To: RationalMagic.com/Rooftop Sessions@RationalMagic.com

From: LishaGoldberg@Lishaworld.com

Subject: Beatles Fantasy Story

Dear Rooftop Sessions,

Thank you very much for publishing my Beatles fantasy story, Terminal Attraction. I cannot begin to express how wonderful it felt to see my first story in print! Even more exciting -- I got fan mail!!! What a thrill!!!! Please, please me and help me extend a great big Beatle THANK YOU to everyone who encouraged me to keep on writing.

And now for the bad news. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my career as a Beatle fantasy writer has officially ended.

See, I got myself into a little bit of trouble, and...

Okay, I lied. I got myself into a lot of trouble. It all started with a single piece of e-mail from a Terminal Attraction fan. Here, read it for yourself.

To: lishathegreat

From: george@fab4.co.uk

Hello Ms. Goldberg. I read the Beatles fiction story you wrote for Rooftop Sessions called "Terminal Attraction." Just wanted you to know that it gave the wife and me a giggle. Are all Beatle fans as silly as you? Do you have a life outside of Beatles? We did stop playing a few years ago, or haven't you noticed?

Hare Hare Krishna Kringle. Happy Holidays.

Love, George

Did I scream, smack myself on the head, and jump around the room? You betcha. Because this time I wasn't gonna fall for it!

See, my Uncle Joe knows all about my Beatles obsession. And over the years he's gotten a real kick out of "Beatle-ing" me. Like the time we were walking through Boston's fancy Back Bay area and Uncle Joe suddenly yelled, "Look! Ringo just went into the Ritz!"

Superman couldn't have bolted into the Ritz any quicker than I did. Faster than a speeding bullet (and smellier, too, having spent the day walking in the hot sun), I raced up and down the hallways, ran through three gift shops, and even poked my nose into every elevator. I skidded to a halt at the entrance to a fancy restaurant. "I'll just have a look at the menu," I said casually. The tuxedoed man sniffed and handed me a menu with his white-gloved hands. As I pretended to read, I frantically scanned the restaurant. Meanwhile, the restaurant host frantically scanned me. I guess he had something against my cut-off shorts and my "I go ape over the Franklin Park Zoo" T-shirt (complete with gorilla and bared teeth).

That's when Uncle Joe sneaked up behind me and grabbed my elbow. "What are you doing here?" he reprimanded me. "I told you to meet me at the front desk." As he propelled me away from the snotty waiter, my uncle's stern expression dissolved into laughter.

"I never saw anybody run so fast," he cried. "Ever think about doing the Boston Marathon?"

"Did you find Ringo?" I asked anxiously.

"Yes, babe, I sure did. He's in England, with all the other Beatles, and the Monkees, and Herman's Hermit."

"Hermits."

"They're all hermits now?" he asked me. "Is that what you do when you retire from Beatles?"

Then there was the time that I received a gorgeous invitation from the Marlborough Art Gallery. "Wine and cheese reception. View Yoko Ono's art work and meet her in person."

Did I fly over to Filene's Department store to buy the classiest (and most expensive) dress I could find? Did I rent a limo and a handsome driver so I could look like a somebody when I arrived at the gallery? Did I ever stop to think that I was not a gallery member, did not even know any gallery members, and had no reason in the universe to receive an invitation? Did I beg, plead, threaten, and even try to bribe the doorman to let me in anyway? Was I the best-dressed woman at the White Mountain Creamery? Did I cry into my double chocolate, extra thick frappe? (And for all you non-Bostonians, a "frappe," pronounced "frap" is what the rest of the world calls a milk shake. What Boston calls a milk shake is actually a blob of ice cream floating in milk and there's no shaking involved. (I have no explanation for that phenomenon. Nor can I explain how all Boston-based McDonalds and Burger Kings can get away with calling their frappes "milk shakes". Of course the greatest mystery of all, is why I am interrupting this story with all this pointless information.)) So, what is the point? The point is that Uncle Joe is darned lucky that he lives over 1000 miles away from me in sunny Florida. Because if he lived anywhere near Boston, he would no longer be living after the Yoko Ono incident.

Did it end there? Of course not. See, Uncle Joe's got a talent that he never told me about: he can mimic anybody he chooses. So when "Sir Paul" accidentally dialed my number and struck up a conversation with me, I experienced the ten most terrifying, heart-stopping, surreal minutes of my life. Part of my brain actually managed to conduct a reasonably sane conversation with "Paul." The other half of my brain wondered which would kill me first, my skyrocketing blood pressure, or my condo concierge (More on the concierge later.).

