A hard thump in the middle of my back startled me awake. I raised my head
and looked around, momentarily disoriented. John was sprawled next to me on
his back, still asleep, and he had just flung his casted arm across my
back. The drapes were pulled but full daylight had pried its way into the
room. It was nearly 11:00 a.m. I vaguely remembered waking up once about
eight and turning John back onto his back and giving him another pain pill.
That real event was foggy, but the sweet, intoxicating dream of slow
dancing with a faceless stranger was fresh and clear.
I turned on my side toward John, watching him sleep, studying him, thinking
how peaceful he looked. No pain, no worries, no anger. No sarcastic remarks
or stubborn set to the jaw. No gleam in the eye revealing a funny—and
dirty—mind, no gentle smiles. No knowing looks that left me feeling both
unnerved by their accuracy and warmed by their sensitivity.
Was this the face of the man I had dreamed about? I wanted to put my arms
around him and see if he was the dancer from my dream. If he was, and maybe
even if he wasn't, I wanted to go on from where that dream left off. That
half-awake extension of my dream was enough to make me blush, embarrassed
by my extension of a passively received dream into an actively created
daydream. I forced myself to more rational thoughts.
Tour or no tour, he was married, and that was the end of that. I would not
think about the way I felt when he looked at me with that nearsighted but
knowing gaze, the way he made me laugh with his silly mugging and
outrageous comments, the way he teased me, argued with me. Or the way I
felt when he let down his guard and I saw his fears and pain. And I
definitely would not think about how I felt for that brief moment when he
had pulled me up against him. The only thing I remembered, or at least the
only thing I found sensible, from all the years of Catholic catechism
classes was the admonition to “avoid the near occasion of sin.” Don't go
near places or people that may expose you to temptation. Well, John Lennon
was a near occasion if I had ever met one!
John stirred. He opened his eyes and turned to look at me, a sleepy smile
spreading. “So! It would seem you slept with a Beatle!”
“Slept is the keyword.”
“Sorry to disappoint you!”
“I wasn't expecting much, so I'm not terribly disappointed,” I teased.
“Oh, God! First I have to actually ask a bird to sleep with me, then she
says she didn't expect much!”
I laughed at him and sat up and stretched. The stretch ended abruptly when
he asked me, “Do you have anything on under that, then?”
I looked at him, unsure if he was teasing and realized I had to pretend I
thought he was. If he wasn't, any other response would move the discussion
to a place I didn't want it to go.
“A parka, thermal Long John's, and a chastity belt. I came prepared.”
He laughed. “You needn't have. I can't even move without help. I'm
harmless.”
Harmless? Black and blue, hurting from one end to the other, hog-tied in
splints, this guy was still capable of making me want the kind of things I
was taught to slap boys for trying!
“You poor thing,” I said in mock sympathy as I untangled the blankets and
got up.
John stretched and the accompanying yawn turned into a moan and a disgusted
“Oh bloody hell” as battered muscles reacted to their wake-up call.
For the next hour, I was busy getting John up to the bathroom, then back on
the bed for a shave, shampoo, and bath. Mal, Neil, and Brian were in and
out and I finally had John dressed and ready for the day. I left him
sitting up in the chair and went to get myself dressed.
I was in the shower, shampooing my hair when I heard a tap on the door.
Over the sound of the shower, I could hear John call something to me, but
the only words I could make out were “Ciggies” and “George.” What was he
doing up out of the chair?
I was surprised he could manage to get out of the chair and worried that
his balance was so bad he wouldn't make it far without falling. What had he
said? Oh no, he must be headed across the hall to cadge some cigarettes. If
he fell... I didn't even want to think about it. I scrubbed frantically at
my hair to rinse it.
Jumping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me and
peeked out into John's room, hoping I was wrong. The room was empty. I had
brought my clothes into the bathroom with me and I grabbed my underpants,
struggling into them without toweling off. I had decided to wear shorts,
thinking I might be able to spend some time out on the balcony in the sun,
and I tugged them on too.
A bra seemed an impossible task unless I took the time to dry off, but the
top I had brought in was a thin nylon shell I couldn't possibly wear
without a bra. The shirt John had worn the night before was hanging on the
back of the bathroom door. I grabbed it, pulled it on and ran through
John's room, buttoning as I went.
I burst into the sitting room and nearly plowed into George who was
standing next to the chair where John was comfortably and safely seated.
Ringo was sitting across the table from John, Brian was sitting with them
and Paul was getting a cup of tea from a room service breakfast cart. If
that wasn't enough, about half of the road crew was wandering in and out.
They all looked at me, startled and amused by my bursting in on them with
dripping wet hair and bare feet.
John looked up at me. “Hungry, Tess?” he asked with a smile.
“I thought you took off on your own! All I heard was something about
ciggies! I thought you were headed across the hall. I was afraid you would
fall—you get dizzy and your balance isn't good and without someone holding
on to you, you could have fallen and broken something else!" I was babbling
and finally wound down with “Don't ever do that again!”
