Dear Sean

Nine

Julian ran over to the corner and picked up a paper, then galloped back to Paul, the paper clutched in his fist. “I drew you,” he said, and Paul picked up the drawing, taking time to examine it.

“Looks just like me,” he said, and Julian beamed.

“Daddy and I are going to go write. Can you draw some more for me, to see when we’re done?”

Julian shook his head yes, and Paul turned to me as the small boy left in search of more drawing material.

“You’re bloody great with him. He’s never that happy around me,” I said wistfully while we stepped up the stairs to my room.

“Well, I do have a way of appealing to Lennons…” Paul said.

I looked at him disbelievingly and he giggled at his own joke.

“Don’t tell me that includes Cyn.”

“Dunno. Better keep an eye on her before I seduce her,” Paul said, another smile tugging at his mouth. He was definitely in a good mood today.

I pinned him against the wall and he closed his eyes, waiting.

“I think I’ll just keep an eye on you instead,” I growled, leaning towards him and feeling his quickening breath.

Uncle Paul and Julian got along very well. You didn’t get to see Paul that much because…well, that’s another story. Life is complicated, Sean.

“What’s that shite he drew you then?”

“John, this is actually nice,” Paul admonished.

“He’s three, it can’t be nice,” I reasoned. I scanned the paper that Paul was showing me. Paul was a circle on legs with big, blotchy eyes, and hair that went in all directions. “Yeah, see, terrible,” I said.

“It’s sweet,” Paul answered, taking the drawing back and folding it carefully.

The year Julian was born, 1963, our first album was released, Please Please Me.

“Alright, smile boys,” Angus McBean told us.

We all grinned stupidly, looking down at the photographer from our perch in the EMI building. This album cover photo shoot was already becoming very annoying, as we stood there like wax models waiting for the lighting to be just right.

“Another one,” he announced, and my pasted-on smile waned slightly.

My brown suit was uncomfortable and Harrison’s skinny elbow was jabbing into me as we sat there, frozen.

Slowly, I reached out to George’s arm and pushed it away. Losing his balance, George fell violently and slammed his chin against the railing.

“Fuck, Lennon, what was that for?” he griped, holding his jaw.

“Your fuckin’ elbow was in my ribs,” I retorted angrily. Paul looked past George to meet my eyes with an expression of pure worry.

“Boys! Focus!” Brian’s voice rang out, trembling, as if he were making a huge effort not to throw something at us.

George shoved me slightly once before putting his elbow back on the banister, this time keeping his arm well away from me. Paul switched on his best show business smile and I also forced the corners of my mouth up for the camera.

It came out in March, and we finally had a record out, and people were playing it. It was the best feeling, turning on the radio and there were your songs, playing.

“…just seventeen, if you know what I mean…”

“Turn that up!” Paul said, sitting up and knocking me off him in the process.

“What?” I grumbled. George and Ringo had finally left the flat, and we had a little time alone; I didn’t want to waste a second on whatever distraction that Paul had noticed.

Paul reached over to the radio, and turned the volume up. Suddenly our voices were blasting from the machine. “…I’ll never dance with another, ooh! When I saw her standing there.”

“That’s… that’s us,” I said stupidly.

“We’ve made it. We’ve really made it, we’re on Radio Luxembourg!” Paul exclaimed.

“’Lo! Back early!” Ringo’s voice boomed as he opened the door, which unfortunately led right into the living room.

Paul emitted a sort a high-pitched squeak and we grabbed for something to cover ourselves with.

“Oh… oh my god, I did not need to see that…” Ringo muttered.

George was looking at us openmouthed, and Paul grinned sheepishly at his childhood friend.

“Well… see, George…” Paul began, not quite sure what to say.

“I knew it,” George said. “I knew it.”

“We’ll…we’ll just go, then,” Ringo said, and they both hurried out the door.

1963 was our first year of fame, really. The records, the parties, the money—everything happened all at once.

I suppose it got to my head after a while. It makes you crazy, having all these fans, being worshipped, everything you touch become a prize. I couldn’t step back from the mania, I was always in the thick of it, and it started to change me.

I changed too much, and I suppose that’s what happened. If Paul had ever loved me, the man he’d once known had completely disappeared, and instead of him was the fame-drunk person I’d become.