December 21, 2001

Brian Epstein booted up his PC and smiled to himself.  Despite the recession and the war in the Gulf, his furniture business continued to prosper.  Every morning, customers queued up at his doorstep before he even opened the store!  Some of those silly people insisted on getting his autograph. 

Brian's grin broadened as he eyed the latest figures.  Ever since he hired those new designers, Lennon and McCartney, important customers from New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and even Rome found their way to his Liverpool store.  Boston begged him to open a shop on their posh Newbury Street.  Bloomingdale’s in New York promised him an entire floor to display his wares.  Several Hollywood directors had already rented numerous Lennon-McCartney pieces for use in some of their upcoming films.

Of course, it also helped when you had the world's greatest advertising company at your fingertips.  Brian shook his head.  That Mr. Harrison did have his quirks, to be sure.  Like the time he sat Brian down for two hours and explained how you had to reach customers on a spiritual level.  And that strange music that always accompanied his ads.  Brian couldn't identify a single instrument in the bunch.  Some Far Eastern mumbo jumbo.  Still, Epstein couldn't argue with the results.  People flocked to his store, many of them still clutching one of Harrison's ads.

Once inside the store, the potential customer had no choice but to buy something.  Not that Mr. Starkey pressured them.  On the contrary, the salesman's relaxed manner and his winning smile charmed them right into their purchases.

Brian sneaked a glance outside.  A chill snaked down his back as he eyed the misty heavens.  Thoughts of doom suddenly tugged at him.  Where did these awful ideas come from?  Surely, a gray December sky only meant one thing.  He began to sing, “I'm dreaming of a white Chanukah...”

Laughing at his silliness, he logged off the computer and tumbled into bed.  As his eyelids grew heavy, an inexplicable sound suddenly caught his attention. 

“Oh Brian, it's a branch scraping against the window,” he chided himself.  Still, he pulled the blankets up to his chin.

The sound drew nearer.  Brian frowned.  Surely, he had locked all the doors and windows.  Nobody could simply slip unnoticed into his house.  Wouldn't he have heard breaking glass or a lock being forced?  Wouldn't the alarm sound?

Brian tightened his grip on the blankets.  As the sound grew louder, he recognized it:  heavy chains being dragged across a floor.  Just like in those old Scrooge movies.  Obviously, somebody with a sick sense of humor was playing a joke.  Brian grimaced.  More likely, that bizarro Harrison fellow was testing out another advertising stunt.  Like the time Brian remodeled the store, and Harrison showed up, unannounced, on the back of an elephant.  An Indian elephant, Harrison pointed out to the press.

Oh, what a horrible moan!  Could Harrison make that sound?  A cold sweat broke out across Brian's forehead.  “Ridiculous,” he tried to encourage himself.  “You're dreaming.”

Brian tilted his head and watched as a tendril of gray mist rose from underneath the door.  He smelled a musty odor, and the temperature in the room dropped significantly.  “Harrison must have signed a contract with Spielberg,” he joked hoarsely.

The chains rattled in the hallway.

“Yes, that's it.  Harrison decided that the store could use a little holiday spirit.”  Brian called loudly, “Mr. Harrison.  I think we'll stick with a more conservative approach for the holidays.  This Christmas Carol idea might scare some of our customers.”

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

Brian shuddered.  Oh lord.  Even Harrison couldn't scream like that.

“If the Christmas Carol ghost has entered my home” Brian babbled, “it's obviously missed the menorah and the Happy Chanukah sign in the window, not to mention the mezuzzah on the door post.  Surely, if one explains the mistake in a calm, rational manner, that whatever-it-is will go bother somebody of a different faith.”

The doorknob squeaked as it began to turn.

“Brian,” he whispered frantically.  “You are overly imaginative and highly stressed, what with the war, and Christmas sales, and with Lennon sending obscene letters to McCartney and it getting into the local papers...”

The door creaked open.  Brian sat straight up, and without thinking, he shouted, “Store hours are nine to five on weekdays, and eleven to three on Saturdays.  Please come again soon.”

The figure rattled his chains and grinned at him.  “Hi Eppy.  Sorry I haven't got much need for any furnishings.  But we do have to talk.”

“Let me guess,” Epstein replied between chattering teeth.  “I'm going to be visited by three ghosts.  They're going to show me my past, my present, and my future.  Then, I'm going to change my whole life, and the lives of everybody around me.”

The ghost sniffed.  “Basically.”

Epstein became emboldened by the ghost's casual manner and wagged a finger at the apparition.  “Well, you know what I say to you!  I say, “Bah Humbug, that's what.  I mean, really.  How un-original.  Everybody's done a remake of A Christmas Carol.  Lord knows, even George Lucas is going to write it into the next Star Wars episode.”

The figure winked.  “Bah yourself, Eppy.  Don't ya think I knew that already?”

“All right, then save yourself the bother and return to wherever you came from!”

The figure shook his head.  “Can't do that, Eppy.  I need your help.  And if I just came down and explained things straight out, you wouldn't get it.  I have to use a metaphor that you understand.”

“Well, I don't understand.  I'm not a Christian, for one thing.”

The ghost frowned.  “Still don't get it, do you?  This isn't a religion thing.  The movie's just a metaphor.  A simile like.  This is a crisis.  And you're the only one who can help.”

“Me?  Little old Brian Epstein, furniture store owner of Liverpool, England.  Don't you think that Tony Blair could provide you with a little more assistance than me?  Or perhaps Queen Elizabeth, or the Pope, or Colin Powell?”

The ghost rattled his chains.  “Stop that!  I said you're the one, now don't argue with me.”

Epstein narrowed his eyes.  “Who exactly are you?  Obviously, you're not Robert Marley.  Not with that gel in your hair and those tight leather pants.”

The ghost grinned.  “I'm your old business partner.  John Lennon.”