Wanna hear something even more humiliating? I fell for Uncle Joe's McCartney imitation TWICE!!!!

Phew! I didn't realize I would spend so much time talking about my Uncle Jokester. You probably forgot why I brought him up in the first place. So here's a reminder: it was that ridiculous e-mail fan letter from "George." That thing just reeks of Uncle Joeness! Because frankly, Dear Rooftop, much as I love and respect your web site, what are the chances that any of the Fabs actually sit down at their computers and do a web search for Beatle fantasy stories? And even if they did do that (assuming that they even owned computers and knew how to do web searches), what are the odds that one of them would find your web site and then click on my story and then bother to send me fan mail?

So, having thoroughly convinced myself of Uncle Joe's guilt, I fired up an e-mail to him. Here's a copy:

To: Uncle Joe

From: Your Favorite Most Wonderful Niece

Hi Uncle Joe!

How's life in sunny Florida? I'm sorry to take time away from your election protest, but I just wanted to let you know that I got your e-mail from "George" and I enjoyed the joke. Got any more stock tips?

Love,

Your niece up here in the freezing cold north of North America

You know, Uncle Joe hasn't quite gotten the hang of e-mail yet. ("It's my computer's fault," he assures me.). Uncle Joe can receive messages just fine. But when it comes to sending them...well... They usually arrive with a subject line, but no message. And I don't just get one of these. They come in batches of four or more. So, I have to open up all of them until I find the one that's not blank.

To: Nanook the Niece

From: Unclejoe

Dear L--

The presidential protest is going well. Harvey and Earl hopped onto their Harleys and led the Grey Panther's parade. Jolene made an obscene phone call to the Republican National Committee headquarters. And Stanley has chained himself to the American flag outside of a U.S. Post Office. I still haven't figured that out. As for your George joke, there's all kinds of jokes going on about the great Dubya. Which joke did you mean? I don't think I sent any to you recently. Maybe your Aunt Em did?

Love, Uncle Joe in Sunny Florida

I smacked myself in the head. "Aye yi, yi, Uncle Joe. You know me better than that."

Here's the next e-mail I sent to Uncle Joe.

To: His Majesty Uncle Joe in Sunny Florida

From: Your Royal High-niece

Dear Uncle Joe,

I'm glad you're enjoying the presidential hoopla. Now I know you're teasing me about the W George. You know that in Lishaworld, there's only ONE George and he sure ain't Mr. Dubya. I know it was you pretending to send me e-mail from a Beatle - now 'fess up!

Six blank messages later, I received this:

Hello from Sunny Florida,

My compliments to whoever is taking you for a ride with the George H joke. Sorry, I didn't think of doing that. Nope, it's not me or your Aunt Em.

Love,

Uncle Joe N. Lennon

PS. Maybe you should confront this masked e-mailer?

 

I smacked my head again. Right on top of the old smack, too. Thank goodness purple is my favorite color. "He's playing mind games with me!" I complained to my computer. "Of course Uncle Joe sent me that e-mail. That's exactly his style. He always..."

I moaned. "He always sends me a bunch of blank e-mails. The George message arrived by itself. No blanks." I bit my lip and thought, Who else do I know who would do that?

Then I started to worry. "What if it isn't someone I know? What if it's some weirdo? What if it's an ax murderer? What if he finds out where I live?"

"What if they just cart you away to the psycho ward?" I snapped at myself. "Maybe it's just a Beatle fan with a silly sense of humor." And with that, I sent the following e-mail to my mysterious fan:

Dear george@fab4.co.uk

Okay, I know you're not really George Harrison or any other Beatle. Time to admit who you are.

Lisha

Well, he admitted it all right. Here's what "George" had to say.

Dear Lisha

Really, it's me.

George

"What's that!" I shrieked as I pointed to my monitor. Since my monitor didn't respond, I had the unfortunate job of calming myself down.

"Okay, okay, you can handle this. It's easy. All you need is...Will you quit with the song cues and write the e-mail?"

Dear george@fab4.co.uk,

You have a wonderful sense of humor (pardon me, humour), and I'm getting a lot of laughs out of this. Now it's time to tell me who you are.

Sincerely, Lisha

Within the hour, the following e-mail showed up on my screen:

Dear Lisha,

It's ME, it's ME!

Love, ME

"AAAAACCK!"

Yes it's true. I actually screamed in living Technicolor.

I grabbed my monitor and shook it. "WHY DOESN'T HE GET A LIFE?!"

