“Look out!”

Ringo ducked in quick response to John’s shout, hoping that whatever was incoming would miss him.  A thumping crash brought his attention back to his mate, who’d been ten paces behind him.  Turning, he saw a young lady sprawled on the floor at John’s feet.  Ringo looked up at the rafters, near twenty feet above him, and silently whistled.  That was quite a drop.  He walked back to them.

“It’s rainin’ gurls!” John exclaimed, a wide grin splitting his dimly lit face. 

“Ya alright, miss?” Ringo asked, extending his hand to help the girl to her feet.  Her face a study in panic, she scrambled up and raced away with nary a word to either of them.

“Damn,” John muttered, clearly disappointed.

Ringo shook his head in wonderment as John walked past him. 

Fans, he thought uneasily as he trailed after John.  What’ll they do next? 

Right, that was the question.  What wouldn’t they do to get close to a famous Beatle?  It was starting to get a bit frightening, actually.  It had been such a gas when it started, this Beatlemania, with the girls and the fame.  But it had really begun to pall on this tour.  Nobody was even listening to them play, they just came to the concerts to scream.  Ringo realized that he’d started to get the shakes before every performance lately.

Stage fright? he wondered dismally.  Can’t be!  I been performin’ in front of people fer years!  Wouldn’t th’ lads have a larf over this?

The roar of the waiting crowd wasn’t heard so much as felt, and Ringo took several deep breaths to steel himself against the shakes he could feel approaching.  Things were truly getting out of hand.  The crowds were getting bigger and bigger and the fans more and more unruly.  Police and guards at the front of the stage were commonplace now, and he’d heard that fans were hurt in the crowds because of the mad behaviour exhibited by more and more of the kids who came to see them.  It seemed as if the Beatles were prisoners of their own fame.  Everyone wanted a piece of them nowadays, the promoters and the reporters and especially the fans.  He wondered suddenly if it would be possible to be loved to death, and gave a convulsive shudder that he concealed with a cough as the other two joined them where they stood, waiting for their cue.  The screams and shouts blended into a rumble sounding much like a very, very large animal.  A hungry animal, he realized.  And he and John and Paul and George were the meal.

“Ready?” John asked, his grin fixed on with sheer determination, beads of sweat already standing out on his forehead.

Ringo wondered if his answering smile was as tight as John’s.

“Let’s go,” Paul said with an easy grin, seemingly unmoved by the guttural roar of the crowd.

George looked glum, but he nodded in response to John’s question.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE BEATLES!!”

They barely heard it, but the chord was struck and they burst out onto the field.  Ringo forced himself to breathe deeply as he followed his mates, forced himself to smile and wave to a crowd that was only a sea of faces, the waves of their bodies surging forward as if to engulf the four of them.  There were no faces and no individual sounds, only a mass of colour and a roar of noise.  Ringo hurried to keep up with his longer-legged friends, desperate to avoid being left behind.  He’d never felt so alone in all his life.  He’d be devoured, trampled and torn to bits, if they caught him.  And they was, of course, the crowd.  The faceless, voiceless crowd that spoke in one voice, a wail of sound that tore at his ears as it rumbled in his chest, seemingly forcing his heart to beat to its cadence.  He wanted to shut his eyes to blot out their faceless bodies and put his fingers in his ears to still the ceaseless roar.

Instead, he smiled woodenly and waved and hurried behind his mates, got himself up behind his drum kit and picked up his sticks.  The concert was fast, that was the best he could say about it, and the crowd never let up.  Ringo could barely hear the lads singing and he often wondered if he was drumming the right song.  Didn’t matter, he supposed, nobody was listening.  His mates didn’t pause between songs for reaction or chat with the audience, either, but jumped quickly from song to song in an obvious effort to finish as quickly as possible and escape.  Ringo kept up as best he could, feeling more and more alone, and smaller and smaller in that vast cacophony of screams.

The final bow almost took him by surprise.

“C’mon, Ringo!  Hurry up, we gotta get outta here!”

He dropped his sticks from suddenly nerveless fingers and raced to follow Paul, clambered into the rubbish truck behind his mates and listened to the noise from outside.  He was soaked with sweat and trembling with the aftermath of the distorted waves of screaming that still shuddered through his veins.  The relief he felt as the vehicle pulled out with a chugging pace was nearly overwhelming.  The four of them sprawled out in the space available, trying to make themselves comfortable for the short ride to the airport.

