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I wonder how many times I've walked through these doors?
I asked myself as I headed towards the US Airways ticket counter.
Let's see. I've been flying between my home in Boston and
my parent's home in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania for fifteen years.
During that time, I've racked up enough frequent flyer points
to earn a free first class trip to Asia. Not bad, considering
I only earn 375 air miles per trip, and it takes 100,000 air
miles to get to China.
I smiled as I took my place in line. And in all that time
flying, I only saw one celebrity at the Harrisburg International
Airport: Davy Jones. My smile broadened as I pictured my
mild-mannered father leaping over the ticket counter and snatching
a piece of US Airways stationary and a pen away from the startled
ticket agent so I could get an autograph.
I couldn't believe that I was the only person in the Harrisburg
Airport who recognized the former Monkee. Davy smiled at me and
seemed delighted to give me his signature.
I took another step toward the ticket counter. Come to think
of it, I should have seen Davy a lot more than once. After all,
I'm a super frequent flyer, and Davy lives in Pennsylvania. Ha
ha ha, wouldn't it be funny if I turned my head and saw him again?
Oh, come on. What are the chances of--
My heart stopped mid-beat. My stomach lurched and my lungs quit.
Every inch of my being strained to hear the customer at the ticket
counter beside me. "One way to New York, please," he
said.
My body quivered. My hair stood on end. I willed some piece
of me to move. The eyes obeyed. They slid to the right. My brain
rattled as it tried to process the information. There was George
Harrison, plopping fifteen million carry-on bags onto the ground
and fumbling for a wallet.
I sprang into action. Launching myself at the ticket counter,
I hurled my Olympic-sized suitcase over the weighing station
and onto the conveyor belt behind it. The stunned ticket agent
stared at me. "I'm operating in Beatle mode," I explained,
as if that meant something to him. "Now listen. I packed
the bag myself so no one has ever touched it, let alone seen
it, before today. Here's my ID and my ticket. I'm going to Concourse
B, Gate 6 and I know exactly how to get there. I'm good to go
and I don't have a carry on."
"Well, miss, seems like you're carrying on enough already,"
the agent remarked as he prepared my boarding pass.
Klaxons went off in my head and imaginary red lights pulsed
before my eyes. Warning, warning, he's getting away, my
brain alerted me. I snatched my ticket and boarding pass out
of the man's hand and marched over to George. As the former Beatle
struggled to pick up his umpteen million carry-ons, my waist
bent, my hand reached out, and my fingers latched onto the handle
of his guitar case. Clearly, some other force had taken command
over my body. Not that I minded too much.
I straightened up and looked George in the eye. "Let's go."
The startled musician blinked at me.
"Stop staring or you'll make me miss my flight," I
chided him. I turned and headed for the up escalator.
"Hey, hang on a minute," he called. I heard his bags
banging together and some mild cursing as he struggled to catch
up to me. "Hey, who are you? And what are you doing with
my guitar?"
My face reddened as the blood pounded in my ears. He was a Beatle,
surely he understood what Beatle mode did to a person!
I half turned on the escalator. "You're going to New York.
That means you need Concourse B. I'm heading that way too."
"Who are you, anyway?"
"I'm your fan."
He raised his eyebrows. "Some fan, stealing my guitar."
I scooted off the escalator and faced him. "Quit complaining,"
I snapped. "I'm helping you."
Miffed, he retreated a little. "Well, look, you don't have
to carry it."
"Well you can't carry it," I pointed out. "And
anyway, you've got to go through the security check now. Put
your stuff on the conveyer belt and empty your pockets. Make
sure to wave your boarding pass at the security guard."
George shrugged and did as I instructed.
I snatched up his guitar case at the end of the x-ray process,
and waited while George again struggled to reclaim all of his
bags. When he had the last bag in hand, I turned and plowed ahead
across Concourse A.
"Could you at least slow down?" he panted from behind
me.
"Sorry, I'm used to walking fast." I paused as he shuffled
up to my side.
"Don't you have your own luggage?" he asked.
"I've got this down to a science," I explained. "I
live in Boston, the folks live in Pennsylvania, and I've been
travelling this route for fifteen years."
"So why are you doing all this? Carrying my bag, I mean?"
"I'm doing all this because you ruined my life."
George pulled up short, causing a large bag to slap against his
thigh. He ignored it. "Sorry?"
My mouth shot off like the Concorde. "Do you have any idea
what I've gone through because of you guys? It all started when
I was two years old and the Beatles first appeared on the Ed
Sullivan show. The next day, I HAD to name my doll baby Ringo,
even though the baby was a girl, and even though it made my grandmother
cry."
"Maybe you ought to be blaming Mr. Sullivan?"
"Don't be cheeky," I retorted. "It gets worse.
Do you know that one day I spent forty-five minutes sitting on
a slimy staircase in New York City because my friend was convinced
that the Rolling Stones were hiding in a restaurant?"
