Summer 2005

"Paul, I’m just not sure about this. I’m not sure this is th’ right thing ta be doin’."

"C’mon, Ritchie, all you have to do is look at the charts. Beatles 1 was at the top fer months. The Anthology went over great, too, it was in the top ten best sellers for a helluva long time. This’ll be a fantastic benefit, think of th’ kids! It’ll be a sell out, Beatlemania is bigger than it’s ever been before!"

"I know that, Paulie, that’s what worries me! I just don’t want it to go back to th’ madness, we’ve already lived through that once, what’s th’ sense in relivin’ all that, an’ at our ages? I jus’ don’ know about this, it doesn’t seem right, I mean, jus’ th’ three of us an’ all, it’s . . . it’s not right, man. An’ anyway, how ya gonna convince George? After that arsehole almost got ‘im back in ’99, I don’t think ya stand a chance of gettin’ ‘im to agree to this."

"I dunno, Ritch, I was hoping th’ two of us could somehow convince him. You know, united we stand an’ all that stuff. Come on, it’s fer a great cause!"

Ringo laughed. "Right, what are ya, a damned musketeer? Well, if ‘ari says ok, then I’ll do it, too. But ya gotta convince him first! An’ I don’ think that’s gonna ‘appen!"

"Yer kidding me! No way, not a chance in hell, Paulie!"

"C’mon, George! It’s fer a great cause! An’ Ritch said he’ll do it if you do it."

"Ya serious? He said he retired fer good years ago! Well, no, on second thought, Ritch’s prob’ly bored, he prob’ly asked ‘where do I sign’, eh? Yer not bullshittin’ me, are ya, Macca?"

"Swear ta God, I wouldn’t do that to ya, George." Paul solemnly crossed his heart.

George laughed shortly, then sighed. "I dunno, Paul. Doesn’t seem right, not really, not with just th’ three of us."

"It’s fer a really good cause, man," Paul said quietly, then shut up and let his friend think about it for a few minutes.

"Ya think there’s a market fer us? I mean, who’s gonna wanna see old farts like us jumping around on stage?" George asked with a little smile.

"You’ve got yer head in th’ clouds too much, George! Haven’t ya been payin’ attention to th’ charts? Th’ re-release of yer entire catalog alone over th’ past five years . . . !"

George looked angelic, mystical. "Well, I don’t much concern myself with that sort o’ thing anymore, it’s counterproductive to me peace o’ mind." He grinned suddenly and boyishly. "I just let the money roll into the bank account and don’t bother meself. Of course I know what it’s like out there, ya daft fool! I just wondered if people would really want to see us, or if they just wanna live in their memories of times gone by."

"Mmmm, I see what ya mean. I think it’s a bit of both, ya know? But I think it’ll be a sell out. An’ think of all the kids it’ll help!"

"Well . . . I dunno, man. I wanna say yes ‘cause I think it’s fer a great charity. But I gotta admit it’s a little scary."

Paul laughed. "Go on! It’s always a little scary! Let’s do it, man! Please."

George looked at him suspiciously. "Ya promise we’re not going on as The Beatles, right? An’ if there’s even a hint of us being called that ridiculous name, I’m out, man."

Paul laughed. "What, you don’ like ‘Threetles’? Me neither. Swear, man, it’s just gonna be called ‘Old Friends.’ Th’ papers’ll ‘ave a field day o’ course, an’ I can’t do a thing about that. But no advertising with th’ name, no old photos, nothin’ like that." He laughed again. "Of course, if we did that, we’d sell lots more tickets, but I don’ think that’s gonna be a problem. I think it’s gonna be a matter of fightin’ off th’ people who want tickets!"

George joined in, laughing in resignation. "Yer prob’ly right. Well, it’s sure gonna be different, innit? OK, then. Why not? Where do I sign?"

The concert sold out almost as soon as the tickets went on sale. Another record.

"So, d’ya still think nobody’ll wanna see us old farts jumpin’ around on stage, Hari?" Paul asked smugly the next day, when they met for rehearsal.

"Don’t rub it in, Paul," George replied with a smile as he checked the tuning on his guitar. "I gotta admit, it feels good ta be back here, playing with you arseholes." His affectionate smile included Ringo, who was busy setting up his drums. "But I still feel strange about doing a concert with just th’ three of us, ya know? Doesn’t feel . . . whole, I guess. I wish John . . ." His voice trailed off to silence as he busied himself with his guitar. He sighed again. "Makes it hard, doesn’t it?" he said quietly.

"Yeah, I know what ya mean, man," Paul smiled back, memories clouding his eyes and making his smile wistful. "Bein’ back together’s good . . . an’ bad at th’ same time. Ya know, it’s almost like we’ve never been away, like it’s all come ‘round full circle. Nearly. Except for . . ." His voice trailed off into a sigh.

Ringo laughed, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, like no time’s passed at all. I swear, though, I look in a mirror an’ see this sixty year old man, an’ that’s not me!"

The other two laughed. "Who are ya tryin’ ta fool?" Paul asked. "You’ll never see the sunny side of sixty again, mate!"

"Yeah, well, you neither, Paul! We’re all ridin’ down that road now," Ringo replied with a rueful smile.

Their laughter was easy, comfortable. Old friends, playing together again, after all those years. All those years ago . . . . The lights in the studio suddenly went out.

"What th’ hell’s goin’ on?" Paul complained.

"Dunno, man, jus’ wait it out, they’ll be back on shortly, some kinda power outage, I guess," George replied.

Ringo played a little solo on the drums, inadvertently betraying his nervousness. The silence stretched out. When the lights came back on, they all started to breathe a sigh of relief but then stopped, frozen, as they caught sight of their mates.