My monitor didn't take kindly to being shaken. I had to shut down the PC and reboot. Which gave me a moment to think. Who cares about "George's" life? Why don't I get a life? Why don't I just leave my "fan" alone? If he wants to be George, let him be George. Let him be Donner and Blitzen and Elvis and the American flag and let everyone salute him. Just leave him alone. Kiss him goodbye. Okay, don't kiss him, but you know what I mean.

Of course, I know what I mean. I'm me, aren't I?

Sadly, I am me. And this me can't leave things alone. This me has an obsessive personality disorder (self-diagnosed, of course). This me has to see things through to the end. So, this me sent yet another e-mail to that me:

Dear ME,

Okay, okay, it's you, ME. Now prove it.

Love, Me (not you, and certainly not any sort of George)

Two hours later, I got this response.

Dear Lisha

We take requests. Here are some Beatle secrets that even the Beatles don't know that I know.

Secret #1: Paul takes a guitar with him everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE.

Secret #2: John secretly yearned to tap dance.

Secret #3. Ringo sings in his sleep. (Krishna give us strength!)

Gear, fab, luv, luv, luv.

Love, George

I had to put a bandage on my head as a reminder not to slap myself there anymore. Who was this nutcase?

"I know, I know," I said to my monitor. "I promised to leave him alone. I'm going to behave myself now and I'm going to visit this nice, out of the way web site that sells stress relief stuff."

That's when I got the dreaded Instant Message:

IM: Surprise! It's me.

Too bad I don't have the right audio equipment to send him an Instant Scream. I had to satisfy myself with this:

IM: Hi. Still having delusions of Georgehood?

IM: Got my mind set on it, you might say.

IM: Ha ha, Mr. FauxGeorge, that joke was almost funny. Here's how you can prove to me who you really are. Tell me how you pronounce your son's name. I've heard it pronounced three different ways.

IM: Hi L! To answer your question, I pronounce my son's name three different ways. Let me know if you find out the right way to say it, 'cause he's getting annoyed with me.

IM: Hello Smarty Pants. Please identify yourself so I can get on with my life!

IM: Dear Doubting Thomas,

What will it take to convince you that I'm me?

IM: Dear Non-George,

Oh, I'm quite convinced that you're you alright. I'm just not convinced that you is George. The real George spends all his time gardening or recording. He doesn't waste his time piddling on the web. I read the fan mags, I should know.

IM: Is that so? Sorry, I'm getting another instant message. Hang on a sec, 'cause I'm not too good at handling all this techno wizzy gear.

I waved my hands at my PC as I waited for "George." "The nerve of him to instant message me!" I complained. "And right in the middle of my anti-stress campaign!"

My computer responded with a new instant message.

IM: Hello there Miss America. George says you don't believe it's him. I agree. He is unbelievable at times, but still, he's real enough. Take care. Paul McCartney. PS. I'm real, too.

"AARRRGGGGGHHHH!!! It's a plot, it's a plot," I hissed to my PC. Someone or ones is or are trying to make me crazy. And the sad thing is that it's working."

I narrowed my eyes at my computer screen. "Okay Georgebreath, let's see how you handle this:"

IM: Hey "George", here's my phone number. Call me.

Call me? Call me? "Who typed that!?" I screamed, but it was too late.

IM: Ok, L. Be ready to hear from me in ten minutes.

"Ten minutes? Ten minutes?" I panicked. "What should I do? What should I do? Should I call the police? No, no, the condo concierge would nail me for a noise violation. Should I ask a neighbor to come over? Yeah, that's what I'll do except....except, dummy, you only know one neighbor. She's about 103 years old and she introduces herself to you every time she sees you. What about.... what about... What about we keep obsessing until the phone rings?"

"AAAACK! The phone is ringing!"

"So pick it up, Einstein."

"I really better stop talking to myself like this," I warned as I picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, George Harrison here."

"I'm not impressed," I lied, thoroughly impressed with his imitation. "My Uncle Joe can do a great Paul McCartney. He even fooled me."

"Did he?" the caller asked. "That's pretty good. I can't do Paul, you know."

I snorted. "Look, you sound pretty good, but I still don't believe that you're the real thing."

"Well, what do you want then?"

"Your phone number."

"I can't do that!" he exploded.

"Oh, you can do that. You MUST do that. Otherwise, this will never end."

He hesitated. "Well, what are you going to do then?"

"What do you think I'm going to do? I'll call you, that's what."

