Hey everybody!  I've got big news!!!  Ready?

I'VE GOT THIRD ROW SEATS TO SEE RINGO TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!  WHOO HOO!!!

Sorry about all the shouting.  I'm just soooooo excited.  This is the first, and maybe the only opportunity I'll ever have to see a Beatle in concert, so I really really want to do this right!

First, I bought my ticket.  Then I came up with Plans A, B, and C.  Tell me what you think.

Plan A:  Get thee a snazzy new look to catch Ringo's eye.  Or better still, catch both his eyes! 

Plan A Part One:  The outfit.  I bolted to the dressmaker's and got measured for a custom-made skirt and jacket.  My new duds will be all sparkles and swirls and they will just shout RINGO!  Then, I zipped next door and picked out the material for my custom-made boots.  They're going to sparkle too, just like Ringo's eyes.  Plan A Part Two:  The new look.  I made an appointment with the hairdresser, the manicurist, and the cosmetics expert.  I'm even getting a pedicure, because you just never know.  Every part in Plan A, from picking up my clothes to professionally powdering my nose is scheduled for the day of Ringo's show.  The last beauty treatment ends at noon, giving me plenty of time to pop on over to the concert hall.  That's where Plans B and C go into action.  More about them in a minute.

Whoo hoo!  My own Mom won't recognize me.  She never saw me look like a girl before!

Should I confess?  Okay, I'll confess.  I did mess up a little bit.  I neglected to come up with Plan D, what to do with all the nervous energy I will undoubtedly experience the night before the concert.  Thanks to my lack of Plan D, when the night before arrived, I found myself pacing circles around my living room.  All night long.  During which time I came up with Plan E, purchase a new living room carpet as soon as I recoup from Plan B Part Two.

Plan B, General Overview.  Stuff to bring to the concert hall.  Plan B Part One.  Sneak three cameras, four rolls of film, a voice activated audio recorder, and a live web camera into the concert hall.  I prepared for that feat easily enough when I instructed the dressmaker to make me lots of hidden pockets.  Plan B Part Two.  Carry more cash than Fort Knox and purchase quadruplicates of everything that's got “Ringo” stamped on it.

Plan C.  This is the biggie.  Plan C Part One.  I hired an artist to draw a huge portrait of me.  I tried to sign my own name to it, but my hand shook like crazy, so the artist had to do it.  Plan C Part Two.  This is not the best laid of plans, because I haven't quite figured how to pull this off.  In a nutshell, I want to give the poster to Ringo himself.  Whoo hoo!

Is there a purpose to all these plans?  Yes, yes, yes!  I want to make absolutely, positively beyond a doubt sure that Ringo (a) sees me and (b) appreciates all my efforts on his behalf, and (c) most important, remembers me forever and ever. 

I hear you.  You think I'm dreaming the impossible dream.  You think I'm gonna embarrass myself in public.  You think my friends and family will disown me.  You think my boss will fire me.  You think that it's a darn good thing that I don't own a dog 'cause he would bite me.  Well, you can bite me.  Because I received a sign.  An omen.  A message from another realm that everything will turn out okay.  Dig this, everybody.  Just yesterday, I found a button on my front doorstep.  The button said, “Shoot for the moon.  If you miss, you'll be among the stars.”  Starr, get it?  Look out Ringo, baby, the universe is on my side!

And now back to our story.  At long last, on concert morning, the sun poked its head over the horizon.  I quit wearing down my carpet and headed off on my first mission.  To the bank.  Yeah, yeah.  I could have gone to the bank yesterday.  But yesterday was a Friday, and we only have one automated teller machine in my town.  I hate waiting in line on a payday, especially when I'm so excited that I'm about to explode all over the other customers.  Anyway, what's the big deal?  My house is a two-minute walk from the automated teller machine.  All I've got to do is just bop on over there, spend one minute at the machine, and head on home.  Then I'm free to pace some more (coming up with a Plan F would have been a good idea at this point!) until it's time for my first beauty appointment.  Whoo hoo!

Nobody in my town wakes up before eight o'clock, so I threw on my hot pink sweatshirt with the “I'm Such a Babe” writing on the front.  Then I jumped into my favorite orange sweatpants with the elastic waistband that blew out about six years ago.  Four industrial-sized safety pins and the “Shoot the moon” button take care of that problem.  I didn't bother showering, so my hair sprang into action.  Picture Shirley Temple's curls on speed. 