"Oh, man, are you guys seein’ what I’m seein’?" Ringo asked, his voice shaking. "Somebody tell me what th’ bleedin’ hell’s goin’ on ‘ere!" He tilted a cymbal and looked at his reflection. "This can’t be ‘appenin’! I think I’m havin’ an acid flashback or somethin’! This is un-fucking-believable," he said quietly, looking in the cymbal again. "I don’ know if I’m crazy or not. But I look like I’m in me twenties again!"

George laughed, looking at his friends, stepping into the bathroom to check his reflection in the mirror, wondering at how calm the three of them seemed.

"Tell ya what, Ritch," he said as he exited the little room, "I dunno if yer crazy or not, but if ya are, we’re all infected with th’ same madness. God, I feel great! This is incredible, no aches or pains, I swear I feel like a kid again!"

"You are a kid again, George! Ya look like yer barely twenty!" Paul laughed, checking out his reflection in one of Ritchie’s cymbals. Unbelievable! It was a little hard to think straight, though. This had to be a dream or something!

George looked down at his body. "Holy Christ, I was never this skinny, was I?"

"Shit, ferget about skinny, check out what happens if ya jus’ think about a bird!" Ringo exclaimed. "Shit, I ‘aven’t ‘ad that ‘appen so quick in . . . well, I can’t remember when!"

Amidst laughter and wonder, the three men checked out their young bodies and pronounced them good. Ringo was the first to ask the questions they’d all been thinking.

"So . . . what’s goin’ on? What ‘appened? Is this real? Did we all die when th’ lights went out in th’ studio an’ we’re just think this is ‘appenin’? Is this th’ afterlife?"

"I don’ think so," George replied thoughtfully. "I mean, I don’ think we died, anyway. I don’ know fer sure, but nothing I’ve studied has made th’ next step seem like a step backwards. As far as this being real, well, it sure seems real ta me. I dunno what we do now, I guess we just go along with whatever happens an’ take things as they come. It’s a little confusing."

"No shit it’s confusin’! Maybe that’s from the . . . hell, what do we call it? Transfer? Jump? A rift in th’ space-time continuium?" Ringo asked, rubbing his forehead, wishing he could concentrate. "So is that what ya think this is, Georgie? A step backwards?"

George shrugged in reply. "Didn’t know you were a Trekker, Ritch. But I dunno, a step backwards seems logical. It’s too weird ta imagine anything otherwise."

"I’ve always liked science fiction, ‘ari. But this is too weird no matter what it is," Ringo complained. "I mean, it’s . . . not natural! I keep wonderin’ if I’ve gone off th’ deep end or somethin’."

"Well, we’re all floating in th’ water without life jackets, if that’s th’ case," George replied, laughing. "So don’ be feeling alone, ol’ man!"

"Maybe it’s a second chance," Paul interjected thoughtfully. The others turned to look at him as he continued. "I mean, what if we’ve been given a second chance, an opportunity to do it right this time?"

"What, go through all that again, live our lives over?" Ringo blurted in astonishment. "Bleedin’ ‘ell, I don’ wanna do that! It was bad enough th’ first time! I mean, it was fun at th’ time, but ta go through it again? Shit, most of it’s just a blur anyway. I don’ wanna relive it."

"But now you know what you didn’t know then!" Paul exclaimed, warming to his subject. "It’s like th’ dreams ya ‘ave once ya leave school, where yer worried about some test or final exam, an’ ya ‘aven’t studied fer it. Well, we’ve studied fer it now! If ya ‘ave th’ chance ta do it all over, wouldn’t ya jump at it?"

"Hell, no!" Ringo replied with irritation. "I’ve never wanted ta live me life over."

"Oh, I dunno," George said mildly. "I can think of a few things I wouldn’t mind setting straight, if I had th’ chance. But I don’ think it’s possible."

"Why not?" Paul asked.

"Well, if we’re really ‘here’, and we’re really ‘us’, then I think it’s all pre-ordained. I think what’s happened has already happened, an’ I think we won’t be able ta change anything even if we want to. I dunno how long we’re gonna be here, but I think we’re just gonna do th’ same things an’ make th’ same mistakes as what happened . . . originally."

"But you don’t know that fer sure," Paul felt compelled to point out. It seemed strange to hear profound thoughts from this skinny kid facing him, the face as familiar as his own. He had a feeling of déjà vu, with George’s ‘past’ and ‘present/future’ faces nearly overlaying one another. He shook his head and blinked to clear his vision.

"No," George grinned, "but it makes as much sense as anything else! An’ I don’ wanna go out there thinking that I’ve gotta be on pins an’ needles with every little thing I do. I don’ wanna have ta worry about whether eating one more jam butty than I did . . . originally . . . is gonna change history, an’ when we get back ta our real selves, everything will have changed just ‘cause of that extra sandwich!"

"Are we gonna go? Out there, I mean?" Ringo asked nervously. "An’ do ya think we’re gonna get back ta our real selves?"

"I dunno, doesn’t appear we’ve got any control over it ourselves, but as far as going out there, why not?" George laughed. "I’m not gonna sit in here waiting fer th’ lights ta go out again, waiting ta slip back inta me old bones! Well?" he challenged the others with a grin. "I think I could use a drink!"

They looked at each other, their faces and forms so familiar and yet so foreign. Smiles broke out on those faces they remembered so well. They walked out the door of the studio and into the wide world.