“He called and said he needed ciggies,” George said. I turned to look at
him. “I brought them over and helped him out here.” He was smiling broadly
at me.
“Ever so sorry, Nurse,” John said with a wicked grin that belied the
apology.
“Ready for breakfast?” Ringo asked, also smiling at me. “We decided to
bring breakfast over here. The other room is a mess.”
“Let me dry my hair—”
“Eat first,” George said. “Before it gets cold.”
“Here, I'll pour you a cuppa,” Ringo said taking my arm and leading me to
the breakfast cart.
Paul hadn't moved. He stood there with a cup in one hand, a teapot in the
other, looking at me strangely. “Doesn't recognize me again,” I thought.
The last image of him from the night before, hands all over a girl, popped
into my mind. Maybe Paul McCartney only recognizes girls by touch!
I was intensely aware of Paul's eyes on me as I told Ringo I would prefer
orange juice. I picked up a sweet roll and reached for a napkin, afraid to
look at Paul for fear I would stare at him and get some kind of goofy,
moonstruck expression on my face. Plastering what I hoped would be a warm,
friendly smile on my face, I looked at him and found him still looking
intently at me with those gorgeous eyes. Just as the red tints in John's
hair had surprised me, this first close-up daylight look at Paul's eyes was
a surprise. What I had always thought to be dark brown eyes were
startlingly complicated. Although they were basically brown, the clear
morning sunlight brought out hazel and green and gold flecks that made the
color even more interesting than the shape. I forced myself not to stare
and turned away to go sit at the table next to John.
George and Ringo joined us and crew members stood around. I took a sip of
juice and looked around the room at the big smiles on all their faces. It
was a surprisingly cheerful bunch, especially as I had expected hangovers
this morning. I picked up the roll to take a bite and hesitated. They were
looking at me expectantly and still smiling. “What?” I asked suspiciously.
They looked at each other and laughed. “Nothing, Luv,” said John, but his
eyes weren't on my face.
I looked down. I knew the shoulders of the shirt were soaked, but I didn't
realize that as the white fabric got wet it became nearly transparent. As
the wet hair brushing my shoulders dripped, the area spread. I was wet down
to the second button and no bra straps were showing through, so they knew
that given enough time…
I stood up to leave, smiling at John. “You eat a good breakfast. I'll be in
flushing your pain pills down the toilet.”
Paul came up behind me and put his jacket over my shoulders. Everyone else
protested.
“Thanks!” I said to him, startled. I certainly hadn't gotten the impression
he was remotely prudish.
He was still looking at me strangely, but as he looked down at me, a smile
broke through. “The shirt looks better on you, Tess. Wet or dry.” I was so
startled, I think I managed to avoid that moonstruck look and give him a
real smile.
I headed to my room and got dressed. When I got to my hair, I debated only
for a second about putting it in curlers. I didn't have my hairdryer and it
would take a couple of hours to dry. There was no way I was going to let
these guys see me in curlers! I started to pull it up into a bun, but then
remembered John's hairdryer. I went back out and asked John if I could use
it.
“Yeah, but you'll want to bend over.” I must have looked confused.
“Cyn always does her hair upside down with it,” he explained. I wasn't sure
what he meant. I had used his hairdryer on him that morning and had never
seen one like it. It was a blow dryer, huge by today's standards, but still
smaller than the bonnet type we were still using to dry heads full of big
curlers.
“Thanks,” I said, and disappeared back into the bedroom. I started to put
my hair up in curlers, planning to blow them dry, but the possible meaning
of what he said occurred to me. I figured I could always wet my hair down
and start over if this didn't work, so, feeling more than a little foolish,
I bent over and dried my hair. I was amazed at the results. A tenth of the
time of curlers and wonder of wonders, hair that looked more like Pattie
Harrison's soft hairdo than Sandra Dee's hard bouffant helmet! I wasn't
sure where I could buy one of these new-fangled inventions, but I decided
right then I would find one.
I put on some makeup, and, finally ready, picked up Paul's jacket to return
it to him. Catching the scent of his aftershave, I stopped for a moment
just to hold it up to my face. I breathed in the scent, picking up more
than just aftershave. It was mingled with tobacco smoke, sweat, and pure
maleness. This was decades before researchers reported that scents called
pheromones were responsible for sexual attraction, but as I stood there, I
was only too aware of the effect Paul had on me.
Oh great! Now he didn't even have to be in the room and he got me crazy! It
made no sense. I had hardly exchanged two words with Paul. Besides, John
had always been my favorite and he was proving to be every bit as
interesting as I had imagined. Paul might well turn out to be all looks and
no personality.
Back out in the living room, everyone was reading newspapers and going over
the reviews of last night's concert and watching the noon news coverage of
it. One look at John relieved any concerns that this was upsetting to him.
