Baby You're a Rich Man

Four

            Paul knew it was nearing late evening, but the sunset summer sky stayed an impassive orange longer than it should have, the day seemingly refusing to die.

John had disappeared a couple of hours ago and Paul had busied himself messing about on his guitar while Ringo got some kip in his own bed.

            He stood up, his stomach growling slightly. In the excitement he’d missed a meal or two, and headed to the door of the cabin, wondering when dinner was. A small trickle of people were headed towards a cabin that looked like the main building as it was significantly larger than any of the other clumsy, lopsided cabins.

            Paul strode over to Ringo’s bed and shook him slightly. “Oi, Ringo, time for some nosh.”

            Ringo muttered incoherently before opening one eye slightly. “Eh?”

            “Dinner, you nit.”

            Ringo rubbed his eyes before getting up and stretching. Meanwhile, Paul had gone back outside and was watching curiously the stream of people, again looking for the rich and powerful, but they were too far away for him to make out anyone.

            Martha stretched and whined as Ringo walked past her, and Paul remembered he’d have to steal some food from the dinner to bring back to her. When Ringo clambered out of the rough wooden doorstep, Paul walked down to the center of the clearing, past the area where they’d sat facing the stage, then across the circular camp to the main building.

            Inside, he was directed to Table 15, the table that corresponded to his cabin number by another attendant wearing a tunic. Paul sighed in frustration; he wouldn’t be meeting anyone new at dinner. He’d seen some promising expensive-looking bouffants and suits, but all of the faces of the wealthy and powerful were hidden by dark or colored sunglasses.

            Paul shifted on the uncomfortable bench he sat on. The tables were all covered in powder-blue tablecloths, and simple silverware and stoneware were laid out on all of the tables. The room was quickly being filled up, but Paul saw no sign of the dinner being served.

            John arrived and sat opposite Paul, looking slightly disheveled, some of his hair falling into his forehead instead of swept back. It formed slight waves, Paul noticed, in the humidity.

            He looked quickly around the room, partly to avoid staring at John after the awkward display with his bass. He noticed a raised platform at the front of the room. Of course, there was another stage in this cabin. Paul assumed there would be another speech from the Maharishi before they could begin the meal.

            Again, he made them wait a little before appearing, taking his time to arrive on stage. He stood squarely in the middle before he began, and Ringo sighed in advance, expecting another onslaught of spirituality from the young, skinny Great Seer.

“Try to realize it's all within yourself, no one else can make you change,” he began, and moved to the side of the stage. He looked at the crowd with an expression of sincerity.

            “The people who gain the world and lose their soul; they don't know, they can't see. Are you one of them? Are you prisoners of the wall of illusion?”

            “Prisoners?”

            Heads turned towards the stage in renewed interest at the sound of a new voice. On the stage had arrived a blond bird that looked like she could be a model. Her hair color had a honeyed quality that testified to the fact that it was natural, and was cut in bangs that hung above eyes that were bright blue and wide. Long, dark lashes (these probably not as natural), highlighted her eyes, as did a liberal dose of eyeliner. In short, she was one of the prettiest birds Paul had ever seen, sitting casually next to the Maharishi, who snaked an arm around her shoulders.

          George smiled quickly at Pattie. She’d interjected right where they’d practiced, to add more impact to his daily dinner speech the first night. She smiled back, revealing an adorable slight gap between her front teeth.

            He took a deep breath and continued. “Yes, prisoners. Peace of mind is waiting there, and the time will come when you see we're all one; and life flows on within you and without you.”

            “Remember, we all live in a yellow submarine,” was his parting comment, as he left the stage with his lovely girlfriend.

            “Yellow submarine?” Ringo asked doubtfully.

            “Maybe it’s a metaphorical submarine,” Paul said, shrugging at the Maharishi’s strange words.

                                                      *   *   *

            “Good girl,” Paul murmured, stroking Martha’s furry head as he fed her a copious portion of fish and chips.

            “Is it healthy for her to eat that?” Ringo asked.

            “She’ll be fine,” Paul answered. When Martha finished she gave a low whine and stretched out on her back. Paul scratched her between the ears and mumbled things Ringo and John were both too far away to hear. John watched this strange display of affection. He’d never had a dog and couldn’t understand this kind of attachment and affection. He had cats, but the kind that preferred to stay aloof; and John never did the feeding, that was why he paid people to take care of the house, after all.

            “Going out for a smoke,” John muttered, heading outside. He stood outside the cabin, overlooking the gentle slope the of the earth, gently scattered with clumps of drying grass, into the center area of the camp, where the deserted stage stood.

            He lit a fag and brought it to his lips, still overlooking the entire camp like it belonged to him, and it could well belong to him with a snap of his fingers and a transfer of money from his Swiss account, but he had better things to do at the moment. John sighed into the ciggie, and decided he should go see Cynthia before they went to bed.

            John returned much later, and the cabin was still and quiet. Paul wasn’t yet asleep, but was in a semi-dozing state, his eyes closed and body relaxed, but mind still half-aware. Moments before he fell deeply into sleep, Paul thought he heard John humming Twenty Flight Rock, but he couldn’t be sure. His last thought, as his mind closed off, was that he was probably hallucinating, like some nights when he heard Mary’s voice before he drifted off.