“Lennon?”  Epstein couldn't contain his laughter.  “You don't look a wit like Lennon.  He's got glasses for one.  He's older, wears a suit and tie.  Respectable gentleman.  On occasion.”

“Don't make me gag, Brian.  I'm Lennon as he used to be.”  The ghost furrowed his brows.  “That is, I'm Lennon as he shoulda been when he used to be.”

“Lennon as he used to be?  In your dreams.”

“That's right, in my dreams.  Because reality's changed.  That's why I came here.  To explain to you what's happened and to put it all back together again.”

Epstein sighed and threw off his blankets.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  Brian wiggled his feet into his slippers.  “But as long as I’m awake, I think I’ll make myself a cuppa.”

Epstein marched past by the ghost and headed into his kitchen.  Lennon followed.

“I could do with a cuppa meself,” Lennon said as he pulled up a chair.

“Right,” Epstein replied.  “God I must be tired.  I’m making tea for a ghost and it doesn’t bother me in the least.”

Epstein began boiling water as Lennon tried to work on him some more.  “It isn’t exactly your fault, Eppy.”

“What’s not my fault, Lennon?”

John frowned.  “Not your fault that the timeline got screwed up and you missed us the first time round.  By the time you did catch up with us, we were already into new careers.  Furniture design.  Disgusting.  What was I thinking?”

Brian took a seat.  “You want to try that again?”

“George says that this is the Maharishi’s doing.”

“The Maha what?”

“You don’t remember him?  Little guy, lotsa hair, giggled a lot?”

Brian shook his head.

“This religious guru from India.  I don’t quite get how he did it.  George does, but it’s not good trying to talk to him.”

“No good talking to George or this Maha fellow?”

John scowled.  “You’re not paying attention, are you Mr. Epstein?”

The teakettle’s whistle broke the tension.  Lennon relaxed in his seat.  “George says that the Maharishi came up with this scheme for creating world peace.  You know, on account of the war and everything.  He gathered together a thousand yogis and took ‘em to a private retreat somewhere in Dehli, I think.  Nobody believed he could stop a war, you know.  They all think he’s just plain loony.  Even George thinks so nowadays.”

Epstein poured the tea.  “Black or white?”

“White please.  And four cubes of sugar.  Sugar’s at a premium in the afterlife, you know.”

“Quite,” Epstein replied.  He shuddered.  Surely, this was the longest, most detailed, and most bizarre dream he ever experienced.  “So what happened at this retreat in India?”

“Yeah, the retreat.”  Lennon took a sip, and nodded appreciatively.  “Orange pekoe.  Very nice.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Got any sweets?”

Epstein blinked.  “I didn’t think ghosts needed to eat.”

“You an expert on spirits?” Lennon asked.

“Ah, no.”

“Right then.  Bring on the cookies.”

Epstein left the table and returned with a pie.  “Will this do?”

Lennon grinned, and helped himself to a king-sized slice.  “Apple, eh?  Bet a part of you does remember, doesn't it?” 

Brian frowned.  “Finish your story, please.”

“Right, the India thing.  Well, we don’t know exactly what happened at the India thing.  But whatever it was, it changed the face of the world.  Changed history and everything.  That’s the part where George gets it all muddled.  Or maybe my understanding of his understanding gets it all muddled.  Anyway, you missed us, and you have to go back and set the timeline straight.”

“I missed you?” Brian asked.

Lennon nodded.

“Young man.  I don’t mean to offend you.  But I don’t understand why a businessman like myself would ever get involved with a young scruff like you.”

Lennon winked.  “I think ya had a crush on me.”

Brian blinked.  “I most certainly did not.  I don’t even know you.”

“’Course you don’t.  I told ya, you missed us when the yogis messed up the timeline.  By the time you did catch us, it was too late.  Especially for poor George.”

“Poor George?”

“Yeah.  Earning his keep writing jingles for ladies personal products.  A waste of his talents if you ask me.”

“Are you referring to George Harrison, of Harrison Adverts Ltd.?  He's a friend of yours?”

“More like a brother, really.”

“I should have guessed,” Epstein muttered.

Lennon slurped his tea.  Brian tried to ignore him.

“Here's the deal,” Lennon explained.  “See, George has been studying this yogi stuff for years.  That’s how come he was able to piece together what happened.  Then he had to go convincing all of us.  Not an easy task.  Especially for him”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you know.  He’s really out there on the spiritual plane now.  That’s how come he’s able to do stuff, like get in touch with me.  And figure out what the yogis did.”

Epstein nodded.  “I'll agree with you that Harrison is 'out there.'  But I still don't see where I fit into all this.  Why would Mr. Harrison send me a ghost to combat a world problem that I don’t even know exists?  If such a problem does exist, and Mr. Harrison is aware of it, then why doesn't he just take care of the whole thing himself and leave us poor furniture vendors alone?”

Lennon shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth.  “Trust me Eppy, we know what we’re doing.”

Brian poured himself a second cup of tea.  “Trust you?  Why should I trust you?  You’re a ghost.  And you just admitted that you don’t understand the whole thing.  And neither does your famous George.  Why should I get involved?  I rather like my life as it is, ta very much.”

Lennon shrugged.  “Say what you please, you can’t get out of this.”

“But why me?”

“Because without you, there never would have been any us.”

“Us who?”

“Us me, Paul, George, and Ringo.”

“Ringo?  Is that a real name?”

John sighed.  “Don’t you remember the Beatles?”

“Beatles?  Look, I don’t know who you are, but I assure you I've had no such infestation.”

Lennon eyed him.  “And I can assure you, you have.”

Epstein wagged a spoon at Lennon.  “Now look here, whatever or whoever you are.  I'm perfectly content the way my life has turned out.  Perfectly content minding my own business and selling my own furniture.  I'm not going to let some demented ghost change my life.  I'm going to finish my tea, go upstairs to bed, and forget all about you, the yogis, Mr. Maha, and famous George.”