I hate carrying a purse, and I didn't have any pockets.  Or rather, my sweatpants used to have pockets, but they no longer functioned.  Didn't matter because I learned a nifty trick, and I'm only too happy to share it with you.  Ready?  If you need a handy place to carry your bankcard, just stick it on top of your ear.  Then use your glasses to hold it in place.  (Prescription or non-prescription glasses work equally well).  Wish I could take credit for thinking that one up, but I can't.  I learned this technique from a co-worker who carries his $120 monthly train pass that way.  Oh well, we can't all be geniuses at everything.

The teller machine is locked inside this booth with a big glass door.  When I arrived at the glass door, I simply pulled the bank card off my ear, retrieved my glasses after they flew off my head, banged my head against the glass door, dropped my bank card into a nearby bush, dropped my glasses again as I bent to retrieve the card, and used my sweatshirt to wipe the blood off my face where the bush scratched me. 

“This isn't your day, is it?” asked a soft, deep voice.

My voice isn't usually that soft or that deep, so I figured that someone must have sneaked up behind me.  (See, I'm smarter than you think!)  No way would I turn around to see who it was.  Because then whoever it was would see who I was.  Nobody is going to see my face while I'm wearing this outfit!

I stuck the bankcard into the card reader until I heard a click.  Then, I pushed the door open, and Mr. Sneak followed me inside.

As I approached the teller machine, it occurred to me that I ought to do something sensible, like worry.  Or better still, maybe I should simply panic.  I mean, you never know what kind of weirdo wants to use a bank machine at such an obscene hour in the morning.

Stop snickering right now!  I'm not talking about normal weirdoes, like me.  I'm talking about weirdo weirdoes.  The axe-murdering variety.  Personally, I've never heard about anybody getting axe-murdered inside an automated teller booth.  But, once upon a time, (and yes, this really happened) I discovered that somebody had crossed a major intersection in the dark, used a bank card to get inside a teller booth, walked all the way to the very last machine, and then (skip to the next paragraph if you don't want to get grossed out) threw up all over the machine.  (Gives a whole new meaning to the concept of making a deposit, wouldn't you agree?)  In the eleven years since that incident, I have never once returned to that machine.  Can you blame me?  Aren't you glad I shared that with you?

I can't help it.  That's what buzzed around my head as I tried to figure out how to get a look at Mr. Sneak without calling any attention to the fact that I was getting a look at Mr. Sneak.  On the other hand, even if he handed me his birth certificate, his passport, and his driver's license, what difference would it make if he axe-murdered me in the end?

But let's not think about that.  And let's not think about throwing up on the teller machine either.  Let's just take a casual little peak over the shoulder....

Ha!  Success.  Mr. Sneak had turned to the side, so I couldn't quite see his face.  But I'll tell you what.  Just in case he does decide to axe-murder me, write this down.  He's about average sized, his beard and his hari (oops!  That was a typo.  Honest and truly, I wasn't looking for a cheap way to stick George in my story.  But what the heck!  Let's hope the editor leaves it in!) (I left it. - Ed.) are dark and cropped very close.  He's sporting a dark pair of sunglasses atop a nose that looks just like mine.did..uh..prior to my surgery.  (Wow!  The things you admit to when you think your life is in danger!  I hope it really is in danger, otherwise, I've needlessly spilled one of my biggest secrets to the world.) 

Mr. Sneak waved to his accomplice who hovered around outside.  She gave him a half-hearted response, then pulled a cell phone out of her purse.  Who in the universe could she be calling at this hour of the morning? 

By the way, did you ever notice that it's always the average looking axe murderers who end up with these drop-dead gorgeous women?  She looked like she just waltzed off a runway in Paris.  Tall and thin with fabulous auburn hair, full lips, and high cheekbones.  Why can't I find a guy who looks like that?

I heard this nasty screech, and I realized that it came from the bank machine.  “Unable to process the transaction,” the message said.  I bit my finger and tried to think.  Did my last deposit go through yet?  Did something big clear recently?  Blood spurted out of my finger.  Ha ha, Mr. Axe Murderer.  I drew blood first!

