to Paul's cheeks as he remembered how the lady behind the British Airways ticket counter had melted under his smile.  Literally.  As she passed out across the counter, she sent her computer crashing to the floor, where it had promptly burst into flames.  Paul had thoughtfully tucked the promised autograph into the lady's purse, just before the ambulance crew hauled her away.

Eyeing the ticket lady's burly replacement, Paul said, "I swore to my family that I wouldn't attract anybody's attention by travelling alone."  Macca grinned sheepishly as everyone in the terminal stared and pointed at him.  "How am I doing so far?"

Sir Paul's smile faded as the hairless behemoth loomed over him and glowered.

"Don't go thinking you're somebody special just because you think you're a celebrity."

"I wasn’t..."

"First class is full and that's that.  No amount of smiling, nodding, winking, bribing, or threatening can change that fact."

"But..."

"Window or aisle seat?"

"Uh, I think I'll take..."

The agent pounded his hand on the counter.  "Tough break!  Too slow, you are.  No more window seats left.  Think fast, middle seat or aisle?"

"Aisle!"  Paul shouted.  In his haste to do at least one thing correctly, Macca had made ready to pick up his heavy suitcase and place it on the scale.  Unfortunately, in his excitement, Paul reached down without looking and flung the item over the counter and onto the moving conveyer belt behind the ticket agent."

"Boo Boo!" a woman behind Macca shrieked as she grabbed hold of Paul's jacket and yanked him backwards.  "You kidnapped my Boo Boo!"

Horrified, Paul watched helplessly as the pet carrier containing a white, fluffy poodle headed past the point of no return.

"Boo Boo!"  Without hesitating, the woman took a running leap and threw herself onto the conveyer belt.  "I'm coming, Boo Boo!"

Three security guards, two phone calls to his press agent, and one BBC interview later, Paul finally relaxed into his undersized aisle seat aboard the British Airways jet.  Ever the optimist, Macca turned to introduce himself to the woman in the middle seat.  He smiled at the infant cradled in her arms, then began to speak.  "Hello, I'm..."

"Not interested," the woman snapped.  "I'm not interested to talking to strangers on a plane.  And neither is my daughter, Greta.  Greta, don't talk to this man, he's a stranger."

The freckled red head turned away from the window and poked her tongue out at Paul.  "My name's Greta.  I'm seven years old and I threw up today.  Mummy says I mustn't throw up on the plane.  Are you a fireman?  I'm going to be an ice skater and a pop star when I grow up.  Mummy says I can't talk to any stranger, unless he's Paul McCartney.  Are you Paul McCartney?"

Paul felt his face redden again.  "Some people say I look like him."

Greta's Mum eyed Paul critically.  "Nah," she sniffed.  "My son looks more like him than you do.  That's why I named him Paul."  She held out the baby in Paul's direction.

Macca dutifully examined his namesake.  "Ah, yeah, he has Paul's smile."

The woman snatched back the child.  "Shows how little you know.  He's got Paul's green eyes, of course!"

"Are you quite sure Paul's eyes are green?"  Macca questioned her.  "Anyways, aren't babies supposed to be strapped in somehow?"

"Ha!" the woman gloated.  "Shows how little you know.  Sir Paul would never be sitting here in coach.  At the very least, he would be up in first class.  Or toodling around in his own private jet.  And as for babies..." the woman winked at him, "I know the pilot."

"Oh," Paul said dubiously.  "In that case... Ow!"

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Paul turned to see who sat behind him. 

A blond boy grinned impishly and kicked the back of Paul's seat.

Paul smiled.  "Do you think you could stop doing that?" he asked.

"Not today," the boy's grin widened as he continued kicking.

"Are you travelling with Mum and Dad?"  Paul nodded towards the two figures beside the boy.

"Nope.  They're bad guys and they're kidnapping me."

Sighing, Paul eyed the snoring couple.  "Right," he said.  "Now..."

"Sir!" a woman sharply tapped Paul on the shoulder.  "Sir, the pilot has announced take off.  You must turn around and buckle yourself in."

"Sorry," Paul grinned, then stopped smiling as he stared at the multiple piercings in her face.  Was that allowed on airlines these days?  For that matter, did British Airways change their uniforms to black leather skirts and fishnet stockings?  Then again, she did wear a nametag.  Paul cleared his throat.  "If I could ask you a favor first, please?  I'm having a little trouble with the boy sitting behind..."