Lennon sniffed.  “Don't get too comfy, Mr. Epstein.”

“What are you going to do?  Rattle your chains some more?  Drink all my tea?  Send the famous George after me?”

“I'll send ya worse,” Lennon growled.

Epstein eyed the chains, the gelled hair, and the tight-fitting leather outfit.  “Who could possibly be worse?”

John smirked.  “One o'clock.  That's when it starts.”

Epstein snatched Lennon's plate.”

“Here!”

“You've had more than enough,” Brian snapped.  “Now be off with you.”

Epstein dumped the plates and silverware in the sink and covered them with sudsy water.

“Gonna leave that soaking all night, are you?”

“Go away.”

Lennon stuck out his tongue and vanished.

Brian threw his hands up in the air and headed back into his bed.  As he snuggled in, he turned and glanced at the clock.  “Ten past one.  There you go, Mr. Ghost.  Missed your deadline.”  And with that, he fell asleep.

The following morning, Brian awoke at his usual time and went through his usual morning routine.  The usual crowd of excited shoppers greeted him at the usual door.  “All's normal,” he noted to himself.  “Bah to you, Mr. Lennon.”

Inside the store, Mr. Starkey looked up from a clipboard and waved.  Brian returned the greeting and kept walking.

In the main showroom, McCartney and Lennon were arranging cushions on a leather sofa. 

“Not there, ya git,” Lennon hounded McCartney.  “How's a body to get comfy if ya stick them things on end like that?” 

McCartney frowned.  “But they look better this way.  Don't you think so, Mr. Epstein?”

Brian's heart quickened as Lennon glared at him.  “Well?” the designer prodded.  “My way or his?”

“Ah yes,” Brian nodded, and resumed walking.

“See, he wants it my way,” Lennon started grabbing up the cushions.

“Now hang on a minute,” McCartney countered.

“Brian, you're coming unglued,” Epstein chided himself.  “That wasn't Lennon last night.  That wasn't anybody.  You need a holiday, that's all.”  Epstein headed towards his office.  “We'll just sit down and have a cuppa, and life will be just as it always was.”

And indeed life was as it always was.  Mr. Starkey sold three complete dining room sets, a leather couch, and four entertainment units before noontime.  Lennon and McCartney bashed each other senseless with the sofa pillows, knocked down three customers as they argued over who would clean up the mess from the pillow fight, and threw Mr. Starkey into the fish pond as the startled salesman tried to rescue the downed customers.  Having gotten that out of their systems, Lennon and McCartney immediately sat down and began designing a coffee table that would undoubtedly bring rave reviews in showrooms across the U.K., France and Italy.

Epstein sighed and directed his faithful secretary, Ms. Boyd, to clean up the mess.

Returning to his office, Brian pulled a sandwich out of his briefcase and began to unwrap it.  His mouth watered as he anticipated that first bite of corned beef with coleslaw, Russian dressing, and rye bread.  Just as his jaws clamped down on the sandwich, all the clocks in the store chimed the hour:  one o'clock.

Over the sound of the gently chiming clocks came a shriek like Brian had never heard in his life.  He compared the noise to the sound that a cat might make if somebody had thrown it out a window, hit it with car, kicked it across an alley, poisoned it, and hanged it.  And then kicked it again.

Several customers screamed.  Brian dropped his sandwich onto his desk and rushed into the main showroom.  “It's coming from upstairs!” Ms. Boyd cried. 

Brian felt a hand on his shoulder.  “Ya can't blame this one on me!”  Lennon roared.

Epstein ignored the designer and flew up the stairs.  Mr. Starkey greeted him on the second floor.  “Mattresses!” the salesman decreed.

Brian bolted into the mattress department, and discovered the source of the ruckus.  A large burlap sack sprawled across the only king-sized bed on display.  The sack rocked back and forth as it emitted unearthly shrieks and howls.  Worst of all, the darned thing seemed to be singing...to him!

“Get back to where you once belonged!  Get back, Brian!”

“We need that Father fellow from the Exorcist, that's what we need,” Lennon declared.

“Maybe if you talk nice to it, it will stop making that sound,” McCartney suggested.

“Right, let's talk nice to it,” John agreed.  Lennon sashayed up to the bed and pretended to shake hands with the sack.  “Hello, customer.  How are you today?  Oh, feeling like sacking out, do you?  Well, let me show you this lovely mattress.  Comes with a lifetime guarantee for parts and labor.  And perhaps we could interest you in a matching headboard with built in compartments to hold all your spare burlap thingies.”

Brian shoved Lennon aside.  “Stop mucking about, Lennon.  Help me find whoever's inside this thing.”  Lennon, McCartney, Epstein, and Starkey searched in vain for a zipper or any other sign of an opening.  “It's no use,” McCartney shrugged. 

“All right then,” Brian squared his shoulders.  “Now listen here, Sack.  We've got you surrounded.  Lennon, stop laughing.  Now Sack, we've got you surrounded and we'll call the police if you don't stop this nonsense at once.  I will also contact my attorney.  Lennon, leave if you can't control yourself.  I will also have the press out here to take photographs of you and drag your name across Liverpool.  Now, you wouldn't want that kind of publicity, would you?”

The sack wiggled and wailed.

“I think you need to try another approach,” Starkey suggested. 

Epstein nodded.  “Right then.  On the count of three, everybody take one corner and we'll carry the thing down to my office.”

The gentlemen complied.  The sack continued to wriggle and shriek all through the store, despite Brian's repeated pleas to calm down. 

The four gentlemen dumped the sack onto the floor of Brian's office.  “Anything else we can do for you today, Mr. Epstein?” Mr. McCartney asked.

“Funny, but a fellow can get used to that sound,” Lennon noted.