October 1965, forty years in the past? Ringo looked at the calendar in the hallway and grimaced. "This is just too fuckin’ weird," he complained softly. "It’s givin’ me th’ shakes." He followed his mates outside and across the street to a pub, watching as they ordered lagers.

"Nah, I’ll ‘ave a . . . a cola, ta. Plain," he specified to the man behind the bar.

Ringo looked around, remembering that the place had always been a favourite of his, a quiet little pub where they’d always been treated as ‘normal folk’. He’d spent many a night in this pub, pissed out of his mind. In fact, the barkeep was looking at him strangely as he opened a bottle and filled the glass. Ringo chuckled to himself. It was probably the first time he’d ever ordered anything other than alcohol in this fine establishment. He took his glass with a nod and joined his friends at a table.

"Ya know, Ritchie," Paul ventured, "ya could ‘ave a drink if ya wanted."

"I got a drink right ‘ere, Paulie. You know I’m an alcoholic, I’m not touchin’ th’ stuff."

"Come on, Ritch, yer twenty-five years old. Yer not an alcoholic now."

"Me body may be twenty-five, but up ‘ere," he tapped his forehead, "I’m an alcoholic. This is when it all started, man, an’ I’m not goin’ there. Those days are behind me."

"Leave Ritchie alone, Paul. He can celebrate . . . whatever this is with a cola just as easy as with a beer or anything harder," George said. "Just think about how yer gonna feel th’ first time somebody offers ya a juicy, rare steak."

Ringo laughed when Paul turned a delicate shade of green.

"I didn’t think of that. Shit, there weren’t many vegetarian restaurants ‘round in th’ sixties, are there? Hell, I’ve been veggie fer a hella lot longer than I ever ate meat, th’ very idea of eatin’ anythin’ like that makes me shiver," Paul said quietly. "I think this is gonna be a little harder than I thought. I wonder ‘ow long we’re gonna be ‘ere?"

Laughing a little over their successful afternoon escapade, they walked back into the studio . . . and froze.

"John?" Paul said faintly, stunned. "Oh, God . . ." Oh, God, he’d never stopped to consider that they’d see people who were . . . gone. What had been a fun little lark suddenly became serious.

John looked up from tuning his guitar. "Ya don’ ‘ave ta tell me I’m late, I already know that. But I’m ‘ere now, where th’ fuck ‘ave you three been? Ya know we got this album ta finish up before Merry Chrimble. Well? What th’ ‘ell are ya lookin’ at? Let’s get some work done!"

"’ang on a second, John, we’ll be right back," Paul said as he grabbed his open-mouthed companions by their sleeves and pulled them out into the hallway, shutting the door to the studio.

"Oh, shit! It’s John!" Ringo cried, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. "Oh, shit! I didn’t even think of this! Jeezus, I don’ think I can ‘andle this. I think I’m gonna be sick. Oh God! I was married to Mo in 1965, that means she’s still alive, too! An’ Zak’s a newborn! What th’ hell’s goin’ on ‘ere?" He sounded close to the edge of hysteria, stunned with their current reality.

"’ang on, Ritch, get a ‘old of yerself, take a breath," Paul commanded, giving his old friend a little shake, wishing someone would shake him. He’d never stopped to think, it was just a lark, some sort of weird trip to go along with. But . . . John! Was this real? His old mate, alive?

What if George was wrong? What if something they did could change the future? What if, by having a drink this afternoon, they changed all history and . . . hell, he didn’t know, what if he married Jane, what if he got back to his ‘reality’ and found out that everything had changed? What if . . . ?

"Oh shit is right! ‘ari, what if yer wrong? What if we can change things? Oh, God, what if we can change what ‘appens ta John?" Paul asked, his excitement building with each word.

Silence descended up on the three of them, absolute, total silence. What if, what if?

George cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I dunno. But he’s gonna think we’re loonies escaped from an asylum if we go in there an’ tell him about th’ future! If yer right, Paul, an’ this is a second chance, then we can’t afford ta blow it. If I’m right, then nothing’s gonna change anyway, so we gotta try, right? It can’t hurt. An’ maybe we can make a difference."

Paul nodded and swallowed, trying to quell his excitement. He looked at Ringo.

"Ritch? Ya with us? C’mon, man, if there’s any chance we can do this, we need ya with us."

Ringo took a deep breath, then another. He seemed to be having a really rough time with this, Paul thought, but his answer was clear.

"Yeah, man. We gotta try. I’m with ya. United we stand."

"Divided we fall?" Paul asked, and all three of them started laughing. The laughter had a slight edge of hysteria to it, but they were able to control themselves after they’d released a little of their tension.

"OK, musketeers, we got some practice ta do. Wonder what songs we’re supposed to know? Weren’t we doin’ Rubber Soul about now?" Paul wondered as he opened the door to the studio and they filed into the room.

It wasn’t any easier seeing John the second time, Paul thought as they walked back into Studio Two. He wanted to rush up to his old friend and hug him, never let him go. The looks on Ritchie’s and George’s faces spoke of similar feelings. None of them could resist the temptation of simply touching John as he fiddled with his guitar strap. Paul slapped him on the back, George squeezed him on the shoulder, and Ringo bumped him affectionately as he walked past.

John looked up in irritation. "What? Are ya finally ready? Come on, then, let’s get started!"

It took a while to get in the groove, and they had to endure some scathing remarks from John while they tried to remember the music they were supposed to know so well. But for some reason, none of them could seem to stop smiling all through the first day’s work on John’s new song, "This Bird Has Flown."

Dinner was an adventure; it was difficult to determine just what was available for three vegetarians to eat in the mid-60’s. George took matters into his own hands and asked Mal (another shock) to go to an Indian restaurant for their meals, and he ordered for everyone.