The beverage cart will be around soon," she snapped and walked away.

"Hey!"  Greta shouted.  "You got in trouble."  She stood up on her seat and pointed at Paul.  "You're a bad, bad man."

"Not really," Paul took a deep breath and tried to ignore all the heads turning towards his direction.  "You see, Greta,...  ow!"

"Here goes another week at the chiropractor's" Paul thought as he twisted around to view the boy behind him.  Pointing a finger at the boy, Paul said, "Now you really must..."

"Oopsie!" the boy cackled.

Paul yelped and withdrew his hand. 

"Did he throw up on you?"  Greta asked hopefully.

Macca shook his head and rooted for a napkin of some sort.  "Uh, no, I think it's applesauce."

"You're disgusting," Greta's Mum noted.  "You have terrible table manners."

"But it's not my fault."

"Honestly, blaming a child for your own problems."

Unable to find a napkin, Paul casually wiped his hand on the side of his chair.  Then he picked up the British Airways magazine and pretended to read until a male flight attendant walked by.  Macca stopped him.

"Excuse me," Paul whispered.  "I understand that first class is full."

The man nodded.

"Any chance that someone would be willing to trade me their seat?  I'd be happy to reward them for it.  Restaurants, hotels, even backstage passes to one of my concerts, whatever they want.  Could you go check, please?"

The young man eyed Paul.  "One of your concerts?  Do you think anybody would really want backstage passes to a Beatles look alike band?"

Paul flinched.  "Uh, actually I'm the real thing."

The flight attendant chuckled.  "Really, sir.  You can't possibly believe that I would believe that the real Sir Paul McCartney would be sitting all by himself in coach.  At the very least, he would be up in first class, or he would have hired an entire plane for himself and his road crew."  The flight attendant patted Paul's shoulder.  "Nice try, though."

"But... "

Suddenly, Greta's Mum was all elbows and knees as she struggled to put down her seat tray without crushing her infant.

"May I help you with that?"  Paul offered.

"I don't talk to strangers, remember?" the woman huffed.

Greta nodded solemnly.  "The last time Mummy talked to a stranger, she got bit by his dog."

Macca shrugged and smiled.  "I don't have a dog."

"But if you did, it might bite Mummy," the little girl explained.

"Is it safe putting the baby on the seat tray?"  Paul asked Greta's Mum.  He gasped when he realized the woman's intentions.

"Isn't there somewhere better to change the baby's nappy?" he asked.

"There's germs and bugs and stuff in the loo," Greta explained.

"Right," Paul averted his face, only to discover a man's bulky hindquarters had positioned itself at his eye level.  "Great," he muttered into the man's backside.  Although determined to ponder nothing but the seatback in front of him, Paul was quickly distracted by the beautiful young woman ahead of him.  Standing at a rather awkward angle, the woman tried unsuccessfully to reach for something in the overhead compartment.

Finally discovering a chance to redeem himself, Paul smiled.  "May I help you, miss?"

"Yes, please," she smiled.  "I'm trying to reach my bag.  It's the black one."

Still smiling, Paul arose to help.  "Uh, they're all black," he noticed.  "That's the problem," she agreed.  Together, he and the woman tried to sort through the various bags.  "Is it this one?" he kept asking as she shook her head once again.  "Are you sure it's in there?"

Suddenly a voice blared over the intercom.  "This is your captain.  Hit the deck!"

Paul managed to catch his new companion's eye just before the plane dropped, belly first, out of the sky.  Without thinking, he instinctively grabbed onto the nearest object as he fell back into his seat.  As luck would have it, the nearest object was the lady. 

He couldn't believe that he had the presence of mind to wonder, "How did she manage to do that?" as the plane continued its free fall.  There, in Paul's lap, was the head of his new friend.  The rest of her body had attempted to follow suit and had somehow draped itself over the back of her own seat.  In her hands, she tightly clasped a black bag.

Just as quickly as it fell, the plane began to rise.  Part of Paul's brain registered the chaos surrounding him.  The other part had a more pressing problem to deal with.  The devil sitting behind him now sat directly atop Macca's head.  His sticky hands clamped onto Paul's ears.