"Silly girl. It will still be me answering the phone."

"It's not silly, it's brilliant," I bragged. "I'll call you when you least expect it. I bet you don't sound like George Harrison at 3:00 in the morning."

"I'll bet nobody sounds like George Harrison at 3 o'clock in the morning," he agreed.

"Okay, so give me your number."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes it's necessary," I snapped. "I'm losing sleep over this. Just give me your number and quit fussing."

"Right," he sighed. Got a pencil then?"

I promptly wrote down the number. Then I waited eight days and phoned him at two o'clock in the morning, British time.

"Hello?" said a sleepy voice.

"Hello Mr. Wannabe," I said brightly. "You knew it was me, didn't you?"

"Sorry?" he whispered.

"You knew it was me so you put on the George Harrison voice again."

"Oh, right." Mr. Politeness didn't bother stifling the yawn. "I knew it was you. How did I know it was you?"

"Caller ID," I said proudly.

"You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"

"Almost."

"Oh? What's the not figured out bit?"

"The not figured out bit is who you are. You're definitely not one of my British friends."

His tone indicated a pout. "We're not friends then?"

"Come on, whoever you are, why are you doing this?"

"You called me. Expensive is it, calling from America?"

"You're avoiding the topic."

"Which is?"

"Quick, sing me a song."

Much to my surprise, he obliged. "Something in the way she moos..."

"Ha, ha, ha. Okay, so you can sing like him, too. That's impressive."

"But you still don't believe it?"

"Correct."

"Supposing I put my wife on the line?"

"What, you've got the whole family in on this?"

"Look..."

"No, you look. This call is costing me a week's salary and I'm nowhere nearer to knowing who you are or why you're making me mental."

He laughed. "I'll have to say that it is rather entertaining. Tell you what, shall I have Paul phone you?"

"I'll tell you what. On your next album, write a song that mentions my name."

"Grand idea. What rhymes with Lisha?"

"You're cute."

"So I've heard. I'll have Ringo phone you, too."

"Don't forget Prince Charles. I'd love to marry him."

"Well, I don't know if I want to get in the middle of that. So how shall we end this, then?"

"Show up on my balcony."

"You what? Fly all the way to America just to prove it's me?"

"I'm only on the second floor. Anyway, you started all this, remember?"

"Okay, okay. Give me your address."

"Okay, it's in ...wait a minute! What am I thinking? I know who you are. You're some weirdo, or someone without a life, or you've got some emotional issue or other. No way do I want someone like that appearing on my balcony."

"Well looks like the jig's up."

"Not a chance. I've got a better idea. Buy me an airline ticket to Henley."

He snorted. "I've got a better idea. Don't call me in the middle of the night with your better ideas."

I sighed. "Oh, alright. I'll keep thinking. Give my regards to your wife, and your son, what's his name."

"Dandy," he replied, and hung up.

"Dandy?" I asked the telephone. "Does that mean his son is named "Dandy" or "Dandy, that woman is hanging up now?"

I slammed the phone into its cradle. "What's wrong with you? It isn't George, stop treating him as if he is!"

And so, Dear Rooftop, I returned to my regularly scheduled life. "George" stopped bothering me for days. Six of them, to be exact. And then on the seventh day, I got this e-mail."

To: lishathegreat

From: george@fab4.co.uk

Subject: Did you read the news today (oh boy!)?

Did you see our new, official Beatles web site? Did you notice it was designed with YOU in mind? What, don't believe me? Go to the homepage and scroll all the way to the bottom of the screen. See that square that's a bit off color on the right side? Click that. Magic - a password thingy appears. The password is your name! Clever, no?

Love, George

"What do you think, oh mighty Dell computer?" I asked as I typed in the Beatles’ web address. "Do you think you'll come down with a nasty virus or will you simply explode?"

Didn't look like there was anything strange on the Beatles web site. "A hoax," I announced as I scrolled down to the bottom of the homepage. "There won't be any off-color square. What's wrong with that man? Maybe he likes it when I yell at him in my e-mails. Maybe he enjoys having me call in the middle of the night. Or maybe that's an off-color square I'm staring at."

"Nice knowing you, Mr. Computer," I said as I clicked on the square.

A password thingy appeared. I entered my name.

"You know, Mr. Computer, I hate it when "George" makes me scream."

There, in front of my face, was a picture of George, Paul, and Ringo. And in their hands was a huge poster that declared, "Hello Lisha!"