Don’t do it, Ringo warned himself, taking a breath and concentrating hard to keep his recalcitrant stomach from doing back flips in his abdomen, don’t be sick in front of ‘em.  ‘specially John.

He shook his head and smiled through gritted teeth when Paul offered him a fag, too intent on keeping his stomach under control to enjoy a quiet ciggie.  The clumsy vehicle lurched along, adding to his discomfort.

Despite being good friends with all the lads, Ringo reflected that he was still a bit wary of John.  John’s got no mercy, he thought.  He’ll pick at a weakness ‘til it bleeds.  That was fairly typical of anyone from the ‘pool, but John had perfected his caustic wit until it was as sharp as a filleting knife.  Ringo wanted to stay as far away from the knife’s edge as possible.  He’d seen just what that harsh tongue could do, and tho’ quick witted as any Liverpool lad, Ringo didn’t think he could match wits with John.  And so, despite the two years he’d been in the band, Ringo had stayed at arms length with John, keeping their friendship casual and trying his best to stay away from the sharp wit he knew could wound him deeply. 

If John finds out I’m havin’ stage fright, he’ll never let it go.

“Ya alright, Ritch?” George asked.

“Yeah, ta, jus’ tired,” Ringo muttered, shutting his eyes and resting his aching head against the side of the big truck.  Good ol’ George, Ringo thought gratefully.  The lad had been Ringo’s staunchest friend in the group, had even stuck up for him back at that first gig when all the Pete fans had booed him because their favourite had been sacked.  Like that was any fault of mine, Ringo thought with indignation, but the fuel for indignity was in short supply and he let the emotion fade.  Poor George had been socked in the eye for his valiant effort, he remembered with gratitude.

Further thoughts on that event were precluded by the arrival at the airport, and Ringo silently trailed his friends up the steps to their chartered aircraft, pausing at the top to paste on a smile and wave to the heaving, anonymous crowd that had gathered despite the late hour.  Their noise was thankfully overwhelmed by the usual sounds of a busy airport.  One final wave and he was inside the plane, strolling past the already seated reporters with studied nonchalance to the back of the plane, then dropping bonelessly into an empty seat.  He sat as if dazed, paying no attention to the ensuing takeoff, except to strap on his safety belt.  At least it was relatively quiet.  Comparatively.

“Wanna drink, Ritch?”

The clink of ice in a glass brought him back to the present and his stomach rebelled at John’s casual question.  Despite the oblivion he craved, the thought of alcohol burning a fire in his belly was too much, and his fragile control broke.

“Nah,” he mumbled, fumbling to unlatch his safety belt and making a sprinter’s dash for the loo.

Several minutes later, his sides aching with the spasms that had kept him crouched over the toilet, Ringo rocked back on his heels and gasped for breath.  It was some time before he could crawl to his feet, and he stood swaying unsteadily as he flushed the toilet and turned on the water spigot.

First time fer everythin’, he thought ruefully as he splashed the lukewarm water on his face and rinsed his mouth.  He’d always before been able to keep things together, this was the first time he’d gotten sick from his nerves.  Was he getting worse?  What if he couldn’t force himself on stage any longer?  What if he couldn’t support himself?  What about the future?  What about a possible wife and family?  What would he do?  He couldn’t face it anymore, not that horrid noise, the faceless crowd, the low and rumbling roar that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  But he was a drummer!  All he’d ever wanted to do was drum!  What if….

A knock at the door of the small loo brought him out of his spiraling, despairing thoughts.

“Ya alright, Ritch?”

John, Ringo thought in panic.  He steeled himself, bracing against the sink.  Opening the door, he forced a stiff smile onto his lips.

“Yeah, ta, jus’ somethin’ I ate.” 

Ringo was horrified at how weak his voice sounded.  John’s myopic gaze was focused on him with a dreadful intensity, and he didn’t look convinced.  Ringo took a breath and tried to make his smile more natural.  Unfortunately, the little room started spinning in an alarming way.  He shut his eyes to try and still the movement but that made it worse.  His balance affected, he pitched forward to the sound of a startled exclamation from John and felt himself caught by strong hands.  Every sound faded and Ringo sighed in relief as blessed silence smothered him in an enveloping embrace.