The machine beeped insistently.  Think, think, think!  I couldn't think!  Luckily, my bloody finger could.  The injured digit flew out of my mouth and punched the Cancel button.  The machine emitted one final squawk and spit out the card.  Good job.  I had inserted it upside down.  I flipped the card around, and started all over again. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Sneak began humming in my ear.  Not a happy kind of hum.  More of a “If this chick takes any longer I'm going to stuff her into the automated teller machine” kind of hum.

I anchored one hand on the teller buttons like they were a security blanket or something.  Then I put on my best apologetic, please don't kill me smile, and turned towards him.  “The message says the computers are slow this morning,” I lied.  My fingers nervously danced across the buttons.

He shrugged.  “Oh well, nothing we can do about that.”  Then he opened his jacket and reached inside.

I felt my blood run cold.  This is it.  This is where he pulls out the axe and..and...

...and switches from sunglasses to regular glasses.  I guess it's too dark in here to axe somebody in your Foster Grants.  My fingers flew even faster across those teller buttons.  I could hear the machine making these happy little chirpy sounds.  Wish I were making those happy little chirpy sounds. 

Okay Readers.  Here's another clue for you all.  The axe murderer has blue eyes.  Soft blue eyes.  Blue eyes that sparkle just like, just like... like....

Dear Readers.  Forget everything I said about thinking this guy was an axe murderer.  I knew all the time that he wasn't.  I was just pulling your leg.  Ha, ha, ha.  Really.  Truly.  I never felt scared, not for a minute.  And I'm not scared now.  Not one little bit.

Mortified.  I would use the word mortified.  I'm standing here held together with safety pins and spit, and there's Ringo Starr staring me in the face.

Oh joy, oh rapture, oh words that you will never hear on prime time television.

Ringo bent down to pick something up.  “This must be yours.”  He handed me a $20 bill.

“I don't think I dropped it,” I said.

“Must be yours,” he insisted.  “I saw it fly out of the machine.  Just like that next one that just fell on the floor.”  He stooped to retrieve it.

“Thanks,” I said, red-faced.

“No, thank you,” he smiled.  “You're the one who's tossing money at me.”

Two more twenties popped out of the machine.

“Oops, here's another.  Hey, caught that one in the air,” he said, quite proud of himself.

“Thanks.”  This is NOT part of any Plan!

“Hey look, I caught that one-handed,” he smirked.

“Thanks again.”

I started feeling sick.  I turned around and pushed the Cancel button.  The machine spit the next twenty up over my head.

“Uh oh.  Back, back.  He's going for a long one!”

I turned to see Ringo backing up against the glass door.

“He's got it!  He's got it!  The fans go wild!” 

I couldn't have requested this much money!  Red faced, I turned around and pressed the Cancel button again.  And again.  And again.

The machine spit out a slew of twenties.  Ringo was having the time of his life!

“Look at this sports fans, Richard Starkey's going for a new world's record!”  Joyously, he hopped about the teller booth and grabbed money out of the air.

I smashed my bleeding finger into the Cancel button and held it there, but the machine fought back.  It started making the same rattling noise that my car produced just before the muffler fell off.  I watched in horror as the deposit slot slowly opened.

In a flash, the cash dashed out of both the withdrawal and the deposit slots.  As I bashed myself for these tortured rhymes, I mashed my finger against the Cancel button. When would this stop?

Ringo cheered and pumped his fist in the air.  “Bring on McCartney!” he cried.  “We'll see who's the bigger billionaire!”

I clamped my jaws together squeezed my eyes shut.  I couldn't possibly have this much money in my checking account, could I?   

“Hey Barbara, look at me!”  Ringo shouted.  “Barbara, where are you hiding?” 

Cautiously, I opened my eyes.  Barbara must have become bored and wandered away.  Thank goodness! 

Ringo grabbed a fistful of twenties and stuffed them up his sleeves and down his shirt.  Then he stuck out his chest and began a stiff-legged parade around the room.  “Guess who I am!” he challenged me.

I just stared at him.

“Come on, come on.  Take your finger off that button and have a guess!”

“The scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz?”

A smile lit up his face.  “You win!  Congratulations to the lady who gets it right on the first try!”  He bounded across the room and shook my hand.  “Here you go, miss!  Here's a hundred thousand dollars just for playing.”  And with that, he pulled a wad of bills out of his shirt and tossed them into the air.

Ringo stopped smiling and pointed a finger at me.  “You're frowning, you know.  You don't win any prizes for frowning.”

I sighed.

