Ticket To Ride

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 : 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

August 26th, 1966
     I tried not to shut my eyes as I heard the click! of the camera and the bright flash that accompanied it. George's toothy grin poked out from behind the camera and commented