He was smiling gleefully as review after review said it just wasn't a
Beatle's concert without John. All of them seemed to find it hysterically
funny that they mentioned how the music suffered without him. “That was the
only thing that saved us!” Paul laughed.
That didn't make any sense to me, but the noon news was reporting on the
concert right them and the TV news clips showed it well. A roar of sound as
they took the stage was followed by hysteria as they rocked through the
opening numbers, and then Paul stepped up to the microphone to greet the
fans with the usual “glad to be here in Minneapolis” bit. When he started
to say that John sent all of them his love, the place went nuts. The
Beatles waited, laughing and looking around at each other, and when the
sound level came down a bit, they launched into “Taxman” but the sound
level in the stadium continued to drop. Low decibel sobbing was replacing
high decibel screams. As the TV camera's panned the increasing number of
sobbing, not screaming, girls, the difference between the studio version
and the live version was painfully obvious. It wasn't the lack of John's
distinctive voice or even rhythm guitar—Terry was doing fine. It was the
lack of double tracking and other backing that was so audible as the level
of fan noise dropped.
“We did all the usual stuff we've been doing all year to cover it up,”
George explained to John as the TV clip ended. “Shook our heads, danced
around to get them screaming when we needed them to cover the bad spots,
but they just weren't doin' it!”
“They were all bawlin' and hanging on each other!” Ringo said.
“After that one, we had a couple of oldies that weren't such a problem. We
conferred for a bit,” Paul said. “I wanted to skip “Drive My Car” and put
George in on “Secret” or something.”
“But then I said ‘Tell 'em to scream for John,’” Ringo said.
“And it worked! I told ‘em ‘Show John you miss him!’ and they went nuts.”
“Every time we came to a weak spot,” George said, “we just yelled ‘Do it
for John!’ or some such and they wiped out the sound!”
Dr. Latham showed up then as did the RN who was to check in on us. Mal
helped me get John up and we walked him back into the bedroom and Brian
joined us.
I went over how John was doing for Dr. Latham; the swelling, the dizziness,
unsteadiness, pain level, headaches. He questioned him about where it hurt
and how bad. Dr. Latham said the dizziness was most likely due to the
Percodan but could be from the blow to his head and could take a month or
so to resolve. He said the leg immobilizer and arm sling could be left off
when John was in bed. “Do you have any questions?” he asked John, and I
knew what the question would be.
“When can I go home?”
“That's a long trip,” Latham replied. “I don't want you to try it until the
headaches ease up in a few days.” John stared at him and seemed to consider
that answer. Then he nodded and looked away. Mal and Brian exchanged a
look, and I was surprised that no one pushed for a promise of a specific
day.
Latham asked if I had any questions and then told the other nurse that John
was doing fine and there was probably no reason to have another nurse check
in after all. He would be in daily himself and could always be reached by
phone. The other nurse, an older lady who probably would have worked out
fine as she seemed unimpressed with the fame of her patient, agreed and
told Brian she would be available if I needed a break. She picked up her
bag and signaled to me to follow her out the door. I did and she
thoughtfully made sure I had her phone number. “If you aren't sure about
something, feel free to call me before you resort to calling Latham,” she
said. Mrs. Stevens had made the same offer. Experienced nurses all knew
that students have questions it doesn't take a doctor to answer.
I thanked her and she went on her way.
When I stepped back into John's room, Latham asked when John had last been
medicated for pain. “About an hour and a half ago,” I said.
“Good. I want passive range of motion exercises done to his left arm and
shoulder three times a day.” He turned to John who was sitting in a chair.
“If this isn't done, your shoulder will freeze up and you'll lose movement
in it permanently.” There were shocked looks all around at that dire
prediction.
After demonstrating for me exactly what directions to move John’s arm, how
far to flex and extend and rotate it, and how many repetitions of each
movement to do, he looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Can you do
that?” he asked.
I nodded shakily. John had cried out in pain and surprise with the first
movement and swore through the rest of it. Dr. Latham had calmly apologized
for hurting him, repeated that it had to be done, and not missed a step in
the procedure or his running commentary to me. I could do the exercises but
not as dispassionately as he had.
Dr. Latham left with Brian and Mal. John and I looked at each other.
“Ciggie, Tess,” he said. I got one for him. My hand was shaking as I lit it
and his shook as he held it.
“So,” he said with a grim smile, “ If I let you do that to me three times a
day, what do I get to do to you?”
“I think lit matches under the fingernails sounds about fair,” I answered.
We rejoined the others out in the living room and when Brian came back,
Tony was with him and they were talking about setting up a press
conference. John didn't want to talk to anybody but all kinds of rumors
were flying: John was dead, dying, in a coma, paralyzed, maimed, mangled,
blind, had been whisked away to the Mayo Clinic, or it was all a publicity
stunt. Tony, who was their press agent, said the only way to put an end to
the rumors was for John himself to talk to the press.
