Baby You're a Rich Man

Two

            It was John who spoke first. “How did you manage to pay for the trip?”

            It was impossible for Ringo to not feel insulted for this under normal circumstances, and especially on such a short temper John’s remark infuriated him even more. “What d’ye mean by that?” he asked angrily.

            “Well, obviously—“ John was interrupted by a squeeze on his arm, and looked to Cynthia, whose sugary-sweet smile told him to stop talking because he was being an arse.

            “Oh, I won tickets at a raffle,” Paul explained. John nodded slowly, this made sense. There was no other was to have riffraff like them coming to such an exclusive trip. They must be so happy and feel so lucky to share a van with the Lennons, of all people.

            Ringo was furious, but didn’t want to show it. Paul had just confirmed the man’s view of them as poor and insignificant. Things weren’t improved when Martha suddenly howled as they hit a bump, trying to get up from where she was curled, underneath Paul’s legs.

            “I’m Paul,” said bloke offered. He was always one to be friendly, and he was especially curious about the man and the suit and the woman next to him. “I suppose we can’t shake hands."

            “No, just do it over my bloody head since I’m so little,” Ringo muttered, but nobody heard, or everyone ignored his snarky comment.

            “I’m John Lennon, and this is my wife, Cynthia,” he said, gesturing unnecessarily towards the woman. She smiled prettily at Paul, whose eyes had suddenly grown wide, twisted uncomfortably in his seat in an effort to face the couple.

            “You’re—“ Paul started, his voice half-hushed by awe.

            “Yes, yes, no interviews please,” John said, waving him away with a hand gesture that seemed so carelessly familiar that Paul could imagine the years of moving people according to his will with such a small movement.

            He knew the Lennons, who owned, among other companies, Pear Records, where they’d been trying to arrange getting signed into the label, with no such luck so far. Word around Liverpool was that they were so filthy rich they could buy the city if they wanted, and everyone was careful to tread respectfully around the Lennons, who had enough power to tear down or make reality your wildest dreams.

            And suddenly Paul found himself in a van with the man himself, heading to a place where they’d be in close quarters, meditating as equals. This thought lit Paul with a strange fire, a mixture of nerves, and somehow excitement—this was his big adventure, going out to meditate, write songs, and be inspired.

            He was left to his thoughts as the van rolled impassively on through the rough and uneven surface of what was obviously a seldom used road that led to the reclusive home of Maharishi George Harrison.

            A second attempt at conversation was made, surprisingly, by John. Paul wondered whether it was wrong to call him John, even in his mind, and if it wouldn’t be better to mentally refer to the man as Mr. Lennon. Somehow that felt strange, John being visibly around the same age as him, and Paul liked the sound of his name, even mentally, John.

            Suddenly reality called him back.

            “I said, wher’re ye from?” Paul detected a hint of impatience in John’s voice, which brought out an accent Paul wasn’t hard-pressed to recognize.

            “Liverpool. But from what I’m hearing, you’re as Scouse as I am.” A sly smile couldn’t help but form on Paul’s face.

            John reddened. He’d worked with speech therapists and tried to spend weeks in London, surrounded by the generic British accent, but he couldn’t seem to get rid of the harsh sounds and twisted vowels.

            “Look at ‘im. He’s all red,” Ringo remarked. It occurred to him that this might not have been the best thing to say to the millionaire that practically owned every company in his hometown, but for some reason tact was not something markedly present during that ride in the van.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John’s posh accent had returned, as it always managed to do when he was calm.

            “What about you, Mrs. Lennon? Where are you from?” Ringo asked, looking past John. He felt it was only fair for the two of them, who were currently being ignored.

            “Hoylake,” Cynthia said with a smile. “Please, call me Cynthia.”

            “I’ve been there. It’s a nice place,” Ringo said.

            And so the van fell awkwardly silent for another while.

                                                         *   *   *

            They arrived to a small arch Paul assumed was a gate of some sort, roughly carved and the trees it was made of still recognizable. Paul pulled his trunk out of the back of the van, while Martha sniffed at a patch of plants curiousl. Ringo heaved his trunk out and took a look around the place, the somehow flowery and fruity breeze cooling him as it ran through his hair and leather jacket. Cynthia stayed back, a short distance from the van, unused to lugging around her own stuff.

            John groaned when he realized no one would be there to help them with their luggage, and he’d have to do it himself. He reached deep into the van that smelled of broiled plastic after running under the sun on a hot day and pulled out his trunk. Two more, belonging to Cynthia, were extracted from the van, and he piled them on the floor. The driver started to drive away and John raised his arm in vain, hoping for directions, but they’d been left next to the strange archway.

            Paul made up his mind first; he hadn’t come all the way to India to hesitate. His suitcase swayed, its small wheels unready for the bumpy and uneven grassy ground as he crossed the archway, Martha at his heels.

            “Come on then!” he exclaimed. The other three looked unsure, but eventually followed, curious to see the mysterious meditation camp.