John gave him a funny look. "I knew you were gettin’ into th’ Indian thing with th’ sitar, George, but what’s this with th’ food?"

"Oh, just wanted ta try a few things I read about," George replied. Funny how the half-truths came so easily, he mused.

"Well, I ‘ope it’s good food, I’m starvin’," John replied, still fiddling around with "This Bird Has Flown," and George had to smile about the working title for "Norwegian Wood."

"Ya know, John, maybe a little sitar would sound good on th’ song, d’ya think?" he asked casually.

It was still so odd to be sitting here, talking to his mates, it was all so close that it seemed like yesterday, yet so far away that it seemed like another life. George thought about what Paul had said earlier. If there were any way to change the future then they’d have to try; the moment he’d seen John, he knew they would have to make an attempt. But what other things would be changed if they were able to right that one wrong? The ripples in the pond of life could make drastic differences. Couldn’t they?

They ate with hearty appetites when the food arrived, and even John admitted it was good, although he complained about the lack of meat. George pointed out the chicken vindaloo he’d ordered for his meat eating companion and told John to shut up and eat. The vegetarians of the group enjoyed the carrot soup, stuffed prinjals, dal with creamed spinach and grilled bread. George wasn’t sure if the difference was because the foods in the 60’s had few preservatives, or if it was just the fact that his much younger taste buds experienced flavours differently, but everything tasted fantastic!

Huddling together on break after dinner, Paul asked the question.

"What ‘ave we gotta do?"

"Change his attitude," George replied.

Ringo laughed. "Right! Change John’s attitude? That’s a larf, we’ll never get that done, not even if we’re ‘ere fer th’ rest of our lives!"

Ringo paused for a moment of sober reflection, wondering if maybe they would be here that long. He finally shook himself mentally and asked, "An’ what attitude would we ‘ave ta change, anyway?"

Paul answered, he’d been thinking of this the entire time they’d been in the studio.

"Next March is that interview where John says th’ Beatles are more popular than Jesus. ‘e can’t say that. If ‘e doesn’t say that, then th’ bastard won’t . . . won’t . . . ‘ave a reason ta . . . ta do it," he finished weakly. It was hard to think about it, let alone say it, especially here and now, with John alive.

"Ya think it’s that simple?" Ritch asked.

Paul nodded, relieved to see that George was nodding, too. He must have been thinking about this, too.

"Yeah, I think Paul’s right," George said. "That’s th’ catalyst, that’s th’ thing we gotta change. If we can change what John says in that interview, it’ll change . . . what happened. Or what’s gonna happen, I mean."

"But George, you don’t really believe we can change anything, man! That’s what ya said earlier," Ringo accused.

"I know I said that, an’ yer right, I don’t think we can change things. But maybe I’m wrong. Ya know, I’m not some all seeing prophet or anything like that, Ritchie. I dunno, maybe we’re just here ta say goodbye. But if there’s any chance . . . well, we gotta try, man."

"Well, ya act like a prophet, or some kinda hermit anyway!", Ringo joked nervously. "Or at least ya do in th’ future. Or th’ present. Or whenever it is! Shit, this is so confusing!" He sighed. "So . . . what do we do ta change ‘is attitude? We don’ know how long we’re ‘ere. Shit, what if we’re ‘ere fer . . . forever?"

They looked at each other blankly. George finally answered.

"I guess we’ll just have ta go with th’ idea we’re here fer a short time. I guess we just start talking about how the Beatles are more popular than television or something, an’ we’ve gotta hope it sinks in. If we’re still here in March, then we can do something about th’ interview, but we can’t wait an’ just hope were gonna be here then, we may only have a day, or a week. Or an hour."

"Or forever," Ringo added morosely.

No one had come up with a better plan by the time their break was over, so the old friends trooped back into the studio. They weren’t able to talk about ‘it’ during conversation between songs, ‘it’ wasn’t an easy subject to casually bring up. All three of the visitors from the future exchanged glances, hoping they’d have another chance, wondering if they should force the issue and just blurt everything out. A few moments here or there spent whispering and rejecting ideas didn’t help them find any answers.

When the session was over late in the evening, they each gave John a hug or a slap on the back as they prepared to leave, and John looked at them with suspicion rampant in his expression.

"What’s goin’ on? Yer all actin’ funny, yer not smokin’, yer eatin’ weird food, yer all daft or trippin’ or somethin’," he commented as he pulled on his coat. "Yer huddlin’ together, whisperin’ whenever ya get th’ chance, yer actin’ like bloody conspirators. What’s goin’ on?"

Paul forced a laugh. "Nah, John, there’s nothin’ goin’ on. Just kinda clearin’ out th’ lungs an’ body, tryin’ a few new things, you know ‘ow it is. Hey, man, good session today, that song’s great, it’s gonna be a hit, I’m sure of it. It’s a beaut, John."

He wanted to say how much he enjoyed working with him, how much John meant to him, but he knew he couldn’t say anything without raising John’s suspicions even higher than they were already. Paul saw from the corner of his eye that George looked worried; he was frowning and shaking his head in warning, so Paul swallowed and turned away before he started babbling.

"See ya tomorrow, man, ‘ave a good night," he said quietly. He wondered if the three of them should stay together tonight, but the urge to go home, to be alone for a while, was almost overwhelming, and after a few brief words of farewell to George and Ringo, he escaped as quickly as possible.