“I'd like to be alone with it,” Epsein directed his employees.  “I'll call if I need anything.”

The gentlemen nodded.

“Shut the door on the way out, would you Mr. Starkey?  And please assure the customers that this event in no way effects the quality of our services or our products.”

Epstein took a deep breath as Mr. Starkey discreetly closed the door.  “All right, Sack.  We're alone now.  What do you want?

Opposite ends of the sack arose.  Brian assumed that they stood for arms.  “I represent the spirit of your past,” the creature wailed.

“You were never in my past,” Epstein snapped.  Who are you?”

The sack stopped moaning and shrugged.  “I'm John Lennon's wife.”

Epstein sighed.  “John Lennon's wife.  Really?  Well listen here, Sack.  I happen to know for a fact that Lennon's wife is a quiet, charming, vegetarian who's only aspiration in life is to protect children from land minds and perhaps to do a tad of modeling on the side.  As far as I can see, Ms. Heather has never had any inclinations towards burlap sacks, unearthly shrieks, moans, chains, or other such non-corporeal nonsense.  Unless of course, you're referring to yourself as the person that Lennon should have married had the timeline not been interrupted by one thousand chanting yogis and a long-haired, burnt-out Maharishi who suffers from delusions of Georgehood.”

The sack raised a single appendage.  “Power to the people!” it shrieked.

“Good for you!”  Epstein decreed.  “Now pack up your sack and return to your mothership, or whatever rock you crawled out of.”

The sack shook again.  “Not until I show you some things.  You must come with me.”

The creature arose to a height that reached Epstein's shoulder.

Brian grimaced.  “Eh, you are a person under that sack, aren't you?  I mean, you're not going out on the street like that?”

“Come,” the sack moaned.

“What is your name?”  Epstein demanded.

“Sprinkle the new moon across your soul and smile for all eternity.”

Epstein rolled his eyes.  “You're not going to make this easy, are you?” 

The sack motioned towards the door.

Epstein smacked his palm against his desk.  “Right let's get this over with.”

“Back in an hour or two,” Epstein called over his shoulder.  Lennon saluted him, then blew a raspberry at McCartney.

Brian did his best to appear as if he were taking a casual stroll down the street and not following a life-sized sack.  In return, the sack did its utmost to humiliate him.  Making sudden stops so Epstein fell over it.  Emitting unexpected war whoops, or whatever you call those noises.  And worst of all, shouting his name across the neighborhoods.  “Mr. Epstein.  Here's where John was born.  Mr. Epstein.  Here's where John met Paul.  Mr. Epstein.  Here's where the Beatles played their first Liverpool gig.  Mr. Epstein.  Here's where you first fell for John.”

Brian ground his teeth and clenched his fists.  He could never remember feeling so humiliated.  Even Lennon, his Lennon, never embarrassed him this badly.  Epstein just prayed that Mr. Harrison didn't feel like taking a walk today.  Heaven only knows what the advertising genius would do if he caught sight of the mobile sack.  “Probably stamp Brian Epstein across it and make everybody in the store wear one,” he shuddered.

“Hey, look at Brian, out and about in the middle of the day.  Hey, Mr. Epstein.  Somebody give you the sack?”

Brian's ears burned, but he refused to look his heckler in the eye.

“Mr. Epstein.  You all sacked out?”

“Mr. Epstein.  Is your friend any good in the sack?”

“I'll get you Ghost of Lennon,” Epstein swore.  “I'll get you so bad you'd wish you were...wish you were... wish you were alive!”

“Mr. Epstein.  Are you paying attention?”

“Of course, dear Sack,” Brian said quickly.  “I see that the tour has concluded.  We have returned to my furniture store.”

The sack approached him and tilted its head upwards.  “Years and years ago a man came into your furniture store and asked you for a certain item.  You didn't have that item.  And so you searched across the universe until you became the only distributor for that item.”

Epstein nodded.  “Of course.  I remember that day.”

The sack jumped.  “You do?”  Sack sounded pleased.

“Yes, Epstein reminisced.  “The fellow described it as a bonny piece of furniture designed by two young men called Lennon and McCartney.  I figured that if a fellow came all the way from Scotland in search of a single piece of furniture, there must be something to it.  And so I sought out Lennon and McCartney....”

Epstein noticed that the sack had drooped.  “Are you all right, Sack?”

The sack kicked a pebble.  “Drop a cloud in your coffee and all sadness will disappear,” it said quietly.  The sack shrugged and headed off.

“Oh dear,” Brian said.  “Such a sad sack.  I don't know why that bothers me so much.”  He shook his head and slipped inside his store.

“Nice of you to show up in time for closing,” Lennon greeted him.  “While I was busy all day keeping him in line.”  Lennon inclined his head towards McCartney. 

“I told Mr. Lennon to untie Mr. McCartney before you returned,” Mr. Starkey said.  “But he wouldn't have it any other way.”

“All right, Lennon.  You can release him now.  Anything else I should know about?”

“A lady called for you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Boyd.  Any idea who?” 

“Surely it must have been the once and future Mrs. Cynthia Powell Epstein,” Lennon smirked.

“Mr. Starkey, you don't mind locking up, do you?”

“Teacher's pet,” Lennon jeered.

As he headed out of the store and into the dark, Epstein felt his hair stand on end.  He tried to glance backward without drawing attention to himself.  Was that a shadow, or was something following him?  He stepped up the pace.  Indeed, something stepped up the pace behind him.  Epstein broke into a run.  So did his pursuer.  Without conscious thought, Brian suddenly turned, bolted into the nearest pub, and slid into a booth.

Much to Brian's surprise, an attractive blond woman took the seat opposite him.  “Hello Mr. Epstein,” she smiled.

Brian relaxed, until he realized that he could see right through here.

“Oh dear,” he said.  “Let me guess.  Ghost of Christmas present.”

