August 15, 1962
"John, stop it, you bloody idiot!"
Paul was holding John back against the wall by his arms. John was fuming, glaring at Pete, disgust front and foremost in his eyes. Pete was drunk again. John was always wary when it came to letting me around any of his band mates while they were drunk. Tonight, however, it appears he slacked.
Pete had stumbled up to us sitting at the bar and immediately began hitting on me. John, being John, went livid with jealousy and threw himself at the drummer. The poor guy was already on the brink of being dropped out of the band following a session with a real music producer. Well, turns out, Pete isn't as good a drummer as we had thought and the producer didn't like it. Paul and John were now in the midst of deciding his fate.
It now seemed John had made his final decision. Pete had just driven the final nail into his musical career's coffin.
"You're out, Best. That's it," John spat, wrenching himself from Paul's grip and taking me by the hand, leading me outside.
I'm Donna Epstein and one may ask, how did I end up here?
And to that I say, it's a long story.