Paul found his car and drove home. It was strange arriving ‘there’ again, it had been a long, long time. All the necessary keys were in his pockets, he parked the car, unlocked the door and walked in. Memories flooded over him from the smell and feel of the house. Looking around at the furnishings and paintings, it was like . . . stepping into a time portal. That’s exactly what had happened, he realized, and it was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced.

He spent an hour just wandering around the house, looking at everything, picking up items he’d forgotten he’d ever owned, replacing them carefully, not wanting to intrude, feeling like a stranger in his own home. Any time he passed a mirror or a window, he very nearly did a double take, wondering just who was the stranger he saw in the reflection. Had he ever looked that young? He stopped in front of the mirror, seeing his young face in reflection and his much older face in memory, wondering which was real, shaking his head as they blurred together into a composite. He was Paul, old-Paul and young-Paul combined, all the pieces of his life coming together to form a whole.

When he walked by the telephone for the third time, he finally stopped stalling and picked the receiver up. He called a number he almost couldn’t remember, it had been so long, but his fingers knew the rotary sequence and they dialed it automatically. Trying to keep his hand from shaking, trying to keep his voice steady, he greeted his brother.

"Hey, Mike, ‘ow are ya? Can I talk ta Dad? Yeah, I know it’s late, lemme talk to ‘im."

He waited with his heart in his throat. When he heard his father’s sleepy voice, he could barely speak, barely assure his dad that he was fine, that he just wanted to say hello. He struggled to control his voice despite the tears that wet his cheeks, closing his eyes upon hearing the old familiar voice he thought he’d never hear again.

He spent a good twenty minutes chatting, talking about anything and everything, just so he could continue to hear that voice. He wished it was earlier in the evening, he’d have gone to see his father in a heartbeat. But for some reason, he felt he needed to be here, too. He kept his confused father on the line even though it was late in the evening, and he tried to store up every word and nuance, every feeling and sound, for the future.

When the doorbell sounded, he knew he had to ring off. This must be why he’d felt he had to be here. He knew who was at the door, it couldn’t be anyone else. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart.

"There’s somebody at th’ door, I’ve gotta go. I love you, Dad, with all my heart. Talk to ya soon."

He almost broke down when he replaced the receiver on the cradle, wondering if there would be a ‘soon’ in which to talk to his father again. The doorbell sounded again, and he pulled himself together, went to the door to answer the ring.

Jane was at the door, smiling at him. He took another deep breath and returned her smile. God, she was so beautiful. He welcomed her into his home with a hug and a kiss.

Oh, God, this was so . . . weird.

Ringo sat in his car, trying to work up the courage to walk into his old home. It had taken him a long time to drive here, mainly because he’d forgotten where he’d been living at the time. Not to mention having to search for his car, he’d forgotten what vehicle he drove in 1965, too. The streets were so different, so familiar yet so strange, the clothes people wore, the cars, everything was just so weird. Maureen was alive. His ex-wife, no, his wife was alive and the mother of his baby, his newborn baby. This was gonna be bloody difficult. But he knew he had to do this, maybe this was all part and parcel of why he was ‘here’. That is, if he was ‘here’, if this wasn’t just a bloody hallucination!

He sighed, placing his thoughts squarely on something he’d tried to avoid thinking of until now. What about sex? If he had sex with Mo, was he cheating on his current wife with his ex-wife? Or cheating on his future wife with his present wife? And if they could change things, what if having sex caused something to happen, maybe an unexpected pregnancy? But if he’d originally had sex with Mo on this particular night, and didn’t have it now, would that change screw things up, too?

To top things off, if trying to figure out all that wasn’t enough, this body definitely had the urges of a young man of twenty-five, and all this thinking about sex wasn’t helping matters. His mind might be sixty-plus, but his body wasn’t having any of that; it knew what it wanted, and it had been wanting it nearly all day. He had to laugh about that, he’d forgotten how urgent sex was to a young man. He couldn’t help but wonder if everything worked, and how different it would feel. Were the memories better than the reality? Or had the memories of youthful escapades themselves faded with age?

The side door opened and Mo stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the cheery interior of the house. God, she was so beautiful, so full of life, and his breath caught in his throat just looking at her. And she was holding baby Zak in her arms. Ringo took a deep breath and got out of the car.

"Hullo, darlin’, you look great! An’ ‘ow’s me boy, eh, Zakkie?" he asked, giving Mo a kiss and taking his infant son in his arms.

Ringo had to struggle to keep the tears at bay, he knew he’d never fully appreciated this at the time. Oh, he’d certainly loved his son, but knowing what the future held, knowing what a fine young man Zak became, knowing his son had followed in his old man’s footsteps . . . well, it was all the more precious, holding him now, a tiny infant only a month old. Having grandchildren had given him a new appreciation for how very brief this period of time lasted. The years passed so quickly, he thought, and his little boy had become a man almost overnight. It was hard to believe Zak had ever been this small, was there ever a more beautiful baby, he wondered?

Absolute, total love flooded through Ringo, along with renewed amazement at this ‘trip’, at the unexpected opportunity to once again hold this precious bundle in his arms. He felt an overwhelming surge of affection for the mother of his child, and he gave Maureen another kiss before following her into their home. He wondered if something as simple as an extra kiss might change things, too?

Oh, God, this was so . . . confusing!

George had Alf drive him home. He needed to think, and driving himself along the familiar/unfamiliar narrow streets wouldn’t give him much time to do that. In spite of the confident pose he put up in front of his mates, he didn’t have a clue what was going on or if what they were doing was right or not. But Paul’s theory about this being a second chance had struck a chord within him, and he wondered if it really was a chance to set some things right. And if it wasn’t, then there was no harm in trying, was there? Hell, maybe if he said that to himself often enough, he’d start to believe it.

