“Brennan to Becker! Do you copy?”

“Yes, I copy.”

“It’s affirmative: at exactly oh-nine-hundred hours targets commenced journey towards destination.  We’re all counting on you now, Becker.”

“Roger that.”

Holly Becker deftly stowed the walkie-talkie device into her rather large purse, thankfully unnoticed by the throngs of Los Angelinos pressing against her, sweaty and angry from the sweltering August heat, making their way towards the grandiose entrance to Union Station.

She dashed inside the terminal, found the departures schedule and squinted, trying to make out the barely comprehensible jargon.  There was only one departure scheduled for San Francisco: the 10:15.  She couldn’t help but grin—how close she was coming to victory! And wouldn’t the other girls be proud of her!

 The West Side Beatles Society was a respectable group of high school girls.  At seventeen, Holly was the eldest and often times really did feel like the mother figure in the gang.  They met each other almost two years ago, in late 1963, after discovering that they all had two things in common:  they lived in the same apartment building and they all loved the Beatles.  It was at a time before they even really knew what the boys looked like.  They had fallen in love with that unfathomable sound.  It had changed them in a way they never thought was possible. (Of course, the pleasant discovery that the boys were also four of the most gorgeous creatures on the planet certainly didn't hinder their growing adulation.)  They formed the Society in January 1964 and met every Wednesday evening in Holly's comfortable bedroom (all eight of them) to obsess about ‘their’ boys.

Holly's favorite was Ringo.  It was love at first sight, if you will.  She found everything about him insatiably appealing.  Those deep-set baby blues, his oh-so kissable lips, that winning smile, yes, even that ‘trombone hooter’ of a nose, she found downright irresistible! (Especially that ‘trombone hooter,’ thank you very much!) She kept a framed photograph of him on her desk, a small one in her wallet, and it wasn't uncommon for him to pay a visit to her in her dreams. 

It was that love, and only that love that propelled her to go through with her current undertaking.

Ever since the boys first toured America, the Beatles Society had tried their best to contrive a way to come in contact with the Beatles themselves.  And for the past two years they had failed.  One incident even involved their secretary, Carol, being hauled off by a gruff policeman after she had made it all the way to the second floor of the boys’ hotel during the last leg of their first American tour.

Summer was rapidly drawing to a close, as was the Beatles’ American  tour.  It was the 30^th of August already, and the lads were leaving for home on the 1^st of September.  The club was running out of time.

And really, the plan was simple.  Simply get onto the same train as the Beatles and there you had it! Close captivity with them with nowhere else to go! Susan Brennan had radioed from out in front of the Bonaventure Hotel downtown, which meant the boys would be there soon. Her stomach was twisting in knots: only thirty five minutes and she would be on the same train as the boys. . . with her Ringo.

She took a deep breath and confidently approached the ticket counter, sternly ordering one ticket for the 10:15.  The ticketmaster peered at her over his wire rim glasses and scrunched up his nose.

"Sorry, Miss. No seats left."

Holly's face turned a ghostly white. "What? No! I-- I have a very important appointment that I just can't be late for!"

"I'm sorry--"

"No! You don't understand, it's a matter of life and death!"

"And you don't understand that there's nothing I can do about it! No seats available, lady.  If it’s that important to you, then take the twelve-twenty into Santa Barbara. From there you can catch the seven- thirty into San Francisco."

She stared at him, being forced to accept the bitter defeat.   Without another word she turned and slowly walked away.  Oh god. . . what am I going to tell the girls? I can't let them down like this. . . there just has to be a way. . .

But how?  It seemed as though she had really faced a brick wall this time.   She pulled out her walkie-talkie again, hiding in a forgotten corner, her spirits dragging miserably.

"Becker to Brennan.  Bad news:  aborting mission.  All the tickets for the train have been sold. Am not able to board the train. I repeat: aborting mission."

There was murumuring on the other end, she could hear. After an eternity, Susan clicked back on.

"Copy that, Becker.  Best reel in the line. . ." more murmuring. "Don't worry, Holly. You tried."