“Tell you what!  We'll have a contest.  Whoever can catch the most cash in two minutes wins.”  He looked at his watch.  “Ready....go!”

Ringo and I hopped about the booth like two lunatics.  Since I didn't have any pockets, I followed his example and stuffed the cash down my shirt.

“Time,” he decreed. 

I burst out laughing.  “We both look ridiculous!”

“Then I declare it a tie.”  He wagged a finger at me.  “But I may deduct points because you're frowning again.”

“I hate to be a party pooper, but we've got to call for help,” I told him.

“Help, Help, I need somebody!” he laughed.

“No, no, one of us has to use the bank phone next to the teller machine.

“Alright, I'll do it,” he announced.  “But if I don't return, tell my wife I love her.”  Bracing himself against the onslaught of bills, Ringo bravely made his way to the phone.  He picked it up and listened for a moment.  Then he started shouting.  “What?  What's that you say?  Need a loan, do you Paul?”

I leaped forward and snatched the phone out of his hand.  “Hello?”  I yelled.

“We're sorry, all systems are busy right now.  Please try your call again later.”  I slammed down the phone and grabbed Ringo's shoulders.  “Do something!”  I yelled. 

Shaking Ringo was definitely not part of any Plan!

Ringo broke free of my grasp and ran to the door.  “Retreat, retreat!” he cried.  He grabbed the door handle and pushed. 

Red lights started flashing, a siren screamed, and an automated voice warned,  “Please step away from the door and wait for authorities to arrive.”

Ringo motioned me to join him.  “They've locked the door!” he yelled.  “Help me get it open.”

Together, we tried to push the door open, but it didn't budge!  Trapped!

Ringo pounded on the glass.  “Barbara!” he shouted.

“Where is she?”  I asked.

“Don't you have a cell phone?” he asked me. 

“Don't you have a cell phone?”  I asked him.

“Of course I do,” he said.

“Then call somebody.”

“Barbara!!!!”

“I meant call somebody on the cell phone.”

“I am calling somebody on the cell phone.  Barbara is on the cell phone!”

“Where is she?”  I asked.

“I've no idea,” he answered.

“How could you have no idea?  She's your wife!”

“Look, on the count of three, we'll both pound on the door and yell Barbara.  One, two, three.”

“BARBARA!!!!!!”

The only thing we managed to attract was the voice alarm.  “Please step away from the door until authorities arrive.”

“Do you think authorities are awake this early in the morning?” he asked.

I grabbed hold of my Shirley Temple ringlets.  “I'm so sorry,” I apologized.  “I'll bet you have something important to do this morning.”

“Not really,” he shrugged.  “Just breakfast with the mayor, a radio appearance, and a sound check for today's concert.  And you?”

I bit my lip.  “An appointment with the dressmaker, the shoemaker, the hairdresser, the manicurist, and the make-up artist.”

He smiled.  “You getting married today or something?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.  “No.  I've got tickets to your concert tonight.”

“You're doing all that for my concert?  I'm impressed.”

I risked opening one eye.  “You are?”

He nodded.  “Really.”

I opened my other eye. 

“I impressed you?”

“Yeah.”

“I impressed you?”

He laughed.  “In more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, not only do you go to all that trouble to prepare for my concert, but you're throwing money at me besides.  That's a first, I can assure you.”  He patted me on the shoulder.  “You're not going to cry are you?”

“It's an option.”

“Well don't start crying yet, because I hear the bank phone ringing.”

Ringo returned to the teller machine phone and picked it up.  “Hello?  What?  What's that you're saying?  Look, can you speak up?  What?  Look, tell you what.  Call back in another hour when I'm awake.”

Calmly he hung up the phone. 

“Who was it?”

“Some fellow making an obscene phone call.”

“The bank got an obscene phone call?”

“I think it was obscene.  My brain's not working too well at the moment.” 

I spun Ringo around.  “Look!  Your wife's back!”

Ringo's face lit up.  “Barbara, Barbara!”  He ran to the door and tried to open it.

“Please step away from the door until authorities arrive,” the automated voice droned.

Barbara's eyes widened as she took in the scene.  “What's going on?” she mouthed.

“Get help!” he mouthed back.

Barbara pulled out her cell phone and tried to make a call.  “Battery's dead!”  She mouthed.  I raced up to the door and pointed towards the nearest public phone.  She nodded and ran off.

“So, other than this, what's going on in your life?” he asked me.