He got out of the car and stood looking at his old house. He had to smile, it hadn’t even been painted in psychedelic colors and patterns yet!

"Thanks, Alf, will ya pick me up tomorrow at 11?"

He chuckled at Alf’s surprise, that must be pretty early for a start back in ’65. Well, Paul and Ritch had said they’d be at the studio at noon, so maybe they’d have a chance to finalize plans. Maybe they should have stayed together tonight, hung out in a group and not gone their separate ways. But he thought they’d all needed to get away from each other, just a little bit, just get a little breathing room and think things through. Maybe . . . see some old friends or family. Maybe that was why they were here?

Shit! Enough dawdling, all this thinking was just an excuse, he was procrastinating, he might as well admit it! He was afraid to walk into his house, afraid to face a part of his past. He hadn’t thought it would be so bloody difficult.

He took a deep breath and committed himself to the action, walked up to the house, opened the door, stepped inside. He shut his eyes at the sense of déjà vu when Patti rushed into his arms. Oh, God, she was so beautiful. And so young! He felt like an old lecher just looking at her, with 60 plus years of life in his head but a 22 year old body that responded . . . instantly . . . to the physical charms she presented.

George’s memories of the future cast their spell on him, and he found his thoughts centering on what would happen scant years from now, the steady distance that would grow between them, the way Patti left him for Eric. And finding Olivia. Dhani, his son. Oh, God.

"Hullo, sweetheart, did ya have a good day?" he asked, his voice breaking on the last syllable. He cleared his throat.

She looked up at him, he could tell she’d been crying, although she tried to smile at him. His heart went out to her, she was so young, everything was always so desperate and urgent at that age.

"What’s wrong, love?" he asked.

The man he had become asked the question gently; he knew the callous youth he’d seen in the mirror wouldn’t have sounded like that. He stroked her hair, awash in the physical sensation of holding her close, touching her as he waited patiently for her reply.

"That girl called again," she said, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing.

George was stunned with the immediacy of the memory. What a fucking arsehole he’d been back then! Living with Patti, loving her and talking marriage with her, yet always enjoying a bird or two on the side, especially on the tours, the typical Northern chauvinistic attitude, wanting to have his cake and eat it, too. The years had certainly changed him.

He sighed, wondering if this was something he should try to change. He hugged his ex-wife close, trying to comfort her. No, she wasn’t his ex-wife right now, she wasn’t even his wife at this point, she was his future wife. And if he tried to change things and succeeded, then what would the future be like if something he did now meant that he and Patti worked things out and stayed together? No Olivia, no Dhani?

Oh, God, this was . . . heartbreaking.

They gathered in Studio Two the next day, back to the familiar structure of EMI’s hallowed halls. They avoided each other’s eyes for a time, but all three were thoughtfully quiet, perhaps thinking over their nights, perhaps wondering what they might have changed.

Ringo finally broke the silence, leaving the soul searching to remain private; he instead addressed something that he was pretty sure was safe to talk about. Looking at his friends, he was fairly certain that none of them had been able to resist temptation during their evening apart. Maybe Georgie, the mystic, the saint? He looked at his mate a little closer and chuckled. No, he looked far too smug and satisfied. And tired/. Ringo was pretty sure George’s expression mirrored his own, and Paulie’s, too.

"Everythin’ works pretty good, doesn’t it?" he asked a little sheepishly, smiling.

Paul started laughing. "Hell, ‘pretty good’ doesn’t nearly cover it, ya know! Wow!"

George joined in the laughter. "Ya got that right, it’s pretty amazing. . ."

"What’s amazin’?" John asked as he walked into the room.

"Amazing weather," George deadpanned. "It hasn’t rained in, what, a day? What are we working on today, John?"

John looked at him with a thoughtful expression, his eyes narrowed in misgiving. "Why ya askin’ me, Georgie? Christ, yer still actin’ weird, man. I dunno, Paulie’s th’ one who usually takes charge o’ that." He looked expectantly at Paul. "Come on, then, let’s get started!"

"OK, errr, maybe we could . . . maybe we need ta work some more on yer new song, that was a good one," Paul stumbled.

"Nah, let’s do that new one, ‘Drive My Car,’ right?" Ringo suggested. Paul looked at him, raising his eyebrows in question. Ringo mouthed back, "Lewisohn."

"Yer kiddin’, right?" Paul asked him quietly when he walked past. Ringo paused for an equally quiet reply.

"Nah, got th’ new Chronicles recently, yesterday’s rehearsal jogged me memory ‘bout it. It’s a week or two before we get back ta workin’ on ‘Wood.’"

"Yer a lifesaver, man, ya got a mind like a steel trap!" Paul whistled in admiration.

"Yeah, it’s usually closed," Ringo completed the old joke and climbed behind the partition to his drum kit.

Ringo was the first one called to the phone that afternoon, Maureen was ringing him. Worried that something had happened to Zak, he hurried to the booth to answer the call, pausing only long enough to pull Brian Epstein into a bear hug, leaving his manager staring in confusion over the action. Brian hadn’t been at the studio yesterday, and Ringo wondered if the shocks would ever stop arriving.

Picking up the receiver, he greeted Mo with trepidation, a slow smile breaking out on his face as he realized that this was a ‘thank you’ call from his surprised and gratified wife, although she certainly didn’t coach it in such terms. Ringo nearly started chuckling, he’d really tried to tone things down a bit last night, but forty years of additional knowledge and expertise didn’t disappear simply because one was trying to be cautious. Mo had seemed a bit overwhelmed, and Ringo thought what a fool he’d been in his younger years; sex at that age was often too urgent to spend time ensuring a partner’s pleasure, and that was a real loss, he thought. He couldn’t talk long or say much, with both Brian and George Martin in the booth, but he told Maureen he loved her, and he asked her to kiss Zak for him before he rang off.