"I know, Sue. I just wish. . .oh well.  I'll see you in a few."

She spotted an open seat in the terminal and plopped down, setting the walkie-talkie to her left, and massaged her temples.  Oh what a headache.  So much planning and hoping. . . for nothing.  With hundreds of people swarming around her, she felt strangely distant and just seconds from bursting into tears.

"You look lost."

Holly snapped out of it and focused on a man sitting to her right:  The owner of reddish hair cut quite mod, glasses, and a hopeful smile.

She shook her head. "No. . . just disappointed."

"Oh," he breathed, nodding supportively. "I see. Waiting for someone, eh?"

"Yeah, you could say that. . ."  she glanced back down.  If only the man knew what was really wrong. He would have probably laughed her out of the station.  There were children starving in Africa, scores dying in Vietnam, and here she was ready to cry because she wasn't going to be able to see a couple of rock and roll musicians.

She feigned a smile. "You visiting the city?"

"Was visiting," he corrected.  She liked his voice-- softly and sweetly accented. Not thick like the boys' accents, but still English if she wasn't mistaken. "I'm in the country on business."

"Oh. . . where are you headed then?"

"San Francisco."

Holly froze, her interest insatiably piqued.  She slowly turned towards him, giving him her undivided attention. "Oh?"

"Yes."

"I see. . . " her brain was working over time. "Er. . . ever been before?"

"Oh yes. I like San Francisco quite a great deal.  I know this will probably sound strange, but in some small ways it reminds a little bit of home.”

"I thought the point of a vacation was to get away from home.  Why would you want to go someplace that's just like it?"

"Well," he laughed, "when you travel as often as I do, you're thankful to go to places where it feels like home."

He glanced down at his watch, then up as though her were looking for someone.

"Listen, er, would you mind doing me a favor?  I have a phone call I have to make-- mind watching my luggage?"  She nodded and he sprinted off towards a telephone booth.

Holly stared at the luggage, biting her lip in deep contemplation.  She had always been the peacemaker of the group.  Honest Holly, they called her-- the type of girl whose conscience just ate at her even when she told her little sister about Santa Claus, hating herself for, in effect, lying to someone she loved.  And that's why it scared her at how willing she was to carry out the plan she was beginning to formulate.

One of the man's bags sat comfortably close to her.  Out of one of the pockets, the tip of some sort of white document stuck out.  Her heart raced and she reached her fingers out and deftly pulled it out. It was an envelope that had "tickets" scribbled in pen.  You could get thrown in jail for this pounded in her head as she pulled out the contents.  Berkeley will never admit a girl with a criminal record!   Her heart fluttered as she read the print:  Los Angeles to San Francisco. 10:15.  This is it! This is the answer!

All she had to do was get up and walk away with the ticket in her pocket and no one would ever know the difference.  But if she did, how could she ever live with herself? And what about that sweet Englishman? He'd been so kind and considerate to her and this was how she was going to repay him? By ripping him off? How ridiculous! How insane!  But Holly. . . we're talking about the Beatles.  We're talking about Ringo.  Since when have you ever been sane when it comes to them?

Right.  She stood up and briskly made her way towards the platform.

***

"Can I help you to your seat, Miss?"

Holly was startled, but regained her composure nicely.  She nodded to the porter and handed him her ticket.  The porter's smile faded momentarily and his aging eyes betrayed him bafflement, as did his hesitant speech.

"F-first class?"

In her panicked state of mind, she hadn't notcied the "First Class" stamp on the ticket.  Darn it. . . he was a businessman. Of course he would travel first class!  

"Well, that's what it says, doesn't it?"

The porter tried his best to remain cordial, but he was visibly disturbed.  He bade her to follow and she passed by the seated coach passengers and into a spacious compartment.

"Seat 8B, Miss."  The porter motioned to her seat, his face no longer concerned, but positively petrified!

A strange, nearly loathsome fear was creeping its way upon her.   She was beginning to realize that everyone in the car was staring at her as though she carried the plague. 