Sound was also the first to return, a hum of hushed voices barley audible over the noise of an airplane in flight.  Someone brushed his hair back and placed cool fingers on his forehead.

“I dunno, ‘e jus’ dropped like a sack o’ rubbish. ‘e doesn’t feel feverish, though.”

“Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“I dunno, Brian,” John sounded worried.  “Said ‘e’d eaten sommat bad.”

“’e looks pretty pale,” George’s equally worried voice noted.

“’e always looks pale,” was John’s quick reply.  “Ya know ‘ow t’ recognize a lad from th’ ‘pool, doncha?”

Ringo twitched involuntarily at the old joke.

“Shhhh, looks like ‘e’s wakin’ up,” Paul shushed them.

Opening his eyes took real effort.  Ringo blinked at the group of faces anxiously looking down at him.  He realized he was lying across a row of seats with a blanket covering him.  His head was in someone’s lap.  He hoped it belonged to the pretty blonde stewardess, he felt as if he could use some cosseting. Blearily, he counted noses.

George.  Paul.  Brian.  Mal.  The four of them looked down at him with varying degrees of concern.  Brian’s worry was plainly visible and near to panic.  George’s eyebrows were pulled together in a frown and Paul was chewing on his thumbnail.  Mal’s face outwardly looked the least worried, but his eyes were dark with anxiety.

“Richard?  How do you feel?”

Ringo tried to smile reassuringly in reply to Brian’s question.

“Fine, right as rain,” he croaked.

“Get ‘im some water,” John’s voice ordered, and Ringo was surprised to realize that it was upon John’s leg that his head was gently pillowed.

A cup of water was duly produced from somewhere and Ringo gratefully accepted the support that allowed him to sip from the glass.  Exhausted, he lay back down.

“’m jus’ tired,” he muttered to the anxious faces, desperate to reassure them and wishing they’d go away.

“Give ‘im some room t’ breathe,” John ordered as if he’d read Ringo’s mind.  His cool fingers rested on Ringo’s forehead for another moment while the others dispersed.

The lethargy that gripped Ringo’s limbs slowly faded, only to be replaced with an anxiety over John’s reaction to his weakness.  His mate would shortly be cutting him to pieces with his sharp wit, Ringo was certain.  After what seemed a long time, he struggled to sit up, grateful when John helped him into an upright condition.

“Ta,” he muttered sheepishly, avoiding John’s eyes by studying the seat back in front of him.

“Better?” John asked quietly.

“Yeah.”  Ringo continued to study the seat back.

“What’s wrong?”

Trying to summon a false smile, Ringo turned to look at John.  There was no sarcasm, no caustic sharp edge to John’s question, only warm concern in both his tone and in the squint he leveled at Ringo.

“It’s… it’s th’ screams, I can’t take it any more,” Ringo blurted, aghast to realize he’d let his guard down in a moment of weakness.  He tried to backtrack.  “I mean…”

“Yeah, I know,” John interjected, his tone level.  “Th’ fans ‘ave gone crazy, security’s a larf, an’ I’m afraid one of us is gonna get hurt.”  He paused to light a fag whilst Ringo stared at him in confusion.  Taking a deep drag and exhaling, John nodded.  “Yeah, it’s mad.”

“How d’ya stand it?” Ringo asked in a hushed voice.

John laughed, but it was a warm laugh.  Startled, Ringo wondered if he’d been mis-reading John for the past two years.

“I know it’s not gonna last,” John explained.  “Next year, th’ year after, maybe th’ year after that, th’ fans’ll be screamin’ over some other singer or group, they’ll ‘ave forgotten all about us.”  He took another drag on his ciggie and grinned at Ringo.  “Gotta take th’ money now whilst we can!”

“But what if… what if th’ fans get ‘hold of us?” Ringo asked.

John shook his head and tapped his ash into the little compartment on the seat’s arm.  “Nah, nothin’ t’ worry ‘bout, there’s security enough, we might get a bit roughed up, but that’s all.”  Glancing about as if to ensure they were alone, John leaned in close to Ringo, their heads almost touching as Ringo realized his mate was speaking in strictest confidence.  “We gotta be quick on our feet, an’ aware of our surroundings, that’s all.  We gotta stick t’gether an’ look out fer each other.  That’s th’ important thing.  We’re all in this t’gether, right?  T’gether.”