George smiled. "You’re going to blame the Stones as
well?"
"Don't be ridiculous. The Stones weren't there, but we found
out later that Ringo was standing on the sidewalk just around
the corner from us! If we weren't waiting for the whatsits, I
could have met a Beatle."
"And carried his drum set across Kennedy Airport?"
"Proudly. But you were the worst, the very worst,"
I informed him.
"Me?"
"Listen. One day I read in the Boston Globe that you, my
favorite, had been dining in a restaurant not 10 minutes away
from my front door!"
"Look, I'm sorry, for you, but--"
"And you should be sorry for my friends, too!"
"Did they ruin your life as well?"
"I ruined their lives. Take my conservative, honest, shy,
non-Beatle fan friend Maryann. When she went to London, I insisted
that she stop off in Henley to see your house. What did she do?
She risked her life taking photographs of your scowling brothers
and then when they turned their
backs, she ate blackberries off your bushes."
"Ate my blackberries! Who is this Maryann?"
"And you've caused me lots of embarrassment, too!"
"How do you figure that?"
"For example, picture a grown woman on a Beatles tour of
England."
"That's not embarrassing."
"You're right, it's not embarrassing. It's more like mortifying
when you have to beg your boss for extra vacation time on account
of a Beatles tour. But worse than that. Picture me and a group
of 20 otherwise normal adults creating such a fuss in the middle
of Abbey Road that five taxi drivers pull over and shout 'Who's
there? Who's recording?' 'Us,' we scream back, 'Just us!' Of
course, they didn't believe us, and the taxis all double parked
and tied up traffic for fifteen minutes. Then, the police came
and gave everybody a stern talking to and a ticket."
George's eyes twinkled. "Did you pay the fine, or did you
keep the ticket as a Beatle souvenir?"
"Photocopied the ticket and sent in the original with my
payment. Don't change the subject."
George smiled. My heart melted, but my feet started to move.
"Come on, come on, we don't want to miss our flights."
George nodded and scurried to keep pace with me.
"Perhaps you ought to get a different hobby," he suggested.
"I'm not finished," I said. "Being a Beatle fan
means sneaking out of work early to make it to a concert. Seeing
an ex-Beatle is best, but in tough times, a Beatle child will
do. And in really lean times, you'll stoop to attending a lecture
about 20th century music from a 120-year old man who was once
photographed with Yoko Ono."
"Was he from India?"
"He was from space." I took a breath. "Then there
are the Beatle conventions, where you go to meet somebody who
knew somebody who saw the back of somebody's head and thought
it might have been John Lennon. And then you ask for the person's
autograph - just in case."
"Glad I'm not a Beatle fan," George grinned.
"You're not taking this seriously," I wagged a finger
at him in a Clintonesque manner. "Being a Beatle fan means
spending a lot of time and money pursuing people that you'll
will probably never meet, doing brazen acts, and putting up with
ridicule from friends and family."
George was getting interested. "What kind of brazen acts?"
"One time, I walked into Abbey Road Studios by myself to
see what would happen."
"What did happen?"
"I got just past the reception desk and some man came and
asked if he could help me. Fortunately, I had a plan just in
case someone should stop me once I was inside the studio."
"And what was this brilliant plan of yours?"
"I asked him whether this was the spot where the Beatles
crossed Abbey Road."
"Clever girl."
"So look here, as long as you've ruined my life, the least
you could do is give me an autograph."
George sighed. "Have you got pen and paper?"
"Of course not."
"I'm surprised you aren't prepared, being such a fan and
all."
"I'm obsessed, I'm not nuts. Look, there's a gift shop,
I'll buy a pen. Just wait here a minute."
"Hey--"
Still clasping George's guitar, I entered the tiny shop and quickly
purchased a pen. I couldn't believe that George and bags could
fit through the shop entrance, but they did. He groaned softly
and I heard a multitude of bumping noises as he dropped the bags
onto the ground in front of the postcard rack. I went over and
joined him.
"Why don't you get some postcards of Harrisburg?" I
suggested. "There's no place like it on earth."
George smiled. "I see what you mean. You've got rather an
odd assortment of pictures here. Hershey's Chocolate Factory,
Pennsylvania Amish, and...what's that?" He wrinkled his
brow and nodded at a postcard of a nuclear reactor.
"That's Three Mile Island."
"Three Mile Island? Why've you got postcards of that?"
"When your plane takes off, look out the right window. Three
Mile Island is next to the runway."
George jumped. "Next to the runway? Is it safe?"
"Don't have a meltdown. They shut off that reactor years
ago."
George grimaced at my bad pun.
I grimaced too, but it wasn't on account of my pun. They were
calling my flight! I grabbed George's arm and shook him. "Come
on, come on, hurry!"
I helped him pick up his bags and we headed off.
"This way, this way!" I cried as I jumped onto a down
escalator.