Especially the man who occupied seat 8A.

A man with enormous blue eyes beneath a great crown of dark brown hair which famed his face. . .

Holly's mouth fell open and she very nearly had the wind knocked out of her by the sheer magnitude of what was happening to her.  Her eyes were telling her that she was looking at Ringo Starr, but her mind was scolding her that it wasn't possible.    Her eyes quickly scanned the rest of the compartment, finding three other men in similar attire, putting to bed any doubts she'd been clinging to:  Paul McCartney was sitting next to George Harrison in row 7, and John Lennon sat adjacent to Ringo. All of their eyes focused upon her.

It was the moment that she'd dreamt of, fantasized about, pined for with every ounce of her being.  Holly had memorized speeches, practiced how to act when meeting him, planned out every second of their meeting should such an encounter actually take place-- and now that is was actually happening, she couldn't even find her voice.

Of all the tickets that she could have swiped, she'd gotten herself a ticket to ride with the Beatles!

"Now what's all this?"

Holly snapped out of her trance by the sternness of the voice directed at her.  A man, immaculately dressed in a dark navy blue suit and polka dotted scarf, was more than confused.

"She has a ticked, Mr. Epstein." The porter confirmed.    It's their manager! THE Brian Epstein!

"But I specifically requested that--"

"Ah, come 'ead, Eppy.  Don't be soft.  Let her alone, eh? She's not done anythin.'"

He was speaking up for her!  Holly smiled gratefully-- and at the same time felt an incredible guilt for putting on false pretenses like that.  Mr. Epstein shrugged and reluctantly dropped the matter.

"Thanks," she whispered as she scooted past to her seat.

"Nothin’ to it.  I usually get stuck sittin' next to Neil, our roadie, so it's a nice change."

She sat down, dying at how close she was to him.  He sat, no, he lounged in his seat, his elbow on her armrest, every sense in her body acutely aware of his sleeve that ever so lightly rested against her arm.

"You got a name?" He asked as he cooly lit a cigarette.

"Holly."

"Ringo," he said, extending his hand.  She prayed her hand wouldn't shake as she accepted it.  It did, darn it all!  He merely smiled, not saying anything about it.  "Speaking of Neil, anyone know where he is?"

A voice spoke up in front of them, "Yeah-- saw 'im just before we got on.”

"Did you see him on the train?" asked another voice.

"I think so, aye.  He's probably just in the loo."

"Yeah, he said he wasn't feeling too well this morning," said John, and then in the same breath asked, "Where you from, Holly?"

Holly swallowed hard, not sure if she had to nerve to actually face him.  Oh my God, John Lennon is actually asking me a question! She was just seconds from passing out. . .

"Er, right here in L.A.  Just going up to San Francisco for the day. . ."

"First class girl, eh?"

"Yeah. . . um, Daddy's really paranoid about me traveling alone."  Well that's not exactly a lie.

The train shuddered and began slowly creeping out of the station.  She stared out at the blurring images, her eyes eventually focusing on the reflection in the mirror.  John was standing over Ringo. His eyes looked up and met Holly's staring eyes. She turned around and tried not to blush.

"Who're you meetin' in San Francisco?"  His arms were folded, his gaze undivided-- focused intently, almost intimidating.

"Oh, I have family there"  Which was true. "Figured I'd drop by."

"You do this often?"

"See my family? S-sure.  It's not terribly far, you know.  I'm there every other week."

He seemed to accept this and smiled at her strangely before going back to his seat.

Ringo looked tired, so she decided it best to just leave him be.  The fact that she could smell him, feel him was enough to send her heart soaring.  He was a living, breathing man, not a glossy photograph.  An actual person who was less than two inches away from her. 

She reached into her bag and pulled out the novel that she'd packed, hoping to appear as unconcerned as possible. (Although she did panic when she realized that she had somehow lost her Dad's walkie-talkie.  But even that seemed unimportant at the moment.) She opened D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover-- the novel she was determined to finish even though her mom called it obscene. 

"What's that?"

She glanced up: the angelic face before her was enough to make her want to cry.