Ringo nodded as a deep relief washed over him, leaching the anxiety from his bones.  Together, as friends and companions.  He wasn’t alone after all.

“You ever been…,” he ventured to ask.

“Me?” John sounded surprised, although there was a definite sly humour lurking in his eyes as he grinned at Ringo.  “Nah, doesn’t bother me.  Now Hari’s another story.  An’ Paul, too.  But don’ worry, yer secret’s safe with me.  I won’ tell ‘em that ya tossed yer guts up ‘cause yer afraid of a few birds screamin’ at ya.”

Ringo grinned awkwardly.

“Izzat all it was, Ritch?”  George’s voice came from the row of seats ahead of them, and his grinning face suddenly popped into view over the back of the seat Ringo had been staring at only moments before.  “Stage fright get ya?  That’s good, we were worried it was sommat worse!  It gets nutters sometimes, doesn’t it?  An’ don’ b’lieve John, either.  I got stuck with th’ chore o’ holding ‘is head over th’ toilet at least once.  Nerves it was, sheer nerves.  We all get it occasionally.  We just gotta stick t’gether an’ get past it.”

Paul’s head popped into view, right next to George’s.  A smirk lay casually on his lips.

“Yeah, don’t let John fool ya, Ritch.  He’s got a real sensitive stomach!”

John snorted.  “Maybe so, Paul, but don’ ferget th’ time ya lost yer lunch an’ fainted like a gurl, ‘e fell like a rock, Ritch, kinda like you did t’day!  We had t’ toss a bucket o’ water in his face t’ bring him ‘round.”

Ringo couldn’t help smiling a bit shamefacedly.  But he felt better to know he wasn’t alone.

George nodded, grinning.  “That was a good one!  Paulie came out of it swearing like you couldn’t b’lieve!  An’ then thur was that time….”

The tales kept coming and each one was more outrageous than the last.  Wondering how much exaggeration had gone into their fables, Ringo was shortly laughing aloud over their varied bouts of stage fright and resulting sickness or unconsciousness.  Brian stopped by with relief when he heard their laughter, but stayed only long enough to hear a bit of the conversation before turning slightly green and rushing back to the relative safety of the front of the plane and the tired reporters lounging there.

“Welcome t’ th’ club, son.  Took ya long enough t’ get ‘ere,” John said with a wry grin.

The laughter and friendship surrounded and enveloped Ringo in a warm and comforting embrace.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie, and Ringo let the memory slowly fade.  He stood up and stretched before pulling the door open.

“Five minutes, Mr. Starr,” the waiting stage-hand said.

“Ta, is everybody else ready?” he asked.

The young man nodded quickly before turning to other errands, and Ringo hoped he was right.  Still, he’d been rehearsing with this group for several weeks, so he supposed everything was set.  And if not, well, they’d figure it out as they went along.  Even though it was opening night of the tour, being on stage didn’t cause him any concern, not since that flight so many years ago.  Stage fright was a barely remembered phenomenon thanks to his friends. 

Male bonding over a common experience, that’s what they’d call it t’day, Ringo thought with an inner smile.

He exited his dressing room and headed for the communal area leading to the stage.  The others were already there and milling about with hushed voices and nervous gestures.  First night nerves, he supposed.  Ringo gathered them all into a circle.

“We ready?” he asked, and received a variety of answers from nods to firm replies.  “Right, then.  Don’ ferget, we’re all in this t’gether.  We gotta look out fer each other an’ give ‘em a good show.  T’gether!”

“Together,” the rest of the band echoed.

Hugs were exchanged all around and band members headed to their places on stage.  Ringo waited, alone with his thoughts, bouncing on his toes as he waited for his cue.  They could get through anything together, John had said.  Well, he’d been right and wrong, Ringo supposed.  But the knowledge and depth of that close togetherness had never faded.  He might be by himself right this minute, but he knew he was never alone, not really, not where it mattered.

“Thanks, John,” he whispered as he touched fingers to his chest, felt the excited drumming of his heart beneath his fingertips.  “Thanks, George.  Thanks, Paul.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME RINGO STARR!”

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 many years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.