Baby You're a Rich Man

Sixteen

Paul looked a little uncomfortable, and John couldn’t really blame him.

            He wanted to tell him that he hadn’t wanted Cynthia to come up and kiss him; he wanted to explain that they were on the verge of splitting up; he wanted to tell him not to feel bad for holding him during the night; he wanted to tell Paul to feel free to do it again, but he held his tongue.

            They were doing what they’d always done to fix awkward silence – smoking. Ringo was still inside, waiting at a long line to pay for his stack of Buddy Holly records. Paul opened his bag to give his hands something to do.

            John watched silently, evaluating Paul’s record choices. He had to admit he had good taste – after digging through the sales rack for at least half an hour he’d come up with a few gems for very little money.

            John had picked out a few records here and there, choosing very carefully like the record snob he was.

            Ringo appeared at the door of the records with a bag overstuffed with records. “I’m not going to have money to feed meself for the next two months,” he announced cheerfully.

            Paul offered up a smile to uphold his position as the optimistic one.

            The walk back to the hotel was nearly silent, as the sun set on the three of them, tinting everything with the conflicting hues of pinkish-orange and blue.

            After dinner John reiterated his request. “Let’s go to the pubs,” he told Paul almost confidentially.

            “But...”

            John spoke before Paul could find a reason not to go. “Live a little! Let’s go and explore.”

            Paul still looked unconvinced, but John was relieved when he nodded and picked his leather jacket off the bed.

            “We’re going out,” John shouted behind him to Ringo, and didn’t wait for Ringo to answer, which might have given Paul time to argue against one of John’s spontaneous, impulsive ideas.

            It felt nice to wear normal clothes again.

            John was wearing a shirt of the finest silk and hand-picked cotton blend with a designer dye; not to be dressed nicely, but because it was all he owned. Paul had similarly applied the concept of ‘normal dress’ to his rocker standards; he was wearing black drainpipe trousers, and a plain white shirt under his leather jacket.

            He looked just as he had when they’d arrived at the camp, and John reflected on how much had changed since then.

            Fulfilling John’s predictions, there was a street lined with lights and voices and the pervading smell of alcohol. John led Paul into the first pub they encountered; a filthy place packed with people that were so loud his eardrums throbbed.

            John shoved his way to the bar and pushed a bloke who had fallen into a sort of drunken coma out of the seat next to the one he’d just occupied. Paul broke through the crowd too, and clambered onto the seat next to John.

            The bartender saw them, and shouted something over the noise that was most likely an inquiry as to what they wanted to drink. John pointed to a whiskey bottle in the back and held up two fingers, to which the bartender nodded.

            He came back and set the two glasses in front of the pair, and Paul downed his in almost a few seconds, setting it down on the counter with an audible clang, and catching the eye of the bartender to have another one.