"Hey," George huffed behind me. "Didn't we just
take an up escalator a minute ago?"
"This is Harrisburg," I explained. "The rules
of physics don't apply here."
George was silent until we hopped off the escalator and scurried
down Concourse B.
"Tell me something, miss. Do you always treat celebrities
like this? Deprive them of their free will, I mean?"
"There's only one celebrity I ever wanted to deprive at
this airport," I said.
"And who was that?"
"President George Bush."
"You've met him as well?"
"I didn't actually get to see him," I confided. "I
just felt the effects of him."
"Sorry?"
"My plane was landing, nose down, wheels out, you know the
routine."
George nodded.
"Well, all of a sudden, the engines started to scream, sort
of like a dentist drill on steroids. The plane shimmied and shook
and there we were, blasting straight up into the sky. Then the
pilot announces that we should all feel honored that George Bush
and Airforce One just diverted our flight."
George gazed solemnly at me. "I'm not planning on diverting
your flight," he promised.
"That's a relief," I said. "Especially now that
we're at my gate and they're boarding. So how about brightening
my day?"
I took out the pen, and George dropped all his bags. "The
pen's a gift," I said as I handed it to him. "It will
help you remember this place."
George took the pen and giggled. It was one of those liquid pens
with moving objects inside. When you tilted it, a plane flew
over Three Mile Island.
"Now it's your turn to supply the paper," I said.
George frowned and started patting his pockets. As he searched,
I glanced at the line to the Boston plane. The other passengers
were all outside on the tarmac. "Hurry! Hurry!" I urged
him.
"Final boarding call for Flight 3719 to Boston," the
US Airways Representative announced. She didn't even bother using
a microphone. There was no one around except for George and me.
"Better hurry," she said to me. I handed her my boarding
pass as George continued to search for paper.
"Got it!" he cried. George ran up behind me and used
my back as a writing desk. "What's your name, miss?"
I told him, and then I warned him not to scribble. "You
owe me something legible," I explained. "I'm the only
one who recognized you in this entire airport."
The airline representative looked worried. "I just spoke
to the pilot. You're holding up the flight."
"George..." I warned.
"Done!" he announced as he handed me the paper.
"Run!" the airline representative yelled. I stuffed
the paper into my jeans pocket.
"Thanks!" I called over my shoulder as I raced out
the door.
George burst onto the tarmac behind me. "Guitar! Guitar!"
he shouted.
At warp speed, I whipped around and flew back to meet him. I
handed him the guitar. Time stood still as I gazed into his eyes
one last time. Impulsively, I kissed him.
"Don't forget me!"
George grinned.
I zipped across the tarmac and headed up the steps and into the
propjet. The flight attendant closed the door behind me. I peeked
into the cockpit. "It's okay, we can go now."
The pilots shook their heads as I made my way to my seat. I took
a deep breath and strapped myself in. Amazing what a woman in
Beatle mode can do.
Tingling with excitement, I took the autographed paper out of
my pocket and examined it. My mouth dropped open. "What
a nimrod," I thought. "Why did he have to use
a piece of paper that had writing all over it?" I examined
the paper some more.
I screamed.
The flight attendant raced over to my seat. I grabbed her arm.
"Stop the plane! Stop the plane! I have George's boarding
pass!"
The flight attendant wrinkled her brow. "I'm not exactly
sure what you're talking about, ma’am, but try to calm down.
We'll straighten this out after we take off."
"Call his plane! Call his plane! He's going to New York.
Tell them what happened!"
"Please settle down. We'll sort this all out later, I promise.
I think you'll feel much better if I give you a free drink after
we take off."
I put my head in my hands and moaned. The flight attendant patted
me on the shoulder and walked away.
"Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, we are first
in line for take off to Boston."
"He'll never forgive me," I whined.
"He'll never forget you," said a pleasant voice beside
me. "Who is this George fellow?"
I lifted my head out of my hands. The passenger seated next to
me had the softest brown eyes.
"What are you doing on this plane?" I whispered.
"Oh, it's a long story," he answered cheerfully. "There
was a bit of a mix up, you see. We were all supposed to be meeting
in New York. But now it looks like we'll be seeing each other
in Boston."
"We?" I asked. "Who's we?"
"Ah, you know." He smiled at me.
"We, as in George and Ringo?" I squeaked.
He smiled and winked at me.
"You, Ringo, and George were supposed to meet in New York,
but now you're meeting in Boston?"
"That's the ticket," he smiled.
I began to shake. "No, here's the ticket." I handed
him George's boarding pass.
He studied it for a moment. "Hey this belongs to--"
"Uh-huh."
"And he was headed to New York?"
"Yup."
"But now he's stuck at the airport in Harrisburg?"
"Basically."
"Ouch." He bit his lip.
"Excuse me?" I said tentatively.
"Yeah?"
"As long as you're here, would you mind signing George's
boarding pass, too?"
Paul McCartney laughed.
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