Pausing before returning to the studio, he quickly dialed an almost forgotten number and spent an all too brief ten minutes chatting with his mother. He finally returned to the studio, quiet, thoughtful and shaken even more by this weird trip he was sharing with Paul and George.

George’s call arrived next, and his smile upon his return to the studio bespoke of a similar ‘thank you’ call from Patti. When a call was announced for Paul, he and Ringo shared an amused glance as Paul left the room to go to the booth. When Paul returned with a smug smile on his face, the three shared a grin and a chuckle.

"All right, what th’ hell’s goin’ on with you lot?" John asked. "What’s th’ joke, why’re ya just larkin’ about like this? We got an album ta finish! Jesus, yer all actin’ so fuckin’ weird, I can’t ‘ardly stand it. Come on, then, let’s get started!"

Cowed but still chuckling, they got started. The session went well, and they all felt more comfortable than they had the previous day. When John questioned how well they were doing in rehearsal, they realized that they were playing the finished version of the old familiar song. The only problem with that was that it was supposed to be a new song. It was hard to go back to playing a ‘working version’ of it, though, and they ended up completing the song in four takes, with overdubs, very nearly a record.

"Ya must ‘ave been practicin’ last night, George, ya sound . . . I dunno, different, smoother, I guess," John commented as they broke for dinner. He seemed in a better mood now that they’d got a song for the album done. "You, too, Paulie, ya sound really good."

"What about me?" Ringo asked, laying his sticks down.

"You? Nah, ya sound pretty much th’ same ta me, Ritch," John replied, and Ringo made a face when Paul and George laughed.

There was a pause in the conversation as they grabbed sandwiches and drinks, and Paul took a deep breath. He had to say this, the urgency had been steadily growing all afternoon, and he couldn’t hold it back any more. Well, not and keep breathing, anyway!

"Hey, John, I love ya, man. An’ I love workin’ with ya. ‘s truth, man."

The relief he felt at having said it almost made him lightheaded. He saw the look George threw at him, warning mixed with alarm. But then Ringo piped up, slapping John on the back, relief coloring his features as he spoke.

"Yeah, I gotta agree with Paulie, John. Yer th’ greatest, man, an’ I love ya. It’s a real pleasure workin’ with ya."

George sighed, jumping on the bandwagon in spite of his reservations. "Yeah, Johnny. Working with you has always been fantastic. I love ya too, man."

John looked at them closely, cautiously stepping away from them with exaggerated care. "All right, what’s th’ joke? Ya all goin’ soft? I better keep me eye on you lot, ya sound like yer goin’ queer or somethin’."

George laughed, and Paul was surprised that it didn’t sound too forced. "Nah, it’s just something we never got . . . errr, get ‘round ta saying, man, not very often, anyway. Not often enough." He paused for a long moment, then grinned and added, "Maybe we wanna borrow some money or something."

Paul breathed a sigh of relief when John took off on that subject, joking about finances. He wondered what he’d been thinking, saying that. But he knew he’d needed to say it, and maybe the others had needed to say it as well.

They made small talk over cheese and pickle sandwiches and Paul decided he had to try to bring ‘it’ up in the conversation.

"Pretty amazin’ . . . ‘ow big The Beatles ‘ave gotten, innit?" Paul asked rhetorically, stumbling a little, but determined. "What d’ya think about it, John?" Paul exchanged a guarded glance with his fellow conspirators.

"Oh, yeah, we’ll be playin’ together an’ we’ll still be on top forty years from now, ya know!" John replied with a sarcastic smile. "We’ll prolly ‘ave a hit single on me 65^th birthday, I can see it all now!"

John laughed into the silence that held the others shocked and spellbound. Forty years? Exactly forty years? How had he picked exactly that number?

After taking a swallow of his drink, John added, "I always knew we’d get to th’ top, never ‘ad any doubts meself. Hell, we’re practically more popular than . . . I dunno, Jesus, I guess!"

The three listeners froze in the act of eating, forgetting all about the forty years comment, realizing this was ‘it’, their chance. They rushed over the tops of each other as they tried to say what they thought, stumbling over the words and each other in their hurry to speak.

"No, man, that’s th’ wrong thing ta say," Paul began.

"Ya can’t say that, John," George started.

"Bleedin’ ‘ell, John, ya know that’s knockin’ religion an’ that’s a really bad thing ta do," Ringo said.

John looked at them, amusement and irritation warring in his expression. "All right, what th’ fuck’s goin’ on ‘ere? Yer all actin’ so weird, like ya know somethin’ I don’! What’s th’ joke? When’s th’ bucket o’ dishwater gonna fall on me ‘ead?"

"John, there’s no joke," Paul replied quickly. "But ya can’t be muckin’ ‘round with religion like that. Look, man, it’s really important. You know th’ backlash would be ‘orrible, deadly, even! You can say that The Beatles are more popular than television, or more popular than fish an’ chips, but ya can’t be messin’ ‘round with comparin’ us ta any religious figures. Ya gotta listen to us, man."

He wanted to shake his friend, cram the information down his throat, make him promise he’d never say anything like that, ever! A thought occurred to him, what if they were able to convince him, but it just delayed the inevitable? What if he said it in 1968 instead of 1966? Or in 1970, or some other time? Or what if he said something worse? Was this just an exercise in futility? Or was it really a second chance? But a second chance at what, to change things? Or was it just a second chance to say goodbye?

