And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 63: A Solid Nine On The Ritchie Scale, Part 2

John was reclusive that night. Even when he sat next to me, I could feel an invisible wall building between us in his pulling away. Don't push it, I told myself with sigh. Instead I asked, "D'ya want to get up there and play?" and gestured to the constantly rotating band. Paul was still singing in the corner, leading a group of drunken partygoers in some classic Liverpudlian songs. The bassist had left.

    He turned towards me with a cold look. "What are you, our bass player or my girlfriend?"

    "Why can't I be both?" I asked quietly.

    "Well, if you had to choose one, which one would it be? You know, it's sometimes bloody frustrating to have yer girlfriend in the band." Something boiled over inside and I snapped, "Are you kicking me out of the band? Ye know, you won't have a bass player without me. It's too late for Paul to do it. And then, guess that? Your string of bloody number one hits won't get written. No Day Tripper, no Paperback Writer. Bullshite." I turned away from him, hot tears forming in my eyes, but I blinked them aside.

    "You're speaking nonsense," John said angrily.

    "You—"

    "Cora." A figure rose above me in purple.    

    "Beat it, Harrison, we're having a private conversation," John snapped at the lead guitarist. George coughed and melted into the shadows. "Ye needn't be so rude to him," I told John, irritated. "He feels the age gap between you and Paul, you know."

    The look suddenly softened in John's eyes. "Geo, Geo, come back," he said, sliding off the couch and wandering round, looking for George. Well, at least one of us gets an apology. I was left on the couch with an urge to do something with my hands. I didn't feel like jamming. Well, I would go talk to people. I got up and went through the crowd, in search of a familiar face. After a few minutes people began to recognize me. I was stopped by two boys asking if I was the bass player for the Beatles and I proudly answered yes.

    "Why aren't ye playing tonight?" one asked, smiling at me with very white teeth. He amused me, introducing himself as Jameson. Blonde hair, looked like a sailor, here with a darker haired, more heavy-set lad who didn't say much but sat back and listened to the conversation. "Drank a lot," I blurted out. "Wouldn't want to play a C sharp instead of a C now would we." We all laughed, though I didn't see much humor in what I said. Alcohol does things to your perception of what's funny and what isn't.

    "Do ye think your band is going to start writing your own music soon?" the darker-haired lad asked me. I smiled. "Perhaps. We've got some pretty competent songwriting in the group. Paul and John once tried to write a musical."

    "Did it work?" Jameson asked with interest. "That would be funny."

     "Nah. Too long, I think." Jameson grabbed a beer and twisted its head against the kitchen countertop, which held the remains of the birthday cake. I reached forwards and grabbed a piece, feeling the sugary sticky frosting with my fingers and licking off the remains of the Happy Birthday Ringo!

    "Well, we'll talk to you later," Jameson smiled at me and him and his counterpart turned away. I sat by the counter eating birthday cake with the unconscious notion that it would balance out the amount of alcohol I had consumed. Someone stuck a glass under the tap and twisted; I glanced to my left and saw George. "Geo?"

    "Ah. I wanted to talk to you earlier." He sniffled.    

    "I do hope John's apologized to you," I said.

    "He did. Actually, with a long train of I'm sorry and whatnot. What did you say to the lad? He came up to me and started going off about how I'm a great guitarist and all that. Kind of nice, I suppose." His chuckle turned into a cough. "Anyways I wanted to ask ye if ye wanted to leave. I feel the cold coming back." I took one look round the party and nodded. "I thought we could just go home."