John reluctantly agreed to do it, and the discussion then centered on me.
Would it be best to have me there, in my nursing uniform, to answer
questions? Apparently, Dr. Latham had made it clear he did not have time
for media hype. He had given them a statement to read that said basically
that John's injuries, although painful, were minor and prognosis for
complete recovery was excellent. They wanted me available to answer
specific questions.
“I can't release medical information!” I protested.
“You have John's permission to freely discuss his case. Right, John?” Brian
said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Don't worry, Tess. Just use big words and they'll think
they're getting something.”
I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to stand up in front of the cameras
and answer questions, didn't want to see myself on TV, didn't want even 15
minutes of fame, but Brian and Tony felt it was important and, like John, I
couldn't see how to get out of it.
The press conference was quickly set for 5:00 p.m. I was too nervous to eat
breakfast or lunch or whatever it should have been. Time seemed irrelevant
here. People came and went. I gave up trying to keep track of whether they
were reporters, promoters, or businessmen with some advertising scheme. In
between being cornered by people who wanted autographs, stories, record
deals, donations for charities and pictures, the Beatles all took turns
calling home, all except for Paul. He was the only one not married.
I knew that he had split up with Jane Asher right after Christmas after
dating her for nearly four years and after being engaged to her for only a
couple of months. Fan magazines, which I occasionally scanned
surreptitiously at the grocery store, too grown up to be caught with Tiger
Beat, had reported the news with no details of what every girl was dying to
know: Why? Since then, every issue had a picture of Paul with a different
girl and a headline suggesting that this one was “Paul's New Girl.”
After I had talked to Cyn, updating her on how John was doing, John said
his head hurt and I helped him escape to the quiet of his room. He
stretched out on the bed, I closed the curtains and sat to read. A little
later, there was a tap on the door and Neil came in to find out if
everything was OK. John told him all the noise and commotion made his head
hurt, but he was fine. It got quiet out in the living room after that and I
assumed that the group had been moved across the hall.
I was too nervous about the press conference to sit still, and, when John
fell asleep, I wandered back out into the living room. I was surprised to
find Paul, George and Ringo sitting there with Brian and Mal. Apparently
just the visitors had been asked to leave.
Brian asked again if John was all right, and I assured him he was but I saw
George and Paul look at each other. A quick look, but there was something
grim in their expressions. Brian was asking me if John would be up to the
press conference and I told him I thought he would be fine after he rested
for a while and that I would give him another pain pill when he woke up.
Terry—suitcase Terry, not guitar Terry—came in to tell everyone that it was
laundry day. If they wanted anything washed they had fifteen minutes to
gather things up. Everyone scattered, and I went back into John's room and
got his clothes and brought them out to Terry. I asked if he was the
official launderer to the Fab Four. “No,” he said “Official Guard of the
Laundry. The hotel will do it, but someone has to be there or half of it
goes missing.”
“Don't let anyone cop onto me socks,” Paul instructed him, coming back in
with his clothes. “I'm down to the last.”
Terry left and (gulp) Paul sat down next to me on the sofa. When Brian came
to tell me to get John ready for the press conference, I realized Paul and
I had been talking for nearly an hour. Somewhere in the middle of it, he
had talked me into eating something and ordered a sandwich from room
service. It was nothing but casual conversation, but he was relaxed, funny,
and seemed genuinely interested in hearing about school, my roommates,
whatever. Although I was constantly aware of his physical presence, when he
got up to go I found myself thinking how nice he was, not just how nice he
would be to touch. Progress!
John was awake and I helped him to the bathroom, changed his shirt, and
combed his hair. Neil took him out to the living room where everyone was
gathering and I went to my room to change into my uniform. I changed
quickly, pulled my hair up, stuck on the cap. John groaned when I came back
out. Ringo smiled and said, “You look fine Luv.”
“What you can see of her!” John grumbled.
Paul went into John's room. He came out with a jacket for John and said,
“Time for another go with the fourth estate.”
John informed him he was ready. “No more jackets, no more ties. From now
on, if they ask a question they are going to hear what I think, not what
I'm supposed to say. They can take me as I am and if they don't like it,
screw ' em.”
“Yeah, it's like the concerts,” George said. “If we can keep it going
without all the crap, I'm in. Otherwise, that's it, I'm not a Beatle
anymore.”
His words hung in the air for an eternity. No one spoke, no one moved. John
wanted to change the ground rules for being a Beatle, but George had just
said the words that could end it all. He wasn't talking about cutting this
tour short or even about the end of touring. He was talking about the end
of the Beatles.
I wanted to protest, to say they couldn't quit, but I had seen and heard
enough in two days to understand. Besides, I didn't belong here, shouldn't
be hearing this discussion, much less speaking up.
Ringo leaned forward to put down the magazine he had been reading and sat
with his elbows on his knees, head down. Paul walked over to the windows
and stood there staring out. George watched him, then looked at John. John
met his gaze for a moment, then leaned his head back against the back of
the couch and closed his eyes. The silence was deafening.
