The Life We Once Knew

Ten Good Years

"I want a divorce, McCartney."

Everything stopped. The entire world stopped turning at John's words. The birds stopped chirping, the people stopped laughing, and the world started weeping as soon as John Lennon said those five words. All of us stared at him, soaking in exactly what he had said. Only John seemed pleased with it, the rest of us were a mix of complex emotions.

The Beatles were a beautiful thing, perhaps the most beautiful thing music had ever created, or that had ever created music. They were something special, but they weren't something that was meant to last. When you get to the point where you're in the public eye no matter what you do, where every move is criticized, and where what you love becomes more of an obligation than a joy, things are bound to break apart. The Beatles weren't immune, and they knew it. Ever since The White Album, they knew it, but they denied it. All were so attached to the group, they didn't know what to do without it. Only John had to confidence to pull the plug, and, in all actuality, John didn't come to this decision on his own.

"You-wha-" Paul stuttered, unable to find the words.

"I'm quitting The Beatles," John replied, "Officially. We all saw it coming, Paul, you had to have too."

Paul couldn't reply. He opened his mouth several times, but no words came out. George and Ringo looked on solemnly. They knew this was coming, and part of me thinks they knew it was going to happen that day. They were ready, but Paul wasn't. Quickly, I lunged to my feet.

"John, you can't be serious," I said.

John spun to face me, "Of course I'm bloody serious, Amelia, I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

I don't know which hurt worse, John breaking up The Beatles or the way he used our names. He always called Paul Macca or Paulie, but never McCartney. Since the day I met him, I had always been Mel, never Amelia. John never used our real names unless he was angry, or trying to make his point clear. 

"But, this is your life," I argued, "These are your mates, your brothers. You can't just drop them like that."

"I can and I did. I'm sick and bloody tired of being a Beatle. This isn't my life-not anymore."

Yoko came up behind him and rested a supporting hand on his elbow. At the time, all I could think was how this was her fault. John was perfectly happy being a Beatle before she showed up. Everybody was content before she inserted herself directly in the middle.

"John, please, just think about this," I practically begged.

John frowned, "I have thought about it, and I'm going to do it. I'm done. I quit."

Paul looked like he was going to collapse. Even I felt the despair of a loved one dying. The Beatles were exactly like that, a loved one. They were someone we had in our lives since we were kids, losing them felt like losing Mum all over again. George stood, abandoning his guitar on the bench behind him, "I'm out too."

"Here here," Ringo agreed.

"Not you lads too," I mumbled.

George shrugged, "It's not what it used to be, Mel. We've all grown up."

"As a Beatle."

"We've grown out of it," John replied, "We're not who we were ten years ago."

"That shouldn't matter."

"But it does."

I glanced around the room. All I saw were three tired faces, all ready to get out of the life they thought was dragging them down. Being a Beatle did get tiresome, but only if you made it so. In my mind, the only way for them to make things better was if they got up and did something about it. Breaking up was the last thing I thought they would ever do, but there it was. History was unfolding before my very eyes and I refused to see it.