By the time year 2024 rolled around, my relationship with Macca had reached the breaking point.  For the past ten years or so, Paul and I only phoned each other when things went unbelievably good, or absolutely horrid.  Bad stuff entailed things like car accidents or Macca's heart problems.  Happy events usually meant weddings, new grandkids, and of course, the day I got reincarnated. 

I came back as meself, of course.  Figured that I had a nice enough time as George Harrison the first time around, why not come back as him again?  Minus the cancer, of course.  Wouldn't want to repeat all that bother.  Nasty piece of business.

I thought the reincarnation bit would cheer Macca up, knowing that there's an afterlife, and a way back into this world as well.  Naturally, Macca says it's unnatural what I did.

Well, who cares what old Macca has to say anyway?  How can you trust a guy who thinks the world of one Mr. Richard Starkey?  You do remember Ringo, don't you?  Somebody ought to, really, because I don't think Ringo himself remembers much of anything.  I mean, physically he's in tiptop shape for an eighty-four-year-old.  But mentally?  Now that's another story.  Some of his little adventures have become quite legendary.  Like the time he got hauled out of Shea Stadium for crashing the Yankees game.  Kept insisting that he was the one who was supposed to be playing that night.  Or the time he sued the donut shop because they had a big sign that said "Drive-Through-Window".  So he did.  First time the Las Angeles police ever chased down a donut-riddled Mercedes.

Paul and Ringo stay in touch, of course.  But I haven't spoken to Rings in years.  Don't get me wrong.  I feel for him with his mental condition and all.  But what he did to me - well - I just can't forgive him.

Mind you, I had hopes that Paulie and I could resolve our differences.  Things were looking pretty good for a while.  The wife and I had a blast at Paul's eightieth birthday bash a couple of years back.  And we did have him over for tea a couple of times.  But wouldn't you know, he had to mess things up by sending me that horrid letter.  After I read the thing, me poor wife threw me into the car and took me to hospital.  She thought that I had suffered a stroke.  So did I!  Fortunately, the doctor said it was just an anxiety attack.  Still, doctor told me to "diligently avoid all stress" because it would seriously weaken my immune system.

I don't like doctors much.  I say we take this eighty-one year old immune system for a test drive!

So after the wife went to sleep, I sneaked into the kitchen and rang up Sir Paul.  I had to let him know exactly how I felt about that awful letter.  And you know what he said to me? 

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

I figured he was just starting to drift into space.  Becoming Ringo-like.  So I ranted and raved a bit more to get his attention.

Still nothing.

Well, two can play at that game.  I shut up for ten whole minutes and just listened to his breathing.  And got treated to another sound that you don't want to know about.

Twenty minutes.

Started looking through the refrig and making up a shopping list.

Thirty minutes.  He's a stubborn old knight, I'll say that much for him.

Thirty-three and a third minutes.  Wonder if anybody's gonna record this phone call and sell it as a bootleg somewheres.

Forty-two minutes.  Well, that's my limit.  He wins.  I'll talk first.  "Paul?  You still there, Paul?"

"Hmmm?  Eh, maybe when you settle down a bit, George."

"Am settled."

"Hang on a mo, then."

"Paul..."

"No, sorry, I still hear heavy breathing coming from your end.  Not settled, I'd say."

"That's static on the line, not breathing."

"Static, is it then?  Let me just see what happens when I press the Help button."

"Finally admitting you need help, are you?"

"Nope, nope, sorry mate.  Says here that static's not possible on this new view phone.  Says this is a state-of-the-art digitalis phone."

"Digital.  D-I-G-I-T-A-L"

"I can spell, George."

"Digitalis is your heart medication, you nit."

"Still some static going on at your end, Mr. Technophobe?  Why don't you turn on your view mode?"

"I'm quite all right now, Paul.  Calm now, you know?  Like a wave without ripples.  A breeze without wind.  An image without a picture."

"You reading a script, George, or are you actually making this stuff up?  Either way, I think your thyroid needs regulating."

"Oh, Doctor Sir McCartney is it then?"

"All right, George, you've got my full attention now."

"Liked the Doctor Sir bit, did you?"

"I think that Sir Doctor sounds better, don't you?"

"Sir Doctor then, can I ask my question now or are we going 'round in circles all night?  'Cause if we are, I may as well just put you on the phone with Ringo."

"You speaking to him again, are you?"

"You eating sheep again, are you?"

"Is that the plan, then George, you called me up to shout insults all evening?  Because if that's the case, I'd ask you to hold a minute while I make some popcorn."