“Getting into the spirit a little early, are we?” the waitress laughed.  “What'll it be tonight, governor?” 

“Ah, just a ginger beer,” Brian ordered.

“Right sir, thank you.”  The waitress turned to leave.

“How about her?”  Brian indicated the blond woman.

“Sorry sir?  Maybe your friend stepped out for a minute?”

Brian glanced at the stranger.  She gave him a warm smile.  He turned towards the puzzled waitress.  “Er, yes, that must be it,” Epstein agreed.  “I'll have a double, anyway.”

“A double ginger beer?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“So, ghost of Christmas Present.  What do you have to say to me?”

The ghost beamed.  “You will help us, won't you?”

Epstein sighed.  “Look, I'd very much like to help you, ah, who are you?”

“Linda.”

“Linda.  But if I do that, what happens to me?  What happens to my business, and my girlfriend?  What happens to the world?”

“You've got it all backwards,” Linda replied.  “The question is, what happens if the world doesn't return to the way it was?  That's the scary part.”

Brian cleared his throat.  “Look, you seem like a reasonable, ah, being.  Why did you pick me to help you?  Why not look for a world leader, or a spiritual person?  Even a movie star could give you more help than I could.”

“Still talking to your ghost friend, are you?” the waitress returned with Epstein's drinks.  “I'm a lot more fun than her, ya know.”  The waitress winked.

“Yes, I'm sure you are,” Brian smiled absently.  The waitress shrugged and walked away.  Epstein focused on his ghostly companion.  “Well?”

“Well, the reason we've come to you is because you're the one who got the Beatles onto the world stage.”

“Excuse me, miss, but let's take a few steps back here.  Starting with the whatalls.”

“The Beatles,” she smiled.  “You aren't really going to drink that second ginger beer, are you?”

Brian shook his head and passed it to Linda.  She savored a few sips, then continued talking.  “The Beatles were the world's greatest and most influential pop group in history.  They not only changed music as we know it, but also hairstyles, clothing styles, and even attitudes.  They liberated us from our stodgy old values.  They made the world a happier place.  And you, Brian, you managed the whole thing.”

Brian blinked at her.  “How in the world did I do that?”

“You simply offered them your services as their manager.  Nobody ever made such a proposal to the Beatles before.”

Brian took a gulp of his drink.  “I proposed doing that?  I don't know anything about music!”

“That didn't matter,” Linda chuckled.  “Look at what a success you've made out of that furniture store.  You know how to manage things.  You know how to make things better.  Your skills worked wonders for the Beatles once.  And they'll work again, if you give it a try.”

“And who exactly are those Beatles?”  Epstein asked.

“You already know them.  Messrs. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starkey.”

“Lennon, McCartney, Harrison....”Epstein's jaw dropped.  “That mangy lot changed the face of the world?”

Linda nodded.

“And nobody got hurt in the process?”

Linda frowned.  “They did have their troubles.  But the good things that they did overpowered all the bad things that happened.”

Brian fingered his glass.  “Are you sure about that?”

Linda tapped the miniature jukebox at the table.  “If you've got 50p, I'll show you.”

Epstein popped the money into the machine, and Linda made a selection.  Instantly, the newly-dubbed Rooler of Rap spewed his visions of violence and hatred over a backdrop of accordions and slide guitars.  Brian cringed.  “What did you have to go and do that for, miss?  Don't you know I turned off the radio in 1964?”

“Ah, 1964,” Linda nodded.  “The beginning of the American Invasion in Great Britain.  Starting with Lawrence Welk's unprecedented tour across the U.K.”

“I remember that,” Epstein nodded.  He inclined his head towards the jukebox  “What's it got to do with this rubbish?”

“Don't you think the world deserves better than this, Mr. Epstein?”

“Of course,” Brian agreed.  “And it has better.  It has Bach, and Beethoven, and Brahms.  And Gershwin and Parker and...”

“And no Beatles,” Linda interrupted.  “No Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starkey, aka Ringo Starr.  And with no Beatles, there were no sixties.  And with no sixties, we're stuck in this.”  Linda waved her arms around the room.

“Stuck?  How do you mean stuck?”

“Stuck in a world without color.  A world where adults ignore young people's ideas.  Where women have limited career choices.  Where suits and ties outrank blue jeans and sneakers.” 

Brian snorted.  “You can't tell me that the Beatles did all that.  For heaven's sake, Lennon doesn't even have a kind word for his own wife.  How's he going to fix the world?  And McCartney?  He lets everybody step on his face, especially that Lennon.”

“You don't understand,” Linda interrupted.

Epstein folded his arms and tilted his head.  “Now Starkey?  He's certainly got charm and personality.  That is, as long as he's standing in front of a walnut china cabinet with optional built-ins.  Take his furniture away from him, and he doesn't know what planet he's on.”

“Mr. Epstein...”

“And oh yes, let's not forget about His Harrisoness.  Yes, we could save lots of money with him.  No need for limos or airplanes or taxicabs.  No sir, Mr. Far East Man can simply travel about on his magic carpet.”

“Brian, please...”

“Yes, yes, you're quite right, Madam Linda.  I can see myself selling a successful business to manage a lot like that.  The government would give me my very own parking space at the loony bin, I don't doubt it.”

Linda bit her lip.  “Mr. Epstein,” she said softly.  “Just listen to me.  It's not their fault that they behave the way they do.  You don't just change a timeline and expect everything else to stay the same.  That isn't natural.  Events change, so people change.”

“And if we make events the way they was before they was then we'll see four very different gentlemen who are quite capable of affecting the world in a positive manner?”

Linda nodded.

Brian leaned forward.  “If you don't mind my asking, miss, is there a loony bin in heaven for spirits like you?”

Linda sighed.  “What can I do to convince you?”