"It's Lady Chatterly's Lover."

Paul let a brief, faint grin show on his plush, kissable lips.  The man was downright gorgeous-- the owner of brown eyes that could just melt anything they set their gaze upon.  "Racy material fer a girl your age. What're you, sixteen?”

"Seventeen, thanks."

"My mistake," he laughed.  "Good choice, that one.  You'll love it in the end when--"

Holly nearly flipped out! "STOP," she ordered, probably surprising the company with her conviction.  "I've haven't been reading this for the past four months only to have it ruined now!"

"They all die," said Ringo blandly.

"They do not," she scolded and then paused. "Do they?"

"Don't listen to him," said George, who peeked over his seat as well. "He can't even read."

"Piss off, George."

John and Paul fell into hysterics and Holly was beaming.  Never in her wildest dreams had she thought such a thing would have been possible.  They were everything she'd dreamt of and then some.  They were four people.  Flesh and blood, joking like everyday, average Joes.  Only these average Joes happened to be ones she kissed goodnight every evening. . .

"How long 'till we get there, Bri?" George whined.

"About 30 minutes."

Damn.  Only thirty minutes until this dream ends.

"It'll still be early, then," said George, sounding optimistic.

"Are you gonna go sightseeing?" Holly asked innocently.  "It's a pretty city. . ."

"That's up to Bri here," said John. "We usually go straight to a hotel and stay there."

"Oh, but there's so much to see in Frisco!  You’ve got the Pier, and Lombard Street, oh, and the nightlife is never-ending!  Kind of reminds me of New York, only a bit more mannerly, you know?”

“Sounds like a gas, but I don’t think we’re gonna see any of ‘at.”

“But you have to! I mean. . .”

“That’s all up to Bri over there.”

Brian hadn’t torn his gaze away from John.  “I told you boys that we would. Tomorrow…”

"Yes. Tomorrow--"

"…through a limousine window," John muttered.

"Better than through a hotel window," George offered.

"Not this again, lads," Brian pleaded. "I do the best I can under the given circumstances.  You know very well that you can't go around like normal tourists. Every year we have the same argument. . ."

"It's because of the fans?" Holly asked.

"You're a regular Einstein, aren't you?" John sneered.

"But. . . what good is seeing the world if you can't experience it?  I mean, no one wants to be stuck in a cage. No matter how gilded it is."

Silence.  She felt Ringo staring at her and she kicked her self for probably saying too much.  "Sorry-- it's none of my business."

"No," Ringo protested. "You hit it right on the dot."

John turned in his seat to face her. "The problem is that most people don't respect a little thing called 'privacy.'  You're expected to give, give, give and they take, take, take and the minute you need breathing room, suddenly you're, y'know, a criminal or something.  People think they own you-- that you owe them something since they paid two and nine for your album. . ."

Holly swallowed hard.   John could have easily kept going, but it was Ringo's stern face that stopped him. He sat back in his chair, the silence suddenly engulfing them.  He really is great at killing a mood.

"Well," she began, feeling obligated to speak and choosing her words cautiously, "let me just say this.  As a member of that cumulative 'they' you were referring to, I just want to let you know that any sort of pain or misgivings caused to you on our part isn't the result of a calculated malice, but is the result of absolute, unadulterated love."  She was feeling the weight of a crushing guilt descend upon her.  "Maybe that's the problem.  That love should be checked with that little something called respect. . ." she sighed.  "But I suppose the privacy of four individual men doesn't stand a chance again about a hundred million girls all claiming to be in love with you. It's a mathematical impossibility."

John's stare never faltered, and his reply was not was she expected.  "I knew you were a fan."

Her heart skipped a beat.  "W-who said I was?"  She'd been so very careful to act as cool as possible! 

Ringo laughed. "Even people who aren't fans will say either 'aren't you those Crickets or something'  or 'can I have your autograph for my friend' or 'Don't I know you' within about 5 to 10 minutes."

John nodded.  "It's been forty and you've done none of that."