"Ha!  Like you've got the stamina to be up all night arguing."

"You what?!  You just try me, Hari!"

"I'd rather just ask you my question."

"Caught ya, didn't I!  You can't keep up with me, can you George?  You've been letting your white hairs show!  I've seen recent photos of you.  And those cheeks of yours.  They're so sunken I bet they echo when you talk."

"You gonna write a song about that too, Sir Doc?"

"I'm getting ready for some popcorn!"

"Sad isn't it, growing older.  Still, I never thought I'd see the other side of eighty."

"Eighty one is not quite the other side of eighty."

"Still younger than you, Sir P."

"Still more irritating, MISTER H."

"Thank you.  Can I ask my question now?"

"Ask away."

"It's simple, really.  I just want to know how you can do what you're doing to me."

"Oh, that's easy, George.  Power of Attorney."

"Hang on, Paul.  I never gave you my Power of Attorney."

"You got it all wrong, George.  I meant the power of my attorney.  He pulled it off."

"Yeah, but why?  You own just about everything in England and half the North American continent.  You're a multi-multi-billionaire.  Why do you have to own me, too?"

"It's not that I want to own you, George.  It's just that legally, I do own you.  You read the document that the attorney wrote up.  All about that stuff that happened with Apple, and the lawsuits that followed, and the lawsuits that followed that and all the complications when you reincarnated..."

"Yeah, yeah, I read it.  Gave me hemorrhoids, it did."

"Thanks for sharing, George."

"Hey, you shared all those horror stories about your prostate.  That song reached number two on the charts, if I recall correctly."

"Your point George?"

"Lost my point, didn't I?  Got all confused when you brought up the prostate issue."

"Well don't count on me to remember what you were talking about.  Anyway, it doesn't matter because I'm going to ignore you, and you know it.  The thing of it is, I don't see why you're so upset.  About my owning you and all.  Because what I've got planned for you is what you've always wanted.  I'm doing you a favor, actually."

"A favor?  You call that plan of yours a favor?  Come off it, Paul.  You know what's really happening?  I'll tell you what's really happening.  I used to laugh at you all the time; got Lennon and Starkey laughing at you, too.  It used to turn your ears red, and you'd tell us to take a flying leap.  Then you'd be out the room, and we'd laugh at you even more.  Well, maybe we wouldn't have teased so much if we had known that you had really meant it.  The bit about the flying leap, that is.  Never figured you'd actually find a way to arrange one for us."

"Listen to me, George.  You're looking at it all wrong.  Look at this in a positive light.  I'm taking you one step closer to heaven."

"Heaven?  Have you forgotten Sir P?  Been there done that.  Anyway, in my religion, you get to heaven on your own initiative."

"Well, in a way that's what you'll be doing."

"What are you talking about?  This is all your doing, not mine.  I just go about minding my own business.  You're the one sending the letter saying that you own me so here's what I have to be doing for you!"

"You're not doing this for me, George.  You're doing it for the fans.  This is our sixtieth anniversary, you know."

"You what?  When did I marry you?"

"Dimwit.  It's 2024.  Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Oh, right.  Silly me.  Let's see if these worn out old brains can remember how it goes.  Well, she was just a hundred and seventeen, if you know what I mean..."

"Stop it, George."

"And the way she looks, would give you such a scare..."

"Look, Hari.  I was in hospital during the fiftieth anniversary.  I just wanted to do something special for the sixtieth."

"Something special?  Need I remind you, Big Mac, that I'm eighty-one years old.  I've been stabbed, radiated, cremated, reincarnated..."

"Hang on a sec Georgie, let me get out my violin so I can play along with you."

"Paul..."

"No, seriously.  Polish that up a bit, and I'll put it on the B-side of my new single.  Raising Cane, I call it.  Get the pun?"

"Unfortunately.  Look Paul, all I'm saying is that in my condition, something special means getting up in the morning."

"I meant something special for our fans."

"Our fans?  Our fans?  McCartney, wake up and smell the mildew.  Our fans don't even remember who they are, how do ya expect them to remember who we are?"

"Shows what you know, Hari.  I gave an autograph just this morning, I did."

"Yeah Paul, what did you do?  Sign the check to the pharmacy, perhaps?"

"I'm telling ya, George.  People do remember us.  Don't you watch the news?  This is big stuff what we're doing.  It'll be broadcast live all over the world.  Everybody wants to see this."

"Not everybody."