Shit! There were just too many fucking questions! His eyes were stinging and he had to get up from the table. Paul paused long enough to grip John’s shoulder and give his old mate a little shake, and then he left the room to try and pull himself together. He climbed the stairwell to the roof and took a few deep breaths.

Ringo followed him onto the roof, pulling him into a brief hug. "Take it easy, Paulie, I know what yer feelin’, we’re all feelin’ it." He stepped back and looked down at the street below, sighing.

"I just wanna tell ‘im . . ." Paul began, stopping when his words caught in his throat.

"Yeah, I know. So do I. But we can’t, man, he’s already suspicious. We don’t wanna make matters worse."

"Right, ‘ow th’ bleedin’ ‘ell could we make matters any worse?" Paul demanded angrily.

"I dunno, but I’m sure there’s a way, it’s Murphy’s law, innit?" Ringo asked wryly.

The door opened and George joined them on the rooftop. "You two all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," Paul nodded, answering for them both. "It’s just so freakin’ hard not ta say what I wanna say to ‘im!"

"Yeah, I know, man, I wanna tell him, too," George responded. They were silent for a few minutes, then George sighed. "Look, we better get back inside." They all walked back into the stairwell, the door swung shut behind them . . . . . and the lights went out.

"Bloody ‘ell, not yet!" Ringo groaned. "That’s not enough time!"

"Shit, we only ‘ad one freakin’ chance at it," Paul said softly. "Was it enough?"

"Hare Krishna," George whispered, a simple prayer.

When the lights came back on, they were back in the old familiar studio. They looked at each other, seeing the old familiar faces and bodies, feeling the old familiar aches and pains associated with aging.

"Did that really ‘appen?" Ringo asked, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He smiled unselfconsciously when he flipped through the pictures it contained, at least it wasn’t like in that movie, where people disappeared from the photo.

"Did we do any good?" Paul questioned in reply, pulling out his own wallet after seeing what Ringo was doing.

"I guess there’s only one way ta find out," George replied, walking from the studio to the office. He sat down at the computer and booted it up.

"What are ya doin’, man?" Ringo asked.

Waiting for the connection, George checked his billfold as well, closing his eyes in brief thanks to a higher power upon seeing the unchanged pictures. But did that mean . . .? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul putting his wallet away with a relieved expression on his face. George likewise put his wallet away and logged onto the internet.

"Thought I’d go ta Bagism.com an’ see what they’ve got listed, they’ve got a good chronology of events," George belatedly replied to Ringo’s question as he quickly typed and clicked enter.

"I’m scared ta look," Ringo admitted.

George nodded. "Yeah, me, too, Ritch. But how else we gonna find out? If we ask anyone, they’ll think we’ve gone mad. Or senile." The screen went blank for a moment, then filled with information. George read quietly.

Paul swallowed, ashen faced. "So . . . what’s it say?"

George looked up from the computer, shaking his head. "We didn’t change anything," he sighed. "It’s all still th’ same, everything happened . . . like we remember. I didn’t think we could make a difference, but I was hoping . . ." His voice trailed off and he sighed once more. "I was hoping I was wrong. I guess ya can’t change th’ past, no matter how much ya might want it. But I’m glad we tried, anyway."

"But did it really ‘appen?" Ringo asked again.

George shrugged tiredly. "I don’ know, Ritch. Maybe it was just a hallucination. But we all three had it, that’s pretty weird. I jus’ don’ know," he repeated.

"I swear I don’ know, either," Paul said, shaking his head in wonder or annoyance, he wasn’t sure which. "Maybe it ‘appened. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just a hallucination, maybe that acid flashback ya talked about, Ritch. Or maybe we were just given an opportunity ta say somethin’ we shoulda said more often when we ‘ad th’ chance. Maybe it was just th’ chance ta say goodbye. Too many fuckin’ maybes, man, I really don’ know."

Paul sighed heavily, and the three of them were silent, alone in their thoughts, sitting or standing with slumped shoulders and memories that may or may not have been real. After a few moments of reflection, Paul felt a smile surfacing at the thought of yet another maybe. He started to chuckle, and the others looked at him in surprise.

"Or maybe . . . maybe it was th’ chance fer John ta tell us we’re doin’ th’ right thing with this concert. He said we’d be at th’ top in forty years, lads . . . an’ it’s forty years, ya know."

There was silence in the room, silence and then smiles.

"Yeah, well, I know what John would say if ‘e was ‘ere," Ringo said with a laugh. "He’d prolly say ‘come on, then, let’s get started!’"

They laughed, and they got started. After all, they had a concert to prepare for!

The charity concert was an unparalleled success. The album of the concert went platinum before it was even pressed, and the single "Old Friends" was number one on the charts on the 65^th anniversary of John’s birth.

Old Friends

My old friend, it’s good to see you at last.

We traveled a long and winding road, remember?

If we meet today or in dreams of the past,

we’ve a second chance, we can still come together.

 

Life without you would have been incomplete,

you sparked a revolution in my heart and soul.

When we were one, the harmony was sweet,

the balance was met, the separate parts became whole.

 

Together or apart, you’re within me, without me,

together or apart, you’re always a part of me.

Near or far, we remain old friends.

 

Love is the key to life itself,

(all you need is love, love . . . love is all you need)

in hearts and minds, love is true wealth.

(the love you take is equal to the love you make)

 

Together or apart, you’re a piece of the whole,

together or apart, you’re a part of my soul.

Near or far, we remain old friends,

near or far, we remain old friends.

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 18 years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.