My condo concierge hates it when I scream, too. Because that means he has to come check on me to see if I've fainted and fallen out of a window or something. And that entails a trip to my secret hiding place to find the spare key to my unit. "Can't you leave a spare key in the drawer like the other 103 residents?" he always moans whenever I lock myself out. "Climbing is good for you," I always reply. He's ugly when he shows his teeth.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I didn't faint this time, but my knees sure wobbled. I jello-ed my way over to the window and shouted to the concierge that I was okay, he could get out of the tree. He snarled at me. I snarled back. It's a sign of affection, you know.

Then I returned to my computer and smacked myself in the head. I hadn't done that in well over a week, so I figured it was safe to start that habit again. "He's a hacker!" I shouted in triumph! "Mr. George is a hacker! I'm gonna find you now!"

To: george@fab4.co.uk

From: lishathegreat

Gottcha! You're George Hackerson.

L

To: lishathegreat

From: george@fab4.co.uk

Stopped hacking when I gave up ciggies. Did you like the photo? Do you finally believe it's me?

G

 

To: george@fab4.co.uk

From: lishathegreat

Sorry Charlie. I'm a whiz with computer graphics. I can make a picture of you doing ANYTHING! Looks like you're gonna have to buy me that ticket to ride to Henley. I can get vacation time starting on GEORGE Washington's birthday and ending with George Harrison's birthday. How does that sound?

L

 

Four weeks passed and I didn't hear from "George." I even tried e-mailing him a couple of times, but he ignored me. I decided it was time to kiss him off.

To: george@fab4.co.uk

From: lishathegreat

You stink.

Love, L

That's when the concierge started pounding on my door. "Open up, open up, the police are here!" he screamed. "And I'm not getting your stupid key!"

I raced to the door and threw it open. I saw more than just the police and the red-faced concierge. I saw a news team, too.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"Some fruitcake was climbing up your balcony," shrieked the concierge. "But I called the police and they've got him."

I dashed over to my balcony and threw open the door. Out in the parking lot, a blond policeman led a tall, thin man towards the police cruiser. I frowned. Why did they make him turn his back to me? Disappointed, I leaned over the balcony railing and tried to get a good look. Was this him? The George Hackerson?

"Come on, come on," I prayed.

My skin prickled as the perpetrator spoke. "It really is me, you know," he said calmly. His George voice was flawless.

"Watch your head," the policeman said as the perpetrator stooped towards the car.

"I knew I was daft to try this," he complained.

Just before the policeman shut the car door, I finally caught HIS eye. HE glared at me. "Anything else I can do for you, miss?"

I don't know if it was me or the concierge who actually screamed. I know it was me who fainted because the TV crew filmed me dangling from the railing.

I didn't press charges, of course. I did, however, have to pay a substantial penalty fee to the condo association for (a) creating a disturbance before 9 am on a Sunday morning, (b) allowing news trucks to park in front of the condo for more than 15 minutes, and (c) hanging an object off my balcony (mainly, me).

I apologized profusely to Mr. H and invited him in for tea. Thought I would die when he agreed.

He raised his eyebrows when I showed him my tea selection. "Oh, you like those funny ones," he said with a hint of a laugh. Then I casually stuck two mugs of water in the microwave. You should have seen his face. You should have seen my face when I saw his face. "What? They're microwave-safe."

There followed a 20-minute lecture on the proper art of tea brewing, a live action demonstration, a hands-on training session, and lots of promises to behave myself.

Then I made a bigger mistake. You wouldn't think it possible to make a bigger mistake than the tea thing, but I managed. I promised to write a sequel to my first Beatle fantasy story.

Dear Rooftop, can you see my problem? Do you understand what I'm going through? How can I possibly write a sequel when I know that You Know Who will be reading it? The thought terrifies me. It nearly terrifies me as much as seeing those television reports of George arguing with the police. In front of my balcony. And let's not even talk about those shots of the concierge rescuing me. Why in heaven's name did I have to wear a skirt that day?

So here we are. A writer who can no longer write and a story that needs written because HE wants me to write it. Am I making any sense at all? For that matter, did I ever make any sense?

Please, Dear Rooftop, answer me as soon as possible, and tell me what to do about writing a sequel. And while you're at it, please, please, PLEASE let me know what I should do with all this Earl Grey tea. Fourteen cases of the stuff arrived rather unexpectedly this morning.

Thank you thank you thank you.

Lisha G

Although Lisha Goldberg never encountered a Beatle at the Harrisburg International Airport, she did meet Davy Jones there, and George Bush (sans W) really did force her flight to abort its landing.  She 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.