Within a few moments, the plane seemed to sort itself out.  The pilot immediately grabbed the intercom.  "Ladies and gentleman.  I apologize profusely.  Unfortunately, we did not have enough time to warn you about that unusually large air pocket.  Please stay in your seats and remain calm.  If anybody needs assistance, please press your call button and a flight attendant will come to your aid immediately."

Paul squeezed his eyes shut.  Between the kid on his head, the lady in his lap, and the large rump wedged in the aisle beside him, there was no way in the universe that he could reach the call button.

"Hey, Greta's Mum," Paul rasped.  "Do you think you could press the call button for me?"

"You don't think I have any interest in helping out a stranger, do you?" Greta's Mum sniffed.  "Especially when I haven't finished changing the baby yet."

Three flight attendants, one co-pilot, and a makeshift crowbar later, Paul found himself somewhat back to normal.  He tapped Greta's Mum on the shoulder.

"How long is it going to take you to change a baby anyway?" he asked distastefully.

Before Mum could reply, Greta squealed.  "Ooh!  Baby Paul caught you square in the face didn't he, mister?"

"Eech!"  Paul agreed.  After wiping his face with his sleeve, Macca unbuckled his seatbelt and headed off towards the toilets.  Distracted by this latest disaster, Paul missed seeing the foot poised to connect with his thigh.

"Gotcha!"  The blond boy giggled.  "Look, I can see where I walked on you."

Paul wagged a finger and kept going.

Happy to be free of his seatmates, if only for a few minutes, Paul absently began whistling, "Maybe I'm amazed."  He winked at some teenage girls as he patiently waited for one of the toilets to free up.  He wouldn't mind standing here for another hour or two, as long as he could have some peace.

Suddenly, one of the teenagers grabbed her seatmate and whispered something.  More furious whispering ensued.  Fingers began pointing at Paul.  "Here we go," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh please, oh please," he prayed as the girls became more worked up.  They were obviously planning on mobbing him at a most inconvenient time.

But luck was finally with him, and Paul heard the sweetest sound in the universe:  the unlatching of the toilet lock. 

As the girls began to shout and rise out of their seats, Paul bolted for the toilet door.  Just as he counted himself safe, a teenager squeezed in beside him.  "It's you, it's you, I can't believe it's you!" she squealed as she pulled the door shut.  "Is the rest of Beatlemania here, too?" she asked.

"Beatlemania?"  Paul questioned.

"Oh, are you Liverpool then?  Or are you from Fab Four?  Is George here?  Please tell me that George is here!"

"Uh, he's not in this room," Paul joked.  Inside his head, he could hear Harrison laughing.  Right, Georgie, I'll bet you know exactly what's going on in here.  Wouldn't be surprised if you arranged all this.

"Look miss, you have to leave.  We can't both fit in here."

"Just give me your autograph.  And write down which look alike band you're with.  I can't keep them all straight."

"How about if you let me do my business first," Paul argued.  "It's not like I can escape out a back door."

The girl pouted.  "How do I know whether you're telling me the truth?"

"Look... "

Paul had no time to finish his sentence.  Without warning, the plane hit another rough patch of air.  The toilet door flew open, and Paul found himself airborne.  Behind him, he could hear the teenager shouting, "You lied, you lied!  You are going to jump out a back window!"

As the plane bucked through the skies, Paul found himself bouncing off the walls, floor, and ceiling.  At long last, the plane stopped its maneuvers, and Paul came to rest atop a metal object.

"Thank God," he breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Ladies and gentleman," the pilot calmly announced.  "Please return to your immediately seats and fasten your seatbelts because...."

Paul missed the rest of the announcement.  Because he had landed atop the beverage cart, and another bout of turbulence had sent the cart careening down the aisle.  "I can't stop, I can't stop!"  Macca cried.  "Out of the way!"

"Sir!" the male flight attendant hurried after Paul.  "Sir!  I admire your persistence, but you may not enter the first class cabin."

"Can't stop you nit!"  Paul decreed.

"Sir, stop that cart at once!" the flight attendant demanded.  "Otherwise, I'll have to subject you to a fine."

"Fine with me!"  Paul shouted as his cart tore into first class.

Again, the plane bounced.  Too late, Paul grasped for a firmer hold on his transport.  Launched into the air once more, Paul saw certain disaster rising to meet him.  "Door!" he shouted as he flew towards the cockpit.  "Somebody get the door!"