“This is so embarrassing,” I said.

“Don't worry.  I'm sure this sort of thing happens all the time.”

“I'm standing here with a world famous musician, and I'm knee deep in money!”  I shrieked.  “This sort of thing does not happen all the time!”

“Beats being knee deep in other stuff,” he shrugged.

“But I couldn't possibly have this much money in my account!”

“The machine begs to differ.”

Fruitlessly I poked at the teller machine again, while Ringo wandered around the room and occasionally kicked up a pile of money.  “Maybe we ought to tidy up a bit,” he suggested.  “Make it easier for when the authorities get here.”

“Where will we put it?”  I asked him.  I pointed to his bulging shirt.  “You haven't got any room left in there, do you?”

He laughed.  “Guess you're right.”

“Do you hear something?”  I asked.

“You mean other than the sound of freshly falling money?”

“I mean sirens.”

“They've been going off for 10 minutes.”

“No, these sound different.”

He cocked his head.  “Yeah, your right.  I do hear something.”

Within seconds, a mob of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances arrived.  “Calvary's here!”  Ringo cheered. 

“And the mayor,” I pointed to a white limo.

“And the press,” he pointed to three news vans.

“And your wife.”

“And a bunch of people in pajamas.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh no?  Why oh no?” he asked me.  “Who are those people?”

“Those are Hill House people.”

“Who are Hill House people?”

“Hill House is housing for the elderly.”

Ringo blinked at me.  “What are they doing here?”

“They don't like loud noises.”

“Well, what are they going to do about it?”

An egg splattered against the bank door.  A dozen more followed it.

“They're egging us!”  Ringo yelped.

“They're famous for it.”

“They've egged the mayor!”  Ringo noted.

“And the police,” I added.

“And the press!”  Ringo cheered.  “Go, go Hill House people!”

I gave Ringo a playful slap.  “Stop dancing around so much.  They're filming you.”

“Right, right,” he agreed.  “Must look serious.  All business here as I'm standing in three foot of money while people in pajamas pelt me with eggs.  Very serious business.”

Ringo wiped the smile off his face and solemnly made a peace sign at the camera crew.  As the money continued to fall all around us, it occurred to me that neither of us had removed the cash that we had stuffed down our shirts.  I vowed that I would not turn on the afternoon news.  In fact, I vowed to call all my friends to keep them away from the television, too. 

“Looks like the police are having trouble keeping the Hill House people in line,” I observed.

“Well, I'm not standing here all day while everybody mucks around.”  Ringo made an about-face and marched over to the teller machine.  “Alright machine, take this!”  He pressed a single button.  Immediately, the alarm stopped shrieking, the lights stopped flashing, the teller machine stopped spitting, and the glass door popped open. 

My jaw dropped.  “How did you do that?”

He shrugged.  “I pressed the Cancel button.  Didn't you think to press the Cancel button?”

I groaned.  “I don't want to discuss it.”

“Here.”  He returned my bankcard, wiped a few bills off his shoulders, and headed out the glass door.  I followed him.

“Hello, Barbara.”

“Hello, Ritchie.”

“You've got egg on your face, Barbara.”

“Good for the complexion, Ritchie.”

“So I've heard.”  Ringo clapped his hands together.  “Right.  I'd say we're all through here.”

“Now wait a minute.”  A man in a yellow housecoat stepped forward.

“You another Hill House person?”  Ringo asked.  “I've had enough egging for one day.”

The man shook his head.  “I'm the bank manager.  And you've got some explaining to do.”

“No time for that,” Ringo replied.  “I've got a limo waiting.”

“But who's going to take care of this problem?” the manager asked.

“What problem?  I don't see any problem.  I see a limo with my name on it.  Come on, Barbara.”

“But...”

“Goodbye Ringo,” I waved.

Ringo popped his head out of the limo.  “Hey, miss, want to join us for breakfast?”

I tugged at my sweatshirt.  “What?  In this outfit?”

“Why not?” Ringo asked.  “You're a wealthy woman now.  You can wear whatever you want.”

“But what about all my beauty appointments and my new clothes?”

Ringo shrugged.  “Wasn't the point of all that to attraction my attention?”

I nodded.

“I'd say you succeeded.”

I gave Ringo a million-dollar smile.  “Save me a seat in that limo.”

He gave me a thumbs up.  “You can bank on it.”

Whoo hoo!!!

Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. 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.