Brian breezed into the room. “Ready, lads?”
Paul turned around, walked over and tossed the jacket on the couch next to
me and said, “Ready, Brian. Let's go.” His tone was far from light-hearted
or gung-ho, but it was much closer to normal than I had expected. No anger
or regret, no weariness. It was almost as if the moment before had not
happened.
I stared up at him, astonished. There was nothing in his voice or his face,
but I couldn't believe that was how he felt. John's voice and expression
told me as much or more than his words,—not that he ever minced his
words—but I couldn't read Paul at all. Neil's words about Paul not letting
his real feelings show came back to me. That night at the lake and that
unguarded moment when John's words had cut him were certainly not the norm.
The press conference was strange. I had only seen bits of film clips and
read quotes and I discovered that a full press conference was a weird
situation in which reporters asked the same questions phrased a little
differently over and over again. Brian read the statement from Dr. Latham
and, as expected, they wanted more information. John waved me out from the
sidelines where I was trying to hide and introduced me as “My nurse, Tess.”
Ringo got up to give me his seat alongside John, then stood behind me and
gave me a little reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
I listed John's injuries, throwing in terms like contusions, ulna,
clavicle, scapula, soft tissue injury, and it worked! They quit asking
about his injuries and started asking if it was true that they had brought
in a specialist from the Mayo Clinic. Was it true that they were going to
take him to the Mayo Clinic? Was it true that he would not be able to play
the guitar? (Paul and George replied in unison: “He never could!”)
When they got to questions about how the accident happened, how far had he
fallen, I escaped back to the sidelines. Neil smiled and put his arm around
me for a quick hug as the questions went on. Was it true they had canceled
the rest of the tour? When would they be leaving? When would they be back?
I held my breath on that one. Paul leaned forward and promptly answered
that they had not begun to make plans for next summer. (John and George
exchanged glances.) They were all going to take a little holiday and when
John got the cast off they would start work on a new album.
Someone asked when their next album, Revolver, was coming out.
“Two weeks,” they responded.
“Is it like Rubber Soul or are you going back to your usual style
of music?”
“We can't go back, now can we?” Paul said. “It's all been done, that ‘Yeah,
yeah, yeah’ stuff. We can't keep writing that over and over.”
“Do you think the fans will continue to buy your music if you change it?”
“They have done,” John said. “Rubber Soul is still selling.”
“And Yesterday and Today is number one,” Tony hastened to add.
After that, the questions were silly things like “Are American fans
different than those in England?”
“Faster off the mark,” John answered quietly while the others said, “No,
they are just as loud.” I knew John was referring to the ones who had seen
the opportunity to break through the barricades, but I'm not sure the
reporters caught it.
“Do you think you will still be popular a year from now?”
George: “Perhaps not, but me mum says she'll still love me anyway.”
“If a girl manages to sneak into your hotel, do you talk to her or is she
thrown out?”
Paul: “That depends. If security catches her, she is out. If we find her
we'll have a bit of a chat with her if she isn't carrying on.”
Ringo: “A bit hard to chat up a bird who is hysterical.”
Brian announced the end of the press conference and thanked them for
coming. I moved up to walk John back to the wheelchair waiting in the next
room. As I reached John, a man waving a Bible over his head pushed his way
to the front of the group and yelled, “Your injuries are not an accident.
They are God's punishment for your blasphemy and well deserved! The
Christian people of this community do not want you here!”
John stared at the man and I thought for a moment he was going to say
something, but he just looked away. For all his bravado and big talk about
“take me as I am or screw 'em,” the expression on his face was not anger,
irritation, or disgust. He just looked stunned and hurt.
The retort that had come to me, as all good retorts do, too late to use on
the nurse at the hospital, popped into my mind. I leaned over John's
shoulder and spoke to the man, not realizing that the microphones were
still on. “If you are an example of Christian love, then John is
right—Christianity is not in trouble, it's already dead.” There was a
momentary silence and then some of the reporters began to laugh. The
fanatic glared at me and then around the room at the laughing people. He
stomped out of the room. John looked at me and then turned to Ringo.
“Hug her for me. Hard,” he said and Ringo obliged. The reporters laughed
and snapped pictures.
As I helped John up and got him out of the room, reporters questioned me
about what it was like to be John's nurse. “He is an ideal patient,” I said
and John and the others burst out laughing. Several reporters requested or
demanded interviews with me, and shoved phone numbers into my hands. When
we finally escaped into the elevator, I shoved the slips of paper into
John's pocket. “Just in case you ever have a need to discuss your favorite
color with someone,” I said.
Having been held back by reporters and getting John into the wheelchair,
Brian, John and I were the last to get back upstairs. As we got off the
elevators, I could hear Paul imitating a reporter. “Are American fans
different than those in England?” he called out.