Paul spoke up. "Which means that you're a very big fan who already knows our names, is too shy to ask for an autograph and has probably coached herself on how to act in just such a situation."

Holly was mortified!  Exposed!  The gig was up!  She was dumbfounded at their stellar sense of perception. She had no idea what to say.

Ringo seemed amused at her confusion. "Look, luv, when you're in our shoes, you learn a thing or two about the fans.  You can tell the lukewarm ones from the avid ones from the obsessed ones."

She could barely speak, her throat suddenly parched.  "A-and w-what am I?"

George was thoughtful. "You are one of the rare ones.  Obsessed, yes, but not one to let her emotions get away with her."

"Aye," said John, "you're not the type of fan who would break through a police barricade, jump on top of us and start making wild love. . . not that there's anything wrong with that."

Paul laughed, "Aye, but she's smarter than that.  Very much so, which is quite admirable, actually."

"Yeah," Ringo agreed.  "You're style is different.  You would think it out first.  Put thought into it-- make a plan.  Let's say, for example, finding a way to get on the same train as the Beatles."

Uh oh.

"And," continued John, "even if the train was sold out to capacity, you'd still get on-- even if it meant possibly stealing someone else's ticket."

Oh my dear God. No, no, no, no. . .

"And wouldn't it just be a dream come true," said Paul, “if the person whom you ripped off just happened to be the group’s roadie. . ."

Another voice joined the conversation at that moment.  "And he was kind enough to forgive you for it and let you sit in the same cabin with them."

Holly spun around and saw the same man whom she'd stolen the ticket from! He was grinning from ear to ear and walked over to her.  "I never did introduce myself, did I?  The name is Neil Aspinall, and I'm the boys' roadie."

Holly Becker had been caught red-handed.  She was praying for someone to just shoot her and end the misery.  She was sweating, unable to breathe -- suffocating underneath everyone's eyes. All of which seemed to be quite pleased with themselves.

Never in her life had she ever been the victim of such a vicious practical joke.  They had planned this entire thing-- tricked her into thinking that she had gotten away with it. For a brief, fleeting moment, she felt intense an animosity towards every last one of them-- even her Ringo. But almost immediately, that animosity was again replaced with total humiliation.

She wanted to cry, and indeed, she was struggling to choke back her tears.

"H-how d-did you know," she managed to say, barely. 

Neil smiled softly.  "Well, in the heat of your oh-so-well devised plan, you left a little something of yours behind."

He pulled out her walkie-talkie.  So that's what happened to it! Oh, you are such an idiot to have left it just sitting there at the station!  
"Oh, I had a lovely little chat with a certain Susan Brennan-- and pretty much all the other members of the West Side Beatles Society.  They confessed, apologized profusely, and I have to say, I was more than impressed you had the guts to actually do it."

Ringo was laughing. "It's the fact that you ripped off our roadie that really makes the story great!"

Holly was burning with embarrassment. "Oh . . . Mr Aspinall, I. . . I'm so very sorry."

"No, you're not," he chuckled.  "If you had to do it all over again you'd do the same thing."

"But you have to believe me when I say that I feel absolutely terrible."

"As you should," Brian said sternly. "That's a criminal charge, my girl." Brian could see Holly was on the verge of tears and immediately softened his expression. "But we're not going to hold that against you."

"Y-you're not?"

"No."

"Flouting authority, stealing from the innocent," said Ringo, "now that's a fan."

"Aye," George agreed.  "Someone you can really trust."

Holly couldn't help but smile.

"Maybe the Establishment was right after all-- we are contributing to the moral decline of American youth."

The train suddenly shuddered and to Holly's great distress she realized they had finally arrived in San Francisco. "We're here, lads," Brian said.

The hair on the back of Holly's neck stood on edge: there was the most peculiar sound starting to drift into the car-- even though the windows and doors were firmly shut.  A crowd of girls had assembled outside on the platform, being held back by struggling policemen, arms waving, autograph books ready, screaming at the top of their lungs. 