“Let me put it to you this way.  You say the yogis made this mess?”

Linda nodded.

“Then let the yogis put it right again.”

“But only you can put it right,” Linda protested.

“All right.  Just for fun, let's say I agree to help you.  What do I have to do?”

“It's easy,” Linda replied.  “All you need is love,” she smiled.

Epstein grimaced.

“And a little help from your friends.” She squeezed his hand.  Epstein shivered as her hand passed through his.  Linda shrugged.  “Well, the thought's there anyway.”

Epstein sighed.  “Oh, I don't know.  Supposing I like my current life better than the original?  Look at me.  I'm a success.  I make a good living and people love my furniture.  I'm seeing a wonderful person, I've got a great family.  What else could I possibly want?”

Linda nodded.  “I know what you mean.  But sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the greater good.”

“The greater good?  What exactly does that mean?  Unleashing Lennon and McCartney on the world stage?  They can barely control themselves in a furniture store, how will they handle themselves in front of an audience?”

Linda smiled and waved her hand over the jukebox.  “This might change your mind, Mr. Epstein.”

Brian's heart lurched as a trio of guitars surrounded him.  He closed his eyes and smiled as the musicians sang of love and holding hands.  There was no hatred in their voices, only joy.  As the harmonies washed over him, Epstein felt the urge to jump up on the table and dance, feelings that he once had as a child but had long ago suppressed.  It ended all too soon.

“You have to put it right,” Linda urged.

“Right,” Brian exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.  “There is something to be said about this music.  But is it enough for me to change my life for a song?”

“Not a song, Mr. Epstein.  A phenomenon.  One that you helped to create.  Your name will forever be linked to that period in history.  Do you think you could accomplish all that with your furniture store?”

Epstein drained his glass.  “You make a convincing argument, Ms. Linda.  I expect if you were alive, you'd try to become England's first woman barrister.”

“I think you're starting to see the point,” Linda nodded.  “But you still need a little more convincing.”

“Ah yes, the ghost of Christmases to come,” Epstein smiled.

“Just keep an open mind.”  Linda gave him another ephemeral squeeze, and vanished.  Epstein polished off her ginger beer and paid the bill. 

As Brian arose, an oversized hand pushed him back into his seat.  Epstein looked up into the face of an aging mountain man.

“All set Mr. Epstein?”

Brian swallowed.  “Sorry?”

“All set?”

“Oh, I see,” Brian nodded.  “You're the next ghost.”

The mountain man threw back his head and laughed.  “I ain't no ghost, that's for sure.  But you look like you've seen one.”

Epstein felt himself growing pale.  “Who are you?”

“Call me Alf,” the big man responded.  “I've got orders to take you on a little drive.”

“A drive?” Brian echoed hoarsely.  “I've got a business to run.  I can't just pop off on a drive.”

Alf pulled Brian out of the booth.  “Not to worry, mate.  “I'll have ya home by suppertime.”

Alf dragged Brian outside and pushed him into a black Audi.”

“Wh-where are we going?”  Brian stuttered.

“This way,” Alf grunted.

“Aha,” Brian responded.  “Isn't this the road to the airport?”

“Looks that way,” Alf agreed.

“I thought you said we'd be home by supper time,” Brian pointed out.

“Aye, and we will.  Suppertime three days from now.  All right, out with ya.  Here's your ticket and there's your plane.”

“Wait a minute.  What's going on?  We're on the runway, aren't we?”

“Very good, Mr. Epstein.  Now hurry up and get on that plane.”

“But there's a war going on.  I can't just jump on a plane.”

“Begging your pardon Mr. Epstein.  Either you hop aboard that plane, or I'll personally see to it that you fly to Hamburg without benefit of an aircraft.”

“Hamburg?  As in Germany?”

“Very good, Mr. Epstein.  You've passed the audition.  Now get going.”  Alf shoved the startled business out of the car.  Epstein landed with a thud on the tarmac.  “Go on, run!” Alf urged.

Brian picked himself up and raced towards the aircraft.  Anything beat spending another minute with that nutcase.

Epstein bounded into the plane and found his seat.  No one questioned his unorthodox boarding, and he felt too panicked to dwell on it.

Brian's seatmate poked him with an elbow.  “Pardon me, sir.  Can you hand me that magazine that's in your seat pocket?”

Epstein reached for the magazine and handed it to the stranger.  Brian's eyes widened.  “Oh no.”

“Excuse me?” the stranger said.

Brian uttered a sheepish apology.  “I'm sorry.  It's just that I've never seen anyone look so much like him.  Or sound like him, for that matter.”

“Yeah, I get that all the time.  Especially when I show up at a grocery store or a donut shop.  They just jump all over me and ask for my autograph.  So I oblige them, 'cause they go away faster.”

“Oh, I see.”

The stranger sat back in his seat.  “Funny thing is, they're right.  It is me.”

Brian laughed.  “Right.  You're Elvis Presley, and I discovered the Beatles.”

“That about says it all,” the stranger nodded.  “How come you're jabbing that button?”

“I want the stewardess.  I want off this plane.”

“If that's the stewardess button, then they've got the danged thing hooked up all wrong.  My overhead light's flickering like a firefly's buttocks.”

Epstein quit poking the button.

“Anyway, Mr. Englishman, it looks like we're already past the point of no return.”  Elvis heaved one leg on top of the other.

Brian eyed the pale yellow boots.  “Lizard?”

“Genuine ostrich leather,” Elvis corrected him.  “Yah, it's great to be the king.”

“I thought the king was dead,” Brian said dully.

“Nah,” Elvis said.  “Everybody knows he just left the building.”

A shiny back Mercedes met Elvis and Brian at the airport and whisked them away to the center of Hamburg.

“Revolting little town, isn't it?”  Brian remarked.

“Don't make fun,” said the driver.

Brian perked up.  “You're English then?”