In unison George, and Ringo yelled, “Longer legs and better asses!”
Brian said, “Oh bloody hell,” and made a beeline for their room.
He pulled the door shut, but not before I heard, “Do you think you'll still
be popular a year from now?”
“Unless I get a social disease!” came the reply.
“If a girl gets into your room, do you throw her out?”
Brian had shut the door but John was laughing and yelled out the response,
“That depends on the size of her knockers!”
I was laughing too, and the embarrassment on Brian's face only made it
funnier.
“It's OK, Brian,” I said. “I stopped believing in the tooth fairy years
ago!”
The door opened just far enough for Ringo to pop his head out. Finding
himself face to face with Brian, Ringo plastered a big phony grin on his
face. “Oh, hello Brian,” he said, all cheery innocence, then turned and
yelled over his shoulder “You've gone and done it now, Paulie!” and shut
the door in Brian's face.
Brian looked back at us with a laugh, “No harm done, I suppose. After all,
you've spent time with the worst of the lot, you can't have too many
illusions left!”
John grinned proudly. “And I'll continue to see to her education.”
Back in his room, John stretched out on the bed. All but Brian, Mal, Neil,
and two others were taking an evening flight to New York and then back to
London in the morning, so those who were leaving wandered in to say goodbye
to John. After a bit, I said, “Let's get it over with, John” and we did the
exercises. It was bad, but John didn't yell and didn't swear and I didn't
cry.
George came in halfway through. He watched, expressionless. When we
finished, he said, “Wild sex is fine John, but I think I'll pass on the
sadomasochistic bit. We're all going for a swim. Come with us?”
I changed into shorts. There was no swimsuit in my suitcase and I wouldn't
have been able to go through with wearing one in front of them anyway. We
got John into the wheelchair, Brian joined us and we headed downstairs. It
was a beautiful evening after a hot day. The hotel management had closed
the pool to everyone else whenever the Beatles wanted it. They would do
about anything to keep their English guests happy, probably hoping to avoid
a lawsuit over the broken railing. They were all in the pool when we got
there, and the word was out. Fans and reporters were gathering at the gates
to the pool and Mal and the security crew patrolled.
For the next hour, I sat back and watched. As I said, it was a beautiful
evening ... and quite a fascinating one! So much to see; George doing
impressive dives off the board, Ringo and Paul horsing around with Neil in
some weird game involving beach balls. Even though it was nearly seven, I
kept my sunglasses on for a long time—that way I could stare without being
obvious.
In those days no one was into physical fitness and the admired male body
type did not have anything beyond well-defined muscles. Bodybuilders and
their big, bulging muscles were considered bizarre and ugly. My criteria
for evaluating a guy’s physique was therefore quite simple: anyone not too
fat or too thin or having obvious deformities was just fine. There was a
lot of ‘just fine’ splashing in the pool that afternoon.
Ringo was as I expected after dancing with him, well proportioned, arms and
shoulders showing the effects of hours at the drums. George was lean and
rangy and it was interesting to see how coordinated he was. That was
something I had never noticed in concert clips or the movies. Neil was
wearing a tight, skimpy, swimmers-type suit. He was thin like George, but I
couldn't get my eyes past the outlines of the swimsuit area. Like Ringo,
Paul was well proportioned but instead of Ringo's small, slim shape, Paul
was larger, stronger looking. I had expected a chest covered with black
hair, and maybe even (ugh!) his back, but his chest had just a spray of
dark hair tapering down to a thin line that disappeared over his stomach
and reappeared, widening just above his swimsuit.
And did I mention Neil's swimsuit? Or how disappointed I was that the
others all opted for ordinary, more loose-fitting suits?
After about an hour, they had enough and, shivering, raced for the
elevators. Upstairs they changed out of their swimsuits, we ordered dinner
and settled down to watch TV. There was a real change in the atmosphere.
There was no press conference looming over them, no more concerts, just a
few days of hanging out until they could go home and that affected
everyone’s mood. There were no outsiders except me. I wasn't sure how such
things were decided, but visiting hours were over. They were relaxed,
laughing, kidding each other, arguing, and generally confusing the heck out
of me because I couldn't follow the conversation. Their flipping back to
the Liverpudlian use of “me” instead of “my” was funny. George and Ringo
used it a lot but John and Paul switched back and forth with the situation.
“My” was for serious conversation. “Me” was for relaxing, joking with the
others, or just playing the Liverpool lad for the press. I'd quickly
figured out that “Come ‘ead” meant “come on” since it was something they
all used frequently, and John's “Fookin' bloody 'ell” was old hat. But
“Strite oop!” and “E's gone spare!”? Then, just when I was beginning to get
a feel for the Liverpool scouse, someone, usually John, would launch into a
plumy Britishism spoken through a stiff upper lip or roll out a Scottish
burr or Irish lilt that would have been hard to follow even if it hadn't
been part of some inside joke.