Holly couldn't believe it! It was a scene right out of A Hard Day's Night, only.  .  . it was real.  She noticed that John seemed to be getting irritated suddenly.  He looked out the window, then scoweled at Brian.  "Dammit. Who let it out, Bri? I thought that you said this time--"

"I did, John.  No one was to know.  I don't know who let it out."

Everyone glared at Holly.

"Okay now, wait a sec:  I know that I haven't exactly made the best first impression, but since we've decided to start over on a clean slate, I'm tellin' ya that it wasn't me!" she protested.

They kept their stares.

"I mean it!!"

Holly peered out the window-- the faces all converged upon each other and it seemed for a moment to resemble a Picasso painting: everything blurring together into a mass with no real definite order to it.

"So that's what it looks like. . ." Holly was thinking out loud.  She'd seen the madness first hand before at concerts-- even contributing to it.  But seeing it from the other side was a most sobering event.  How could living this ever make them happy? Seeing that spectacle outside their train every single day of their lives-- unable to go where thet wanted, be who they were-- unable to really breathe.  And when she studied their faces, not one of them held a smile. They suddenly appeared tired, disappointed, and probably really not wanting to go through that hurricane again.  The silence was engulfing and Holly felt compelled to speak up.

"You know. . . this is probably really naive of me, and you'll probably all laugh, but I'm gonna say it anyway.  See. . . my Grandmother always used to tell us girls that , well, it always is darkest before the dawn.  And even when you think that things in your life couldn't get any worse, well, they really are getting better all the time."

"Getting better all the time," Paul repeated.

 John snickered. "You're right, Holly. It is naive.”

“But,” Paul admonished, “It is a nice thought at least."

"We're ready, Mr. Epstein." A security guard had appeared, with about four men behind him-- showtime had arrived.

"Right, lads. Let's go."  Everyone reached for their bags and overcoats ready to leave. "Oh, Miss Becker? I do hope that this will put an end to your thoughts of leading a life of crime.  Might I recommend going into medicine or law, eh?"

Holly laughed and shook his hand, thankfully. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

Everyone bade their farewells as they passed, Holly's eyes lingering upon Ringo's figure.  Her heart was aching-- she didn't want to see them leave.  She'd never felt such happiness in her life as she had felt in their company. . . not just because they were 'The Beatles' but because she'd actually felt like they were friends.  Friends she wanted to stay with her as long as possible. 

Ringo was the last in the entourage, and he turned back around one last time towards Holly and waved, beaming.  Her heart fluttered and she waved in return enthusiastically.

The screams outside intensified as the boys made their way and Holly gazed out the window as they pushed past the crowds, trying to make a getaway. She sighed, suddenly alone in the car.  As the minutes passed, the screaming began to decline and her heart sank to the floor: they were gone. Out of her life forever.

She reached for her overnight bag, trying to focus on other things: getting a cab to her cousins' home where she could spend the night.  She exited the train, walked slowly in no particular direction, fumbling around in her bag trying to find her cousins' street address.  What she pulled out nearly gave her a heart attack!

It was a note, folded up, with her name scribbled on the front in messy blue pen.  Her hand shook as she opened it carefully:

Holly:

Now that your name's been cleared of theft charges, how about celebrating?  If you're interested, we're staying at the Union Hotel. . . but then you probably knew that already, didn't you! 

-- Ringo

Elizabeth Darcy is twenty two years old, lives in southern California and is currently attending college, majoring in Art with a concentration on Graphic Design. She absolutely loves to travel (an expensive but rewarding hobby) write (mostly historical fiction) paint (portraits, mainly) and of course spend as much time as humanly possible listening to/dreaming of/thinking about the Beatles.  And speaking of the Beatles, she feels that they are the only subject she is going to expound on in this ‘bio’ because it’s probably the only thing you’ll find interesting. She has been a Beatles fan since November 1995, with the release of the Beatles Anthology and hasn’t been the same ever since.  Their influence is the biggest one in her life, hands down. She shudders to think how cold and empty her life would be if it hadn’t been for those four lads and their music—the music that in effect, saved her life.

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