"Yes, everybody."

"Not my wife."

"Even your wife."

"I'm having a problem maintaining calmness."

"Okay, listen to this.  I'll sing you the song I wrote for the occasion."

"A real serious problem with the calm thing, Paulie."

"Think wind without the breeze."

"Think I'll tell you to go blow."

"Look George, you're going to do this.  'Cause if you don't, I can legally have you arrested and sent to jail."

"It's funny, Paul, but all of a sudden, jail sounds exceedingly pleasant."

"Yeah?  That's good George, because I've already arranged to get you a roommate."

"It's not you, is it?  'Cause if it is you, I'm slashing my wrists and poking my eyes out."

"Charming.  No, it isn't me.  It's your best friend in the universe."

"My best friend?  My best.... Ringo?  It's Ringo, isn't it?  You own that senile old coot, too, don't you?  You know how I feel about being anywhere on the same planet as that...."

"You're moving away from calm George.  Try to stay focused.  He used to be your best friend, remember?  Of course you remember, age hasn't affected your memory, I don't care how much you might pretend it has.  You used to call each other brothers.  He can't help being a bit.... you know, he's quite old now.  Why are you letting something silly come between you?"

"Something silly, is it?  Well, I'm glad to see that age hasn't changed you, either.  You're still an idiot."

"George..."

"Shurrup, Sir Dipstick.  That rat stole one of my songs, remember?  And not just some obscure little ditty.  No, Boy Wonder has to plagiarize My Sweet Lord, for heavens sake."

"Get over it, George, will you?  You know, look at it as a kind of compliment."

"Compliment?  Compliment!  Paul, he named the thing "My Sweet's Bored!"

"Okay, so it wasn't one of his best efforts."

"And it went all the way to number one.  For sixteen weeks.  Sixteen weeks, Paul.  That's twice as long as Beatles One was on the charts!"

"All right, George.  You can't begrudge the man a little success.  He hasn't written a thing in twenty years.  Let him enjoy himself."

"That's the problem, you jerk!  He enjoyed himself too much.  Way too much.  He sued me.  ME.  I wrote the song and he sued me!  And he nearly won, remember that?  Remember how I had to dig poor George Martin out of the mothballs and throw him on a witness stand?  Horrible, it was."

"George, you know Ringo isn't exactly responsible for his actions.  He doesn't know where he is half the time."

"He didn't know where he was half the time when he did know where he was.  You know what I think, McCartney?"

"I think you've already told me what you think, Georgie.  Repeatedly."

"I think, Sir Mac, that you've become a royal pain in the A ever since they blotted out the queen's face and stuck yours on the one pound note.  That's just my personal opinion, but I think it made you a little too high and mighty."

"That's got nothing to do with anything."

"And I suppose the American proposal for the MacDollar gold piece has nothing to do with your 'I own George' attitude either."

"Ownership has nothing to do with attitude, George.  It's all legal."

"Right Mr. Maccasoft.  Ever since you put that Gates fellow out of business..."

"Look, if you're going to start picking on me, at least get your facts straight.  I'm not a multi-multi anything.  I'm a quadrillionaire, got that?  The world's first quadrillionaire.  Now, are you quite through shouting?"

"Not really."

"Good.  Pack your toothbrush and your meds.  They'll provide the rest."

"I hope that's rest as in rest home.  One of us is in dire need of it, and it isn't me."

"And get yourself a cut and dye."

"Grand.  Now you want me to get cut and die?  Didn't much like either the first time around."

"I meant your hair, and you know it.  Get one of those beard-away treatments, too."

"How do I sign up for one of those Maccaway products?"

"You'll not disappoint me, will you?"

"Oh no, Paul, not me.  As soon as the cameras start rolling, or whatever it is they do these days, I promise to scream my lungs out."

"That's the spirit."

"You're not listening to me, Paul."

"So George, you're okay with Ringo being there and all?"

"Ringo's never there anymore, is he Paul?  Just his body, isn't it?"

"He's not as bad as you think."

"Well, I'm worse than you think.  Eighty-one-year-old reincarnated men are not designed for this sort of adventure."

"You like race cars.  Same difference."

"Never drove one in a race, did I Paulie?  Not even in my younger days.  And what about you?  You crashed your motorcycle, as I recall, and got that scar...bet you're ears are red."

"Bet you better behave yourself."

Slammed the phone down, I did.

Well, that accomplished absolutely nothing except another trip to the doctor's and more lectures about avoiding stress.  These days, the wife's afraid to even let me alone in the garden.  How could she possibly allow me to do what Paul's got in mind?

