Baby You're a Rich Man

Eighteen

George didn't bother announcing that it was again a free day; it was almost a given, and people had started to leave the hotel to go explore even before giving him a chance to tell them to.

He was somewhat worried that the camp was becoming too secular and losing its spiritual aspect; but as long as the campers were happy and didn't sue him, George was happy.

George noticed that a couple of people weren't rushing outside; Paul and John seemed to be heading up to their hotel room, while John's wife stayed inside as well, looking furtively around corners and her general countenance made her seem unwell.

George sighed. As much as he wanted to get to know the people from Cabin 15, it was none of his business, really. He was the Maharishi.

* * *

Paul felt bad. John had been sulking all morning after their little exchange, so he wanted to make it better between them. John had flung himself dejectedly onto their bed, and Paul stood over him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"That's a nice hat and that is all," Paul sang suddenly, to a tune John had never heard before.

"What?"

"There's your chorus," Paul said.

"That's a nice hat?" John repeated, his expression doubtful.

"It's just the working lyrics," Paul said, shrugging. "We can find better ones." He opened his suitcase and rummaged inside, pulling out a notebook where he kept his lyrics, and opened to a fresh page. He clicked the pen he'd just found, and wrote in John's lyrics.

I get high when I see you walk by, my oh my

When you sigh my, my inside just flies, butterflies

Why am I so shy when I'm beside you?

Just the sight of you makes nighttime bright, very bright

Paul made a little mark after the second and last lines, and John watched in fascination as Paul picked up John's Rickenbacker, flipped it over like it was second nature, and played a few notes.

"How about 'it's only love'?" John suggested. Paul paused, and cocked his head slightly, evaluating John's suggestion.

"It's only love, and that it all," Paul sang. He smiled at John. "It works."

"Alright, now 'why should I feel the way I feel'?"

"'Why should I feel the way I do,'" Paul amended. John nodded and sang it himself once.

"It's only love, and that is all, why should I feel the way I do," John sang.

"It's only love, and that is all, but it's so hard, loving you," Paul improvised.

John clapped and Paul laughed slightly at John's overactive enthusiasm.

"Did you know, the band you insulted yesterday quit their gigs at that pub after being publicly shamed by a British stranger," John said.

Paul smiled wickedly. "I suppose the pub needs live music for tonight."

"We've already got a drummer, and I can do lead, but we still need a rhythm guitar..."

"I think I know who can help us get this gig."

* * *

"Bored, bored, bored," George said out loud. He wasn't even wearing his tunic anymore, instead clad in a simple shirt whose sleeves he'd rolled up, and trousers.

George tried saying the word with different inflections. "Bored, BORED, BOred, BoRED."

A knock came at his door, and assuming it was Pattie, he called out: "Yeah?"