“Was English,” the man corrected.  “Now I'm deceased.”

“Oh glorious,” Brian remarked.  “And who would you be?”

Elvis interrupted the driver's reply.  “Hey Stu, can you pull over at that Hamburg hamberg joint and order me up a shake?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Presley.  The usual peanut butter and chocolate?”

“Don't forget the whipped cream, son.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Epstein?”  Stu asked.

“Yes, Brian replied.  “Tell me who you are.”

“I was a Beatle, but I died just before you signed us.”

“What?  Nobody mentioned you before!  What other information did they forget to tell me?”

Elvis shrugged.  “Don't make much difference what you know and what you don't know.  Just as long as you get it all fixed up in the end.”

Brian stared at Elvis.  “Are you my official third visitor?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“I thought that the third visitor was supposed to be silent.”

Elvis whipped around, grabbed Epstein by the collar, and shook him.  “Nobody silences the king.”

“Yes sir,” Brian said with a strangled tone.

“Shake, Elvis.”

“Well, thank you very much.”  Elvis released Brian, swiped the beverage from Stu, and began guzzling.

Brian grimaced and stared out the window.  “Why in heavens name are you stopping in front of this horrific place?”

“The Kaiser Club,” Stu said.  “Just pop into the basement, sign the boys, and we're go for the restored timeline.”

“Pop in there?  You want me to pop in there?  I'll never come out alive!”

“You'll be fine, Mr. Epstein.  Just make it quick.”

Brian stared at the king.  “Did you finish that entire beverage already?”

“Don't mess with the king, son.”

“Well, does the king mind telling me his opinion of all this?  You are my guide, you know, so let's get to work.  If I sign the Beatles right here, right now, will it restore the timeline?”

“That's the theory, sonny boy.”

“Theory?”  Brian exploded.  “All this is a theory?  You mean no one know for sure what will happen?”

Elvis stuck a finger into the cup and poked around for more dregs.  “Thing is, Mr. Epstein, the first time around, you signed the Beatles in Liverpool, not Hamburg.”

Brian folded his arms.  “Well, that's just great.  You fly me all the way out to Hamburg to tell me I need to fly all the way back to Liverpool?  Mr. Presley, would you please get your nose out of that cup and answer me?”

“You'll have to talk to George if you want details,” Stu piped up.

“Oh, George again.  I was just wondering why we hadn't heard from the great coordinator for a while.”

Stu ignored Brian's outburst.  “Linda was supposed to explain all that.  When the yogis changed the timeline, all kinds of stuff went wrong.  So, George had to come up with a theory to counterbalance everything.  And signing in Hamburg instead of Liverpool made the most sense to him.”

Epstein's face blazed a brilliant shade of red.  “You're telling me to change my whole life based on the theories of a raving lunatic who can't even predict the outcome of his own theories?”

Elvis licked a stray drop of the shake.  “Come on now, Mr. Epstein.  It's not as bad as all that.  George has put a lot of thought into all this.”

“He also put a lot of thought into sneaking into Buckingham palace and stealing Her Majesty's throne so Lennon and McCartney could redesign it.”

Elvis shrugged.  “The papers say that she loves the built-in cappuccino maker.”

Brian squeezed his eyes shut.  “Would you mind telling me exactly what role you play in all this, Mr. Presley?  You haven't given me any good advice.  You haven't done anything that Stu couldn't do himself.  So why are you here?”

Elvis gave a flourish with his hand.  “My job is done.”

Brian balled his hands into fists.  “But all you did was ride with me on the plane and in the car,” Brian protested.  “I didn't learn anything from you.”

“Mr. Epstein, let me explain something here.  I don't like the Beatles.  In fact, I used to shoot up my television whenever they appeared.”

Brian opened his eyes.  “Excuse me.  Did you just say that you shot your television?”

“Frequently,” Elvis nodded.  “But that ain't the point.  The point is this.  The Beatles knocked me right off my pedestal.  I never had a hit record again after they showed up.  All those women quit banging on my door and started mailing themselves to England.  I didn't stand a chance against four of them.  Hurt like the devil, but I decided that there was only one way that I could save face.  By dying.”

“On a toilet?” Brian asked incredulous.  “You call that saving face?”

“Not one of The Colonel's better ideas,” Elvis confessed.  “Which reminds me.  Stu, can we stop at that chicken chain before we leave here?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Presley.”

“But I don't understand,” Brian asked.  “If you're better off without the Beatles, then why do you want me to bring them into existence?”

“Because Mr. Epstein, being knocked off your pedestal by a respectable group like the Beatles is a lot easier to swallow than being knocked off your pedestal by a tuba-touting, disco-dancing wacko who surgically alters himself every time his record drops a notch on the charts.”

“I see,” Epstein nodded.

“Then hurry outta this car,” said the king.  “'Cause I feel famished.  And take this.”

Brian accepted the paper that the king handed him.

“Don't bother reading it.  Put it in your pocket for now.  It's a legal and binding contract for signing the Beatles.”

“Please don't tell me that George wrote this up,” Brian said.

“In that case, I'll just wish you a Bon Voyage and Happy Trails.”

Epstein shook the king's hand, then left the car and braved his way into the Kaiser Club.  “Oh God.”  Epstein nearly feinted from the smell of sweaty bodies.  “Give me strength,” he uttered.  “And give me a reason to do this.”

Epstein shoved his way to the front of the crowd and got his first look at a young John Lennon.  The vision made him gag.  “Oh you're going to change the world all right, Mr. Lennon.  What with that toilet seat hanging around your neck.”

Disgusted, Epstein turned and tried to shove his way back toward the club's entrance.  But then the band began to play.

Epstein felt his knees tremble.  His heart fluttered, and his arms began to move of their own accord.  He wanted to dance.  He wanted to sing.  He whipped around and shouted, “I want to sign you up now!”