"He owns you, George," is what she told me.

"That doesn't mean too much, Liv.  How many more years do you think I've got left?"

"Read the document again, George.  It's not just you that he owns.  See this paragraph about our descendents?"

It's times like these that I really miss Lennon.  Why oh why did he refuse to reincarnate with me? 

"Send me a postcard," Lennon had said as he stuck out his tongue and flitted away.

Don't know why I listen to that McCartney.  Stuffed a toothbrush and the meds into me pocket and jetted off to JFK airport, in New York City.  Sight of our famous arrival in America, 110 years ago today, or something like that.  Didn't look like anybody was there to greet me this time.  Good.  I can mind my own business and look for the sign.  Macca promised he'd post one so I'd know where to wait for him.  Leave it to Macca to put it in some obscure place.  I don't see any sign at all.

Wait a minute.  He would do something daft like that.  There's a bunch of Hare Krishnas singing down there.  That must be the sign.  You know, I can get used to the neon colors that they wear these days, but somebody ought to outlaw those new mini robes.  I mean, how can you contemplate higher planes of existence with a pair of hairy thighs prancing about?

When I tried to ask the Krishnas my question, they threw a garland around my neck and asked for a donation.  They take credit cards now, you know.  And direct deposit.  Told them I was looking for Paul.  They told me I'd be better off searching for salvation.  I agreed, but decided on a compromise.  I asked them to show me to the men's room.

Took them about ten minutes to stop laughing.  Didn't the old man know that it's been unisex for years?

I refuse to share that part of my experience with the general public.  Let's just say that I should have brought my physician along on this trip.

I saw a bit of excitement going on, so I headed for a big glass window.  Yep, there's old Ringo, arriving in his very own piddle jumper.  I know it's him 'cause of the writing on the side of the plane.  It was Julian Lennon, of all people, who called to tell me that Ringo had just bought a plane with the money he made from My Sweet's Bored.  So proud of his accomplishment, he was, that he tried to paint "Ringo Starr's My Sweet's Bored" on the side of the plane.  But the stupid git who designed the thing made the lettering too big, and they had to cut out some of the words.  So, the message on the on the side of the plane says simply, "Ringo's a Bore."  I love it.

Ringo must still be popular because everybody's running outside and shouting at him.

Oh.  Hang on a minute.  I got that wrong.  They're shouting at Ringo because he just parked behind Airforce One.  Don't worry about it, Mr. President.  You didn't really need to get to the White House today, did you?  See what happens when you let the Ringos of the world do their own piloting?  Look at that lunatic.  He's waving to the airline officials.  And the FBI. 

Here we go.  The airport is actually announcing Sir Paul's arrival on the runway.  I hope they announce when he makes those rude noises of his, too.  Don't want to miss anything that Sir Paul produces.

Nice touch, Paul.  Had his private jet repainted in my honor.  Got the words "Sir Doctor Paul" emblazoned across the side.  Glad I can't see the other side of the plane.  Probably says, "Eat it, Hari, I own you!"

What did you say Paul, about Ringo not being so bad off?  Ringo just loaded himself into a luggage cart out on the tarmac.  No, I'll amend that.  He's now being towed out onto the runway.  He's still waving.  Bye, Ringo!

Big Sir must have entered the terminal because a lady just fainted.  Oh yeah, there he is.  Sir Surgically Reconstructed looks sixtyish again.  Ha.  He doesn't walk like he's sixtyish.  Brought his own team of reporters and cameramen, I might add.  Betcha anything that one of those cameramen is really his doctor.  Bet there's an entire medicine cabinet inside one of those cameras.  Probably got his own operating room stashed away, too.

Now where's that Sir Paul going?  What, the press conference is way over there?  That's at least a 75-mile walk!  Me and my vanity.  Left the cane at home.  Can you blame me then?  Nobody said anything about running any marathons.  I know.  I'll just casually grab that British Airways umbrella when I pass.

"Oh, sorry ma’am.  It looked just like mine." 

Drat. 

No wait.  I've got another idea.  "Hey kid.  Can I borrow your skateboard?"  Don't laugh.  I'm not shaky, you know, just have this bum leg from the last surgery.

"What do you mean, you don't want an old man's cooties on your skateboard?"

Never mind.  If I make an effort, I might get there in time for next Christmas.  Or not.

"Hey, you with the go cart!  Can I have a ride, please?"

I'm saved! 