After we ate, Mal asked if they wanted him to arrange anything for the
evening. After he spoke he looked quickly at me and rephrased it. “I could
bring people in. Do you want a party or just a few people?”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“Dylan in town?”
“Mama Cass?”
“John, why couldn't you arrange to do this in L.A? We could be hanging out
with the Byrds, or the Beach Boys.”
“Or Elvis!”
That got big laughs and they told me how when they first came to America
they wanted to meet Elvis. “Where's Elvis?” they asked each other. No one
seemed to be able to set up a meeting. Finally, last year an evening at The
Kings L.A. home was arranged. They arrived and were greeted by Elvis’s men.
Elvis finally joined them, said hello, and sat moodily quiet as the Beatles
talked with Colonel Parker. After an uncomfortable hour, finally lightened
by Paul discussing bass playing with a much friendlier King, they left. In
the limo on the ride back, they looked at each other. “So where's Elvis?”
John asked.
We settled in for the evening, moving the TV into John's bedroom so he
could lie down. Ringo made himself at home on the bed next to John. Paul
slouched in the chair with his feet up on the bed. George and I sat on the
floor alongside the bed. Neil and Mal were in and out. We watched TV for
the rest of the evening. This was in the days before remote control, but
they did an excellent job of channel surfing anyway. They were fascinated
with the number of channels and shows. Apparently, in England, you had a
choice of the BBC or the BBC. When the late news came on, I suffered
through a mercifully brief clip of myself at the press conference reciting
John's injuries. The camera was on John most of the time I was talking
because he was hamming it up, looking shocked to hear the extent of his
injuries.
After the news, I noticed John was getting quiet. I asked if he was getting
uncomfortable and he said his head really hurt. I knew the pain pills only
worked for about three or four hours before the headache started building
again and by six hours it was bad so I wasn’t surprised but the others got
very quiet. Paul and George exchanged worried looks. It was almost time for
a pain pill, so I got one for him. The others offered to leave, but he
didn't want them to go. “I'll be fine once I get me fix,” he laughed and
did a little imitation of a junkie with the shakes.
We laughed, but I was sensing some real tension. George got up and left the
room. “Ciggies” he muttered as he went out the door.
Ringo got up and turned the TV down and the mood was subdued after that.
George came back shortly and we found an old movie, Arsenic and Old Lace,
to watch. After a while, John was feeling better. Inspired by the movie
about corpses, he asked if I ever had to do anything with dead bodies.
“Students always get called to help after somebody dies. We may get through
nursing school with little practice in starting IV's but we can do
post-mortem care!”
“So you have worked with them?” Ringo asked.
“I have only seen really old people or people who were sick for a long
time. They don't call us for the ones where the family is all upset.”
“But have you ever been there when someone died?” John persisted.
“Yeah, a few times.”
“What was it like?” George asked.
“Kind of disappointing, really. They just kind of wind down. Like a watch
ticking slower and slower and finally stopping. I thought there would be a
specific moment when I knew they were gone, like on TV. I thought you could
look at the clock and say ‘he died at 1:07 p.m.,’ but they just slow down.
After a while, you just finally decide that there aren't going to be any
more breaths and then you look at the clock.”
They were all listening intently.
“There has to be something, something besides they stop breathing!” John
said, sounding irritated either at my lack of insight or at the lack of
drama as we leave our bodies.
I had to laugh in spite of the challenge in his voice. “The first time I
actually expected to see some sign of the spirit leaving the body, a misty
shadow moving upward or at least a feeling. I even looked at the curtains,
thinking they should be stirred by the breeze of a passing soul but ...
nothing.”
“Then what?” John asked.
I hesitated. I had been asked these questions before and, depending on the
situation, was perfectly capable of grossing out non-nurses with details of
post-mortem care. Trying to get the eyes to stay closed, putting the
dentures back in, propping the jaw shut, taking out an IV from a stick site
that never bled, the waxy, yellow-gray color of the skin. But both John and
Paul had mothers who had died and I didn't think they would want to know
about that.
“What do you mean?”
“What is like to be in the room with them?” John asked. Paul was sitting
silently in the chair, impossible to read. Again. For someone with a face
that showed so much expression at times, he could close it down really
well. George was looking at me as if he were hoping for insight into life,
death, infinity. Ringo's expression showed the most normal response; Yuck!
I thought for a moment, trying to find the words.
“It is like looking at a house right after someone moves out. The body just
looks ... empty. The person is gone.”
Ringo looked relieved, George satisfied, John disappointed, and Paul looked
away.
Teddy Roosevelt was charging up San Juan Hill again, directing our
attention back to the movie. During the next commercial, I ducked into the
bathroom, and when I came back, conversation abruptly halted. They looked
at each other and John said to Paul, “Go get it.”
Paul looked at me a little uncertainly, then back at John.