Unfortunately, the music drowned out his words.  The gyrating teenagers pushed him from one end of the room to the other.  “I want to sign you,” he kept shouting whenever the dancers shoved him past the band.

After hours of flailing back and forth, Brian finally broke free and jumped on stage.  Lennon grinned and handed him a microphone.  “I want you!”  Brian screamed into the mike.  Lennon frowned and tossed Brian back into the crowd.  Brian found himself body surfing across the club.  “Heaven help me, this is my best suit,” Brian prayed.

Finally, the band took a break and the crowd released Brian.  Immediately he fought to get into the dressing room.

“Sorry about that,” he explained to John.  “I meant that I want to sign you.”

“Good for you,” John smiled.  He frowned.  “Now piss off.”

“Hang on a second,” Paul countered.  “What's all this you're saying about signing?”

“Look, I'm a very successful businessman.  And I think you fellows have a great amount of potential.  I want to manage your affairs.”

“Don't think the wife would like that,” Lennon snarled.

“I mean your business dealings.  I want to promote your music.  Get you into bigger arenas than this.”

“How about getting us a recording contract then?”  John asked.  “Can you do that for us, mister?”

“I'll do my best,” Epstein promised.

“Excuse us please,” Paul smiled as the group huddled together.  Brian used his suit jacket to wipe his sweaty brow.  “What am I doing here?” he whispered.  “Why am I agreeing to all this?  They sound good, but not nearly as good as they did when Linda played their song.  Maybe it's not too late to just sneak out of here.” 

Epstein began backing out towards the door as the Beatles broke out of their huddle.  “Done,” Lennon decreed.  You're in.”

You're signing me?”  Brian asked.

McCartney frowned.  “I thought you were signing us?”

“Well somebody's signing somebody,” Ringo beamed.

“Right, right.”  Brian pulled out the paper and had the boys sign.

“Hey, isn't that funny,” George remarked.  “Somebody got nearly the same handwriting as me.”

Brian snatched up the paper before George could examine it further.

“Whatcha staring at, Mr. Epstein?”  George asked.

“Ah yes, well.  I thought things would start changing once we all signed.”

George shrugged.  “How do you mean?  Aren't you the one supposed to be making the changes?”

Brian blinked.  “No, you don't understand.  This is the part where Elvis comes back in the limo to return me to Liverpool.”

John frowned.  “You been smoking some funny stuff, Mr. Epstein?  'Cause if you have, we might just want a crack at it.”

“Brian frowned.  “No, no, you don't understand.  They told me that the timeline would change when I signed you.  Well, I've signed you.  Therefore, the timeline has changed.  That means everything is going to be different.  And if everything is going to be different then I should notice some changes in my life.  But I don't see any changes at all.  All I see is that I'm thousands of miles away from home, stuck in a basement with four smelly lads and...”

“You want to sit down, Mr. Epstein?” Paul asked.

“Oh dear.  I'm stuck in a basement thousands of miles from home.  That's it, isn't it?  I can't go back, because there's no back to go back to.  There is no more furniture store. No more showrooms across the world.  No more magazine interviews or celebrities.  Just you lot.”

Ringo patted Brian on the shoulder.  “Cheer up Mr. Epstein.  We're not so bad.”

“So are you gonna spout nonsense all night long or are you gonna start managing us?” Lennon demanded.

Brian managed a shaky smile.  “Well, let's go then.  Where should we start?”

George frowned.  “Well, for starters, I don't like your tie.”

“Right, no tie.”  Epstein immediately unraveled the tie, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it.  “What's next, fellas?”

“Well, you can get me a new toilet seat,” Lennon decreed.  “This one's all taped together.”

“Coming right up,” Epstein agreed.  “Rule the world, will they?  Bah!  Humbug!”

***

December 25, 2001

Brian Epstein bolted upright in bed.  “Now what?” he snapped.  “Come on Lennon.  Quit playing around with the chains and the fog machine.  Get your body in here and tell me what you want.  Bloody H, I should never have given him a spare key.”

Lennon grinned sheepishly as he entered Brian's bedroom.  “Hello Eppy.  See, it all turned out for the best didn't it?”

Brian grinned.  “Yes, I suppose it did turn out rather well after all.”

“Ya know, since we've known each other for most of our lives, I think there's a few things I should be telling ya.”

“And what would that be, John?”

“Remember that day when George sat us all down and explained how the timeline had changed and how you had managed to change it all back and set it right.”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“Uh, well, it's quite possible that our Mr. Harrison left out a few little details.”

Brian began to sweat.  “What details?”

“Well, you know how the wife is into those card readings and crystal balls and that lot?”

“Yes, she's read my fortune once or twice,” Epstein nodded.

“Yeah, well.  Them cards told her the other day that some things didn't right themselves out the second time around.”

“Does it matter now, John?”

“Probably not.  But I thought you might want to know that in the original plan, you and me end up dead, Ringo ends up in AA, Paul goes on the Howard Stern show, and George gets sued, stabbed, sick, sued, sick ...”

“You know, something, Lennon?  I liked you a lot better when you were a ghost.”

“It had its advantages,” Lennon agreed.  “But you know how Macca is.  He'd never have agree to this reunion if I had to come on board as a ghost.  And George would be complaining that ghosts don't deserve an equal cut of the profits....”

“Go home, Lennon.”

“Come on, Eppy.  Can't I make myself a cuppa before I go?”

“Leave!”

“Well how come George gets to treat himself to your pantry, then?”

“Is he mucking about my kitchen?”

“You don't think Sir Paul is gonna wait on himself, do you?”

“Paul is in my house?”

“Claims Ringo dragged him.”

“Fine, fine, fine.  Eat whatever you want, don't shout, keep George off my computer, and please lock up when you leave.”

“Happy Christmas, Eppy.”

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.