Baby You're a Rich Man

Twenty Two

            All that was distinguishable on the bed was a large pile of covers.

            It might have been an installation of modern art; maybe a commentary on how life is like a crumpled sheets; overlooked, taken for granted, but essential. Or maybe the sheets would have an obscure meaning about how the world was in shambles and peace needed to be established.

            The mass moved every once in a while, but without this vital clue it would not have been possible to know that in its depths was something living, or more accurately two things.

            It wasn’t early in the morning but Paul wanted to sleep in and John didn’t want to disturb him, tangled as they were, their fingers laced together, Paul’s elbow jammed into John’s ribs, and his head in the crook of John’s neck.

            It was only until later that Paul finally decided it was time to get up, which prompted John to grumble something like, Thank you your highness.

            They were in the mess hall a little while later, as George was heading up into the stage. Ringo rolled his eyes at the sight of the two, late of course, edging into the room, trying not to be noticed.

            The Maharishi began to speak at the same time as they settled into their seats. “It’s been a tiring few days since we’ve been back. There are only five days left to search your inner self, though when you have reached inner peace, time will not matter anymore. Have you gotten closer to your inner souls?” he asked the general public.

            Several people shook their heads and one person was bold enough to call out: “No, not really.”

            “You didn’t?” George asked, tugging nervously on the collar of his tunic.

            “Have you really reached inner peace yourself?” somebody called.

            “And what is an inner soul?” another person added.

            Ringo nodded vigorously. “’M dying to know,” he muttered.

            “Um, er, that’s a rather complex topic,” George stammered. “In other news, we have new water-skiing and squirrel training stations!”

            He hurried off of the stage and people were left mumbling their dissent across the room.

*   *   *

            “We need to plan something big,” George said, pacing around the room. Pattie nodded absently, fiddling with her unraveling sleeve.

            “We need, we need a distraction. They might feel like prisoners in this camp.”

            “Prisoners?”

            “We need a grand finale,” George said. “Some kind of musical event, a famous band coming to send them off. Something to keep them excited.”

*   *   *

            “Five days,” Ringo stated.

            Mo nodded sadly. Ringo had said it baldly; he was asking her to choose.

            But she couldn’t really bring herself to do it; she’d be turning her back on the Maharishi, who had been kind to her. Very kind, though she preferred not to think of that now with Ringo nearby.

            Mo liked him, she really did, and he’d made it clear that he liked her too, but she wasn’t ready to dive into a different life. It would have been better if Ringo had been angry and hurt the first time she’d said no, and stayed angry with her. But he hadn’t, and instead kept trying, which made her even more confused as to what was right.

            She wouldn’t really know which option was right until it was too late, anyway, and this made her decision all the more painful.

            “Five days,” Mo sighed. It was peaceful up at the top of the hill, where the grass grew untamed, tickling her knees where her attendant’s tunic was riding up. No one had come to the hairdressing station in days, and somehow it was better that way, sitting and talking with Ringo, the only one who invariably paid attention to her.

            Five days until he left the camp forever, with or without her. The clock was ticking.

*   *   *

            Dinner was charged with tension as murmurings, , were making their way across the camp. Dreadful rumors were being whispered round, as people told that all the stories told of the Maharishi never happened.

            It was said that the Maharishi never went on a seven-year meditation trip, and had never seen his soul appear and guide him through the misty mountains and into a cave where he met a guru who explained to him how to reach the inner light.

They told each other, as well, that the Maharishi hadn’t really been born on a boat filled with monks and that the moment he had taken his first breath, the month-long monsoon suddenly stopped and a single ray of sun had fallen on the infant’s forehead.

They said that he hadn’t been able to perform miracles and levitate at age two, and that his pet goat that could speak to him through their inner souls’ connection hadn’t revealed to him the secrets of the universe nor been healed by his prayer.

George was faced by an angry, restless crowd that afternoon.

“We have five days until our souls’ ways must part,” he began, and Paul swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. “On the last day, to celebrate our arrival to a state of spiritual holiness, we will be visited by a band from England.”

More people looked up at the news. “A rock band.”

People looked around at each other, and suddenly cheering swept through the room. George smiled in relief, wiping off a bead of sweat from his forehead. Maybe he would've made more money pretending to be a rocker than a guru.