Baby You're a Rich Man

Seven

            “’Ello, Stu,” John said, not bothering to hide his real accent with someone who’d heard it so often.

            “Finally taken up the family business, ‘ave you? What about ‘it’ll be bigger ‘n Elvis?'”

            Stu’s eyes flashed as he spoke, and John knew he hadn’t been forgiven for breaking up the Quarrymen and leaving to learn the family business; that is, the business of being rich.

            “So yer still playin’ rock and roll?” John asked with genuine interest. He lit a fag and brought it to his lips. He fished out a pack from his pocket and offered one to Stu. When Stu took it he knew that his smoking habits hadn’t abated, not in ten years.

            “No, ‘m at the Liddypool College of Art,” Stu said, lighting his ciggie.

            “Why aren’t ye out painting your soul, then?”

            “I wanted to try the music activity, for the sakes of the good ol’ days,” Stu said, with another pointed glare at John. A comfortable silence ensued, filled with smoke and the dark patterns of the shadow of the tree. “Ye’ve gotten yerself married.”

            John nodded slightly, squinting at Stu. His vision was slipping in and out of focus slightly, as he forced his eyes to try to dredge up details of the face of the man in front of him.

            John reached into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out his old Buddy Holly glasses. He put them on and blinked, feeling his headache subsiding. Stu smiled crookedly, and now John could see his teeth instead of a vague white shape.

            “Ye still got those glasses?” he said, his voice on the verge of amusement.

            “’M still blind without ‘em,” John answered. Stu nodded lengthily, as if understanding something.

            “Mate,” Stu said, reaching over to his fag to pull it out of his mouth and crush it under his foot. “Ye think yer all proper and different, but ye’re still the same, John.”

            And with that he left, going to “paint his soul,” chuckling at John’s ironically accurate description.

            John took off his glasses, folded them, and put them back in his pocket. He let his surroundings blur until all he could see was a distorted background of green.

                                                        *   *   *

            George had given up on trying to do mantras, as everyone wanted to do their favorite songs – do them badly, of course, because that was just George’s luck. He sat in a corner, idly plucking his sitar, listening to two blokes butcher You’ve Really Got Me, wincing every time they tangled their fingers and got the notes wrong for the guitar solo, a perfect background for their off-key singing.

            The string instruments, the trumpet, and the man with the triangle had gathered to make a makeshift orchestra. They timidly played a simple scale together, as another loud song, this time bad Elvis, played over them.

            George should have stayed with mantras, but it seemed he’d lost control of the group. “That’s sharp!” he called out sourly, but the singers either didn’t hear him or were ignoring him, because they kept playing and singing too sharp, which threw off the entire song.

            George thought that if he left, they probably wouldn’t even notice. He stood up, leaving his sitar, and passed the dark-haired bloke who had played Roll Over Beethoven. He was good; he’d thought at first, but now, listening to the terrible singing that the others were producing, he held the bloke in even higher esteem.

            He realized he didn’t know his name, or the name of any other campers. The bloke was at the grand piano, trying out some chords. George thought he might have been writing a song, but he couldn’t be sure. He turned quickly, not wanting to be seen, and slipped away into the forest.

            He, of course, had his own cabin; he did need to sleep somewhere. This cabin was also badly made out of wood, and he shared it with Pattie. He unlocked the door; reserving to himself the privilege of a lock on his cabin. He opened the door and locked it again.

            George let himself fall onto the bed and felt himself drift off almost immediately into a well-deserved nap.

                                                      *   *   *

            It was dinnertime soon enough, and Paul realized that the whole time he’d been at the camp, they’d never served lunch. He didn’t think much of it, maybe it was something they did to the breakfast, but he never seemed to be hungry during the day.

            They all filed into the main building, and Paul sat at Table 15 next to Ringo. John came in a little later, looking disheveled; his hair messed up and with some leaves in it. Paul decided not to make any comment as John sat at the table, cigarettes on his breath.

            Paul prepared to wait for the Maharishi to appear, as usual. He sighed and held his chin in his hands, looking down at the blue tablecloth.

                                                    *   *   *

            George woke with a start, and suddenly noticed it was dark. “Shit.”

He cursed under his breath more vehemently now as he started to really wake up, and realize how late he was to the dinner.

            His yellow tunic was crumpled, and he tried to straighten it or smooth it out, but to no avail. He shoved his feet into sandals and, hopping to the door with one sandal only half-on, he groped around the dark room’s shelf to find the key.

            He slid it in, unlocked the door, and yanked it open. Locking it again quickly, George only had one option: to run in a crazed, undignified way.

                                                    *   *   *

            “This is long, even for ‘im,” Ringo remarked.

            “I don’t know what’s taking him so long,” said the female attendant that had served them breakfast. She ran a hand through her dark hair, which was cut into blunt bangs above her eyebrows.

            Suddenly Ringo’s attention returned. “’M Ringo,” he said, smiling in an entirely new way, the full force of it directed towards her. Paul groaned barely audibly and turned away.

            The girl looked at him strangely at the mention of unusual name. “Ritchie for friends,” Ringo added.

            “Maureen,” she said, smiling back. “Mo for friends,” she echoed, mocking him slightly, not that Ringo minded.

            Paul was saved from witnessing any more of this by the sudden appearance of the Maharishi. He appeared on the stage, then crouched down, his hands on his knees, looking out of breath.

            His thin body heaved for half a minute, until he straightened up, smoothed his tunic, and faced the crowd. George’s mind was racing for an explanation.

            “The sky is blue, and the sea is green,” he started, making something up as usual. “But I am in my yellow submarine. But not only me. We all live in a yellow submarine.”

            He hurried off of the stage.     

            “Maybe the submarine symbolizes – no, I’m lost,” Paul said.

            “Your are too attached to your earthly form, young one. The submarine is yellow for all that is holy – sunlight, lemons,” Ringo said, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. “And the submarine, like your soul, has a periscope, to see into the inner light.”

            Ringo wore a self-satisfied smirk all dinner after Maureen laughed at his joke.