Much to his amazement, somebody did.  Paul got the impression that his knight in shining armor was actually a petite woman all dressed in black.

"Oof!"  Paul moaned as he smacked into the back of the pilot's chair and shoved the captain into the control panel.  Unbeknownst to both of them, the force of Paul's landing pushed the pilot's arm against the plane's intercom.

"I know you," the pilot smirked.  "You're that look alike fellow who thinks he's entitled to a seat in first class."

"Look, sir... "

"The flight attendants warned me about you early on.  Bothering the passengers and the like."

"Now wait a minute..."

"Then there's that poor dog."

"Dog, sir?"

"The dog you kidnapped."

"But I didn't..."

"She was supposed to be representing her country at an American dog show."

"Representing... "

"But thanks to you, Boo Boo's on her way to Hong Kong.  Boo Boo doesn't like Chinese food, her owner tells me."

"How do you know about all that?"

"Never you mind, sir.  This is what's important.  We're experiencing quite a crisis aboard this plane, in case you haven't noticed.  A very dangerous storm has sprung up unexpectedly and it's heading our way.  The radar's not working too well and communication with the tower keeps fading in and out.  We're trying to find an airport where we can land, but right now they're booked solid with other emergency landings.  In fact, we're discussing the possibility of having to land someplace crazy, like a motorway or the middle of a field.  The last thing we need is some wannabe crashing the flight deck to demand a new seat.  Do you understand what I'm saying, mister?"

Paul nodded.  "Terribly sorry."

The co-pilot interrupted.  "Sorry, captain.  Now Glasgow says we absolutely can't land there.  Ireland is refusing us, too."

"There's nowhere left," the pilot paled.  "Get out your map.  Let's see if we can find a cornfield."

"Captain.  Our first class passenger has just entered the flight deck."

Paul grabbed the captain's chair and blinked at the new arrival.  "Yoko!  What are you doing here?"

Ono ignored him.  "I heard your problem over the loudspeaker," she said.  "And I know the solution."

"You know how to deal with this unruly passenger?"  The captain asked hopefully.

Yoko laughed.  "Sorry, I'm not that brilliant.  But I do know a safe place for you to land."

"There's nothing around here," the pilot protested.

"Nonsense," Yoko assured him.  "We are just a few minutes away from the oldest airport in England.  Built in 1928.  Of course, it's had a few modifications since then."

The pilot hooked a thumb at Paul.  "You, get back to your seat."

"And you," he smiled at Yoko," can squeeze in right here."

Shaking his head, Paul pushed the beverage cart in front of him as he made his way through the first class cabin.  "Hang on a minute!" he shouted as he looked around.  "Nobody's here," he remarked in wonder.  "Not a single person in first class.  Yoko must have reserved the whole place for herself!"

"Well, we'll see about that.  You look comfy enough," Paul told an extra-wide window seat.  Gratefully, he settled in for the rest of the ride.

Inside Liverpool John Lennon Airport, Paul and Yoko gazed at the seven-foot bronze statue of John Lennon.  "This is the first airport in Great Britain ever named after an individual," Yoko announced proudly.  "John would have loved it."

Paul smiled as he contemplated how his old friend might have reacted to this honor.

"Fancy meeting you two here!" a familiar voice cried.

"Ritchie!"  Paul turned and embraced the drummer.  "What are you doing here?"

"Ach, ran into bad weather on the way from Paris to London.  How about you?"

"Same thing," McCartney grinned.

"Great flight though, other than the bumpy bits at the end," Ringo laughed.  "The food was amazing.  And there was this comedian on board.  He stood up and started cracking all these jokes.  Had a marvelous time.  How about you?"

"Very pleasant," Yoko agreed.  Very roomy.  Nobody bothered me."

Paul suddenly felt something whack him behind the knees.  He turned to see Greta and the blond boy beaming up at him.  "Gotcha again!" the boy announced.

"Are you still being kidnapped?"  Paul asked him.

"All done with that.  Now, I'm running away from home."  He pointed towards Greta.  "She's running away, too."

"We're off to the moon," Greta confided.  "But don't tell Mummy."  With that, the two children scampered away.

Ringo laughed.  "Well, looks like you've gained a few new friends on your trip."

"A few," Paul laughed.  "But I might have made a few boo-boos, too."

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.