"What's that you're saying?  I need a what?  A reservation?  You've got an empty cart there, and you're going my way!  Why do I need a reservation?"

He's taking off!

"Hey, don't leave me!"

He's accelerating!

"I'll pay you!"

Drat.  Well, hobbling's good exercise, I suppose.

Well, la di da Sir Paul.  Look at you in that gold jump suit with the gold speckled boots to boot, and a matching gold helmet in your hands.  Sporting a big old label on your chest reading  "Designed for Sir Paul by Dame Stella with Love."  Do I really have to talk to him, or can I just keep on hobbling?  Oh expletive deleted, he's smiling at me.  Better get this over with.

"Hi, Paul."

"Hey!  Thanks for coming!  Would you like an autograph?  Hey, camera crew, catch a picture of me signing an autograph for this old gentleman fan.  Uh, no, wait.  Wait a minute, fellas.  Don’t' shoot while he's frowning.  Funny how you look like George when you frown.  Hey, you're not really going to hit me, are you?  "

"It's tempting, Sir Dimwit."

"George?  Is that you?  My God, what happened, man?"

"It's called aging, Paul.  You ought to give it a try."

"Eech.  You're all white and wrinkly.  You know, you shouldn't glare at people like that.  Gives a bad impression."

"Did you notice that Ringo's been carted away?"

"I didn't think you cared, George.  That's a nasty stare you've got.  Anyway, I took care of it.  Ringo just wanted a look 'round you see.  They're bringing him right back."

"A look 'round?"

"Uh huh."

"What, in a luggage carrier?"

"He's got a cushion to sit on."

"Ringo's bombing around the runway in a luggage carrier!  And that's normal to you?"

"At least he's not driving.  Anyway, the camera's on us.  Hold still so I can get me arm around your shoulder."

"No.  You hold still so I can get me arm around your neck."

"Always have to have it your way, don't you, G...ow!  Stop that!  Mind your manners in front of the press."

"Ask me if I care."

"Okay, George, take this package."

I pointed at the thing.  "Is there a bomb in there?"

Paul gave me his quadrillion pound grin.  "No ya nit, it's your uniform.  Go into the loo and change."

My cheeks burned.  "You what?  I'm not going in there!  It's a uniloo nowadays!"

"Well, it's either that or the janitor's closet."

"Janitor's closet."  I snatched the package out of his hands. 

Wouldn't you know, I couldn't find a light in the closet.  And it smelled like stale cigarettes.  As I was fumbling about, I reached over my head and knocked something over.  Felt this gooey stuff pour down me back.  Smelled like a pine tree on steroids.  Zipper got stuck, of course, so I started hopping around as I tried to yank it.  My foot connected with something metal and I heard a huge bang and a clatter.  "Oh goody," I thought.  "George kicks the bucket, but manages to survive it once again."  What the heck.  Wrapped my clothes in a ball and felt around for the bucket.  Kicked it twice more, by mistake.  Said a few words I won't repeat here.  Stuffed my clothes into the bucket, grabbed hold of the handle, and headed out to meet His Sirness.

Well.  Looks like I didn't qualify to wear one of Stella's gold uniforms.  I had on this orange thing that must have come from a prison supply store.  The logo at my chest said "Hari Up George."  I'm not quite sure what that means, but I guarantee that Sir Paul intends it as an insult.  And it worked.  A couple of mothers grabbed their kids and yanked them away from me.

Oh hooray.  Ringo has returned from the great outdoors.  Very chic, Ringo, in your Goodnight Vienna spacesuit.  Complete with moth holes.  Looks like he's carrying some sort of case or basket or something.  Probably swiped it off the luggage carrier. 

Ritchie pointed at me.  "Look, Paul.  That's Captain Krishna isn't it?  Why's he gone all moldy?"

I took a deep breath.  "Thanks for the compliment, Ringo.  Wouldn't want you apologizing to me or anything.  Wouldn't want you asking after me family, or me health or what's it really like being dead.  Wouldn't want you to say 'hello' or 'peace be with you' or 'Hare Krishna.'  No, no, start it off with a rude remark, that's the ticket."

"What's he going on about?"  Ringo asked Paul.  "How come he smells like a room deodorizer?"

Paul folded his hands and studied me.  "He does, doesn't he?"  Paul raised an eyebrow.  "You know, George, when I told you to get a dye job, I didn't mean paint your hair green.  Brown would have been nice."

"Didn't he used to be a blond?" Ringo asked.