“John ... ” he said, and there was something in his voice, a hesitancy that
I picked up on immediately. It was the same thing I heard in my own voice
when I had to disagree with John and knew I was risking being on the
receiving end of a cutting remark. I hadn't heard that from Paul before. He
was usually pretty good at dealing with John even when John was hurting and
irritable. Whatever they were talking about, John was not in a mood to
compromise and Paul was treading carefully. “Perhaps a little later ... ”
“Suit yourself,” John snapped. “You're becoming a drag, son. George, go get
it.”
George looked at Paul, shrugged his shoulders and started to unfold himself
from his spot on the floor but Paul held up one hand and said amicably,
“Alright mate. I shall go along. Just this once, mind you—you know I'm not
that kind of boy!”
That got the desired laugh from John, and Paul left the room. “He may not
be keen on the new, but at least he's not regressing on the tried and
true!” John said. I had no idea what that meant, but George found it
especially funny.
Before I could ask what was going on, John asked to go into the bathroom. I
helped him up and walked him into the bathroom.
“You're not going to ask?” John said as I shut the bathroom door.
“I bet I don't want to know,” I said dryly. His laugh told me I was right.
When we came out, Paul had returned. There was a blue TWA bag on the bed
and they were all busy rolling cigarettes. I watched and once again
wondered what the “prudent nurse” (that mythical paragon of nursing
perfection to which the legal system compared all nursing transgressors)
would do in this situation. The thought occurred to me that Nurse Prudent
wouldn't have gotten herself involved in any of this in the first place!
Well, marijuana wasn't on any list of respiratory depressants I had ever
seen. In fact, it was being studied as a method of pain control in
conjunction with other medications.
“You're not going to try and stop me?” John asked. It was a dare.
I thought about it for a bit. “No,” I said. “but I am going to go into the
other room and pretend to be asleep. If I get caught in the middle of a pot
party, they will kick me out of school.”
“Mal knows what we are doing. He won't let anyone in,” Paul assured me.
“And George is the fastest flush this side of the Pecos,” Ringo added,
taking his first, long, drag and smiling then handing it over to John.
I could always zip through the bathroom into my room so I decided to stay.
I felt better about keeping an eye on John if he was going to do this.
Besides, although I knew pot use was increasingly common especially among
college kids, I had never seen anyone smoke it and I was really curious.
It turned out to be nothing more than a couple of hours of feeling mellow
and a lot of silly giggling and an episode of rolling on the floor
laughing. They talked about music, new groups, old favorites, people from
Liverpool and Hamburg days. Much of it was lost to me because they reverted
to a Liverpool scouse so thick I couldn't follow most of the stories and
jokes but I did find out that Ringo was a big country-western fan. George
talked about wanting to go to India to meet Ravi Shankar and it was the
first I had heard of him.
At 2:00 a.m. we were eating ice cream sundaes from room service (carefully
intercepted and brought in by Mal) and listening to WLS on the radio. I had
even done John's exercises. They went easier this time, helped by the pot
or maybe just the distraction of the others talking and laughing.
The conversation moved into the future, their future as a group, whether or
not they could keep going if they concentrated on the music and not on
Beatlemania. Touring was out, any live performances would be very
different. TV appearances didn't appeal to them. As Neil had said, the only
thing available on TV was the lip-synched guest appearance. Making another
movie would have to be done because they were required by contract to do
another, but they didn’t want to do another one that required them to be
the four-headed Beatles beast rather than a band. All they wanted to do was
make records.
“So what do we do if that doesn't work? If they want more?” Paul asked.
“Come on, Paulie,” John answered. “It's lasted years beyond anything we
ever expected.”
“I'm not giving any more,” George said. “If that isn't enough, then it is
over. I'm not going to be a lovable mop-top the rest of me life!”
John bopped him on the back of the head with his cast. “You never were
lovable!”
“Was so!”
“Was not!”
“Was so! Watch this!” He got up, pulled me to my feet and sat me on the
edge of the bed. Facing me, air guitar in hand, he let loose with a full
volume “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Ooooh!” complete with the famous shake of the
mop-top and best Beatle grin. We all started laughing and cracked up when
he shut it off just as if someone had unplugged the Beatle as well as the
guitar. “That was lovable, wasn't it Tess?”
I responded with my best Fan-at-the-Ed-Sullivan-Show imitation. “George, I
love you George, George, George, George,” I squealed and toppled over onto
Ringo in a swoon.
We were all laughing when the door burst open and Mal rushed in. He stopped
dead in his tracks when he saw there was no horde of fans invading. Neil
and a couple of other security people piled up behind him. Mal looked at me
and I cringed, realizing my shrieks had brought him on the run. Instead of
saying anything to me, however, Mal marched over to George and shook the
handful of cards he was clutching under his nose. “Full house, aces and
queens. Best bloody hand I had all night! Don’t make her do that again!”
As Mal stomped out, George grinned and said, “'Course I'll miss that sort
of thing.”