Baby You're a Rich Man

Six

“Basket weaving?!”

            “I don’t know, John! Can’t I do what I want?” Cynthia said, losing a bit of her patience.

            “But, but—then I’ll have to be with the peasants by myself,” John argued.

            “There are many people of our status,” Cynthia answered haughtily.

            “What about primal screams?” John asked hopefully, only half-joking.

            “John, that’s unbecoming.”

            John nodded, quickly going over the possible activities he’d heard the Maharishi list.

            “What’s a neutral activity?” John asked. Cynthia usually had a sense for these things.

            “Music.”

            John looked up at her, his face screaming panic. “No, I can’t—“

            “It won’t be more than mantras, I’m sure,” Cynthia said, placing a reassuring hand on John’s arm. “I’ll be at basket-weaving,” she said, letting go of her husband.

            John stood there for a moment, undecided, but eventually he turned towards the stage, where a few people had accumulated.

                                                             *   *   *

            Ringo looked like a small child who had gotten the toy he wanted for his birthday. “Oh, this is a beauty,” he mumbled, tracing his fingers over the bass drum of a shiny, coal-black drum set. Paul smiled as he went on about the pearl encrusted details, and handled the ebony drumsticks that had been laying next to the cymbals, which seemed to delight Ringo as well.

            While they’d been at lunch, they’d wheeled out on the grass racks and racks of instruments, notably guitars, some electric, and a variety of drums, but also brass and string instruments, which made Paul wonder what kind of music they would be making. Paul, of course, would contend with no less than his own beloved leftie electric bass, but others were milling about, some picking up a guitar, strumming a few clumsy notes then putting the guitar down, as if ashamed of the uncoordinated sound they'd produced.

            The most timid of the people would pick up a triangle and strike it slightly. Paul busied himself tuning his instrument, while Ringo sat at the nicest drum kit out of four, presiding over the small group of people with a self-satisfied smirk.

            Paul raised an eyebrow as he saw John shuffle in awkwardly, still looking strange in his tunic. John looked away, as if he were almost ashamed at the fact that he was there.

            John thought maybe he could sing the mantras and melt into the crowd, but he suddenly saw the rack of guitars. Lined up neatly were guitars and basses, electric and acoustic.

            John’s hand gravitated to the guitar that had haunted his dreams, and he deftly picked up the black-and-white Rickenbacker 325 and swung the strap over his shoulder. It felt so right to finally hold it, the prized object he’d so wanted, and he experimentally strummed once.

            “I call your attention to my earthly form.” The Maharishi interrupted John’s thorough staring at every detail of the Rickenbacker, and made him look up. “We will now engage in a mantra to meditate. There are no rules, no notes. Just let your soul flow through in the form of sound.'