I thought Ringo was making a stupid joke, 'til I saw that even Paul looked kind of startled.  That's when I remembered the little mishap in the janitor's closet.  I touched my hair, and my fingers came away all sticky and green. "At least I'm a clean old man!"

Paul rolled his eyes.  "Look, would you stop playing about?  There's work to be done.  The press is here.  Now I want you to stand beside Ringo and stay out of trouble."

"Right," I growled.  I stepped next to my former best friend while Paul started fussing over the press corps and lining up camera angles.

I nodded towards Ringo's luggage.  "What's that basket case you're carrying?"

"John Lennon."

I squeezed me eyes shut and wrapped the bucket in a death grip.  Well, why not.  I figured I'd be kicking it again, soon, and probably for the last time. 

After a couple of minutes, I heard Sir Paul's voice over the babble of reporters and fans.  I risked popping one eye open.  Yup, there was Ringo, just standing there and blinking at me.  I relaxed my grip and opened my other eye.  Maybe I just didn't hear him correctly.

"Hello," Ringo said simply.

"Tell me something, Richie.  Did you say that you're walking around with John Lennon?" 

"He always liked New York," Ringo said.

"Who's idea was this to bring him along?"

"Paul said we were having a Beatles reunion.  Can't have a Beatle's reunion without John, can we?"

"So it was your idea then?"

"Actually, it was Yoko's.  She thought it would do him some good to get out of the house for awhile."

That did it.  I grabbed Paul by the shoulder.  "Can we please start the press conference?  "Cause otherwise I'm going to give Mr. Starkey a free nose job.  Gonna smash it so hard that it comes out the back of his head."

Paul smiled a little too broadly and waved to the press corps.  "Let's go!"

The three of us sat down at this ridiculously tiny table.  I know, I know.  How tiny was it?  So tiny that when Paul crossed his legs, it was my legs he was resting on.  Disgusting.  But, the good part was that I didn't have to sit next to space cadet Starkey. 

Paul starts off by giving us this little pep talk.  "All right mates, now I know some of us aren't thrilled to be here, but please try to look happy.  Smile or something."

Ringo perked up and waved to the crowd.  I heard the whir of cameras all turning towards him.

Paul patted my shoulder.  "George?"

I gave it my best shot.  Guess it didn't pass Sir's inspection. 

"Come on, George.  Do you need to grit your teeth so hard?  Or will they fall out if you don't?"

"I don't see you reprimanding John for not smiling."

"Please George, this will just last a couple of hours and then you can go back home and do as you please."

Here we go.  The first official Beatles press conference in three hundred years.

"Beatles, Beatles, what's it like to be all together now?"

"It's wonderful to be here," said the charming one.

"It's certainly a thrill," I groused.  Paul elbowed me in the ribs.  Great.  Another trip to the physical therapist.

"Ringo, how do you feel about seeing your old friends?"

"Which friends?"  Ringo asked. 

Look at those fans, laughing away!  Can't they see that Ringo has left the building?

"Stop making those noises," Paul hissed at me. 

"Bug off, I'm an old man," I hissed back.

"Shurrup," Paul warned. 

"Sir Paul?" a young woman interrupted.  "I suspect that you're thrilled with the recent trends in music?"

Paul lit up like a firecracker.  "Absolutely.  I mean, they've done a really nice job of digitizing animal voices and incorporating them into modern instruments.  Works great for back-up vocals."

I couldn't resist.  "You mean baa-ck up vocals, no?"

The fans cracked up.  Paul pinched my thigh.  I tried to step on his foot, but I missed.  Managed to kick the bucket again.

"Ringo, what are you listening to these days?"

"My wife, mostly."

"Oh, is she a singer now?"

"No, no, she's still a Bach.  Never changed her last name."

"Ha ha, Ringo," a three-thousand year old fan laughed.  "Always joking with the press, aren't you?"

Ringo eyed Paul.  "Did I say something funny?"

Paul beamed.  "You're doing just great, Rings."

"Do you boys have anything to say to the world before you take off?"

"Boys!" I muttered.  "I could be his great-great-granddad."

"You're not that great," Paul hissed at me.  Then he pasted this smile on his face.  "I just want to say that we're very proud to be here, and we're pleased and delighted that so many of our fans came here to share this day with us."

"Thank you, Sir Paul.  Ringo?  Do you have anything to say to your fans?"

"I stopped talking to fans a couple of years ago.  We've got air conditioning now."

"Ha, ha, Ringo.  No wonder your fans love you so much!"

