Ring......ring......ring......ring......r......

“Hullo?”

“It’s me.  Did you hear...”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Silence descended.  What was there to say?  What words can convey the depth of emotion, the sense of loss?

“D’ya remember...”

“Yeah, I ‘member all of it...”

***

“I ‘ad one yesterday!”

Laughter.  But it was only the truth, George hated haircuts and Brian had nearly had to hold him down to get him a haircut before we went to America!

“Sorry if we messed up yer field, Mister!”

Can’t believe we all ran around that silly field like that.  Amazing what fun we had with that movie, and how well it’s stood the test of time.

“Thanks fer th’ lift, sailor!”

Don’t think any of the rest of us coulda pulled that line off, ‘cept for maybe John.  What a boring shoot that’d been, aside from all the exotic locales we’d managed to talk the director into.  We were stoned through most of the filming.  Ah, those were the days.

“Well, that’s it, I’m not a Beatle anymore...”

The end of touring, what a bloody madhouse it had been.  ‘Course, I coulda gone on doing it for a lot longer than the rest of ‘em, but they were pretty adamant about it.  I can understand, now.  But I don’t think I really did, then.

“I’ll play whatever ya want me t’ play, or I won’t play at all if ya don’t want me t’ play.  Whatever it is that’ll please you, I’ll do it...”

I cringe to think of how I’d looked down my nose at George, as if I was inherently better or greater than he.  Of course, I’d believed it at the time, gotten a bit of a swelled ego.  We were all on the outs anyway, and not slagging each other like we always used to if one got a bit pig headed.  Probably coulda used the slagging then and a few times since.  Anyway, familiarity breeds contempt for the most part, and I was so familiar with Hari and his playing style that I was nearly contemptuous of it.  It’s taken time and distance to realize how much talent had been encompassed in the four of us.  The four of us.

Then it was the four of us, but individuals, no longer a group.  I felt like the support had been pulled out from under me.  Lashed out in anger a couple of times.  And John had lashed back.  That “How Do You Sleep” still stung, and George’s wicked slide on the song was just piercing!  Thank God for Lin, she pulled me out of the dump I’d got myself into.  Don’t know what I’d have done without her.

“It’s me, man, I can’t believe ‘e’s gone, I just can’t believe it...”

I couldn’t either, it was horrifying, I think I choked back the tears and went into shock or something.  Made some stupid comment to the press about it being such a drag, that haunted me for years.  Nice of George to call me about it, though, we were still a bit on the outs at the time, cordial but distant.  The four of us had become the three of us.  Glad we got together in the 90’s and did that Anthology project, it was great to hang out with them again.  And with John’s demos that Yoko gave us, I could nearly pretend we were four once again.

George came to Lin’s memorial, gave me a hug, said a few words.  Ritch was there, too, and I think that Lin would have liked seeing us together.  I appreciated the support, needed it, felt absolutely cut adrift.  Again.

“I’m glad you both came.  I’m dying, and I wanted to see you again before I go.”

I told him he was mistaken, he wasn’t dying.  George just laughed at me.  He seemed genuinely amused by my denial, told me he was just changing suits, leaving this one behind.  He was thin and weak but we laughed and talked all afternoon.  Didn’t want to believe it.  But he’d been right.  And now the four of us were two.

***

“You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry, just thinkin’...”

“Yeah, I know whatcha mean.  Want me t’ come over?”

“Ah, ya don’t have t’ do that, Ritch, I’m a big boy.  Don’t really need you to hold me hand.”

“I know.  Thought maybe I could use a hug.”

I couldn’t speak for the tears that welled up, but I forced ‘em down.  Again.  Finally choked something out, something stupid like “okay”, and the line went dead.  I either got lost in memories for a while, or he’d been standing outside the front door, because it seemed like he was there in no time.

We English don’t hug very often, I mean, there’s the casual ‘hello’ hug, or even a European kiss on the cheek, but we pretty well hold our emotions in check.  It’s inherent in the breed, so to speak.  But when Ritch put his arms around me without saying a word and just held me, I finally broke.  Thought about a song I’d written after John died, talking ‘bout a night back in the early years when we’d been stuck in a hotel, drunk or stoned, telling each other our life stories...or what we didn’t already know, anyway!  There’d been no reason to keep it inside that night, all the barriers were down, and there was no reason to keep it inside tonight either.  I could have howled at the moon if it would have helped the emptiness I felt inside, and I think Ritch felt the same way.

We had a good long blubber, then kinda went through the shamefaced clearing of throats and wiping at streaming eyes thing, trying to get ourselves sorted out.  Poured him a cola, poured meself a bloody strong Scotch, toasted with our drinks.

“Here’s t’ lost comrades,” I began, then choked up again.

“Safe voyage,” Ritch added, and we drank.

Silence reigned for a while.  Ritch finally broke it, hesitantly.

“D’ya think...d’ya think he an’ John are together?” he asked.

I nodded, suddenly cheerful for the first time all day. 

“Yeah, an’ if I know John, he’s asking George one of two things.”

Ritch cocked his head at me, waiting, a smile hovering on his lips.

“What?” he asked.

“He either wants to know about the meaning of life, what with all Georgie’s studying...”

“Or?”

“He wants a item by item comparison between Pattie and Olivia!”

Ritch burst out laughing and I had to join in.  Still chuckling after several minutes, he nodded and agreed that John was probably badgering George for details about exactly that.

Raised my glass again and he followed suit.

“T’ old friends,” I whispered, the tears suddenly, perilously close again.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of 18 years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.