That did it.  They must be told!  I exploded out of my seat.  "Krishna help us, don't you understand that Ringo's past it?  John's making more sense them him, these days!"

"Shut your gob!"  Cute how McCartney can threaten between clenched teeth, pull me down into my seat, and still smile.

Cute how the reporter ignored my outburst.  "Now Sir Paul, can you tell us who's sitting next to you?  Is that another Beatle, or did you hire a different guitarist for this event?"

Guess what, everybody.  I know what's going on my Christmas wish list this year.  Blood pressure medication.  Hate it when Paul smirks like that.

"Ah, yes, I'm sitting next to George Harrison, the original Beatle lead guitarist.  Go easy on the old man, would you fellas?"

Forget the blood pressure pills.  I want me own personal nuclear device!  

The reporter, or whatever you call them these days, stuck his micro-camera in my direction.  "George, do you have any messages for your fans?  You do have fans, don't you?  I mean, you must have accumulated a few of Paul's castoffs over the years, right?"

"Right," I grinned as I tossed a water pitcher at his state-of-the art gear.  "Oops, sorry about that.  Will that hurt the video?"

"Sorry, folks," Paul laughed and squeezed my shoulder until my eyes bugged out.  "You know how old George gets when he forgets to take his pills.  He'll be fine as soon as we get that sorted out."

After casually stabbing my toothbrush into Macca's thumb, I pushed back my chair and stood up.  

"As a matter of fact, I do want to say something to everyone out there in the audience.  And to the United States President, who is still trying to back his plane out of the airport.  I want to lodge a formal protest against today's event.  I think it's absolutely insane that...."

Very impressive the way Macca cut short the press conference and bodily hauled me out of there.  I barely had time to bend down and retrieve my bucket.  Don't know why I feel so attached to the thing.  Possibly because it still contains my clothes.

Well, here we are.  All aboard, strapped in and ready to go.  Except for John, of course.  They tucked him into an overhead luggage bin.  Wish I were in an overhead luggage bin.  On a cruise ship.  Heading towards India.  Or Florida, or Antarctica.  Wish I were anywhere but on board this spacecraft.

I don't get it.  What's our sixtieth anniversary got to do with orbiting the moon?  Other than Paul's insisting that we circle the bloody thing sixty times. 

The fans certainly weren't expecting this.  They wanted another recording out of us.  But you know that that would be a disaster.  Sir Paul can't sing a note without electronically enhancing his voice.  And Ringo makes up new lyrics every time he sings.  So, that leaves me to handle lead vocals.  You remember me, don't you?  Mr. Back-From-The-Dead-And-Still-No-Knighthood-Harrison.

I think me and Paul could handle the guitars okay.  As long as we're sitting down.  But now that Ringo's off marching to a different drummer, heaven only knows what he'll do.  Jagger told me that during a recording session a couple of months back, Ringo actually rolled his bass drum right into the back of Mick's legs.  Claimed that all the fellows standing in front of him were bowling pins.  Go figure. 

So, a recording's out.  But what about another Anthology?  Surely we could all go into our basements and find some unreleased dregs.  Or we could just do the talk show circuit.  I'd even be willing to open a new grocery store.  Anything but this rubbish. 

By the way, I want you all to know that liftoff is not the nice pleasant experience that they show you on the telly.  It's not something you want to do when you're eighty-one-years-old.  Especially when you've had as many surgeries as I've had.  And it only gets worse when Mr. Starkey decides that now would be the perfect moment to unhook his safety belt and bop about the cabin.

"Fetch him, George!  You're the youngest!"

"Not my turn to fetch him, Macca!  Make Lennon do it!"

"Not funny, George."

"Not laughing, Macca.  Anyway, he looks okay to me."

"He's on his head."

"Builds character."

"Look, they're going to start filming us in a minute.  I don't want Ringo on his head when we go live."

"We're not going to be live much longer.  Me poor bones are cracking."

"You're always complaining, you know that?"

"Wonder why I find so much to complain about."

"You really should work on your attitude, George."

"And you really should work on our altitude, Paul.  I want off this thing."

"Relax, would you?  Try to look out the window or something.  See?  I can see the sun on my side."

"Well, isn't that funny.  'Cause I can see the sun on my side.  Should we be seeing it on both sides of the ship like this?"

"Well, I suppose so.  I mean, it's awfully big, isn't it?"

"Awfully orange."

"Orange?  You losing your vision, old man?  It's yellow."

"Doesn't look like any yellow I've ever seen.  Looks the same color as this prison uniform I'm wearing."

"We're definitely taking you to a doctor when we get home."

"That sounds like a nice change of pace.  Haven't seen a doctor in what, 36 hours or so."

"I can see the moon now.  Can you?"

"No.  Just this orange sun.  And it seems to be getting closer.  Got some silvery bits on it too."

"When did you take your last pill, George?"

"I take arthritis meds, Paul, not hallucinogens."

"Side effects, George."

"Side effects are dry mouth, trouble sleeping, and yes you'll like this one, irritability.  Nothing about seeing stuff that isn't there."

"So maybe you're getting soft, then."

"I hope that's what it is."

"How do you mean?"

"Because if I am soft, then there really isn't a giant, shape-changing orange thingy that's pulling up alongside us. "

"Give it up, George."

"Yeah, I expect that's what they'll be saying.  Give it up, George.  We've come to eat you so brush your teeth and say your prayers.  Hare Krishna and we look forward to seeing you again at your next reincarnation."

"You used to have a nice sense of humor, you know.  Now you're getting morbid."

"Yeah, well.  I guess I tend to do that when somebody's got a weapon aimed at me."

"Weapon?"

"Why else would the big orange thing have all those black pointy things?"

"Would you stop looking out that window, George?  It's turning your brain to rot.  Here we go, mission control is trying to get in touch with us."

"Hello, Beatles?  Beatles, can you hear us?"

Nice Paul, just shake your fist at me.  Don't forget to smile in case the cameras are running."

"This is Paul McCartney, live from outer space.  Hello to everybody on Planet Earth!" 

"Hello, Sir Paul.  You're not on the air just yet.  Give us one more minute and we'll have you on video, live for the entire world to see."

"Can't wait, sir!"  Paul shouts to mission control  "Get Ringo!"  he hisses at me.

"Get him yourself."

"I have to get John.  Look, we're out of liftoff mode, so you shouldn't have any trouble fetching him."

"Right Paul.  No trouble at all floating around in a vacuum.  Do it everyday."

"Shut up!"

Don't know what possessed me to unhook meself.  Guess I just couldn't stand listening to him anymore.  "Come on Ringo, grab hold of my arm."

"Sorry, I already have a partner for this dance."

"Come on Ringo, this won't take a moment."

"Okay.  But I lead."

Don't ask me how I managed to drag Ringo up to the front of the cabin.  With him dancing the tango, I might add.  Oh goody.  Looks like the red light is on.

"Hello, Beatles.  The world is watching you with great excitement.  What's it like to feel weightless?"

"It's heavy, man," Ringo responded.

"Sir Paul.  I see that you're holding John Lennon in your arms.  What do you think John would say if he could speak right now?"

I gave Paul a little shove.  "You'll pardon me for interrupting," I told mission control, "but I think John would say, 'Help, we're being attacked by space aliens.'"

"Ho, ho, ho, George.  You are George, aren't you?  Anyway, I see that you've got Lennon's sense of humor just perfect.  Isn't that right, George?"

"George? 

"Come in, George?"

"Ladies and gentleman, we apologize, but we seem to have lost video contact.  We'll try audio."

"George, this is mission control.  Can you hear me, George?"

"How about you, Paul?" 

"Paul?"

"Hello, Ringo???"

"Hello???  Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse us.  We're going to go off the air for a moment while we try to re-establish contact."

"Hey Paul, can I take one of your heart pills?"

"Sorry George.  I've already swallowed the entire bottle."

"Drat.  You got any pills, Ringo?"

"Here Georgie, swallow this."

"Ta."

"Richie! What did you give him?"

"One of those curiously strong breath mints.  Why?"

"He's turning purple, that's why!  You okay, George?  George?  George, would you please get your hands off Richie's throat?  We've got a bigger problem to deal with."

"Hey Paul."

"Yes Rich." 

"It's just like you sang in your song."

"My song?"

"Come on Paul, you know.  Spaceman's knocking at the door.  Spaceman's Ringo a bell.  You think it's your Aunty Gin?  Should I put the kettle on?"

"George, I said get your hands off of him!"

"No way, Paulface.  I get to kill him before the spacemen do."

"George?"

"I'm busy!"

"Stop him, George!  Ringo's opening the door!"

"Let 'em in... oh yeah yea yeah yeah because she loves shoes and you know her feet smell bad..."

"Bug off, Paul!  I get to choke him first!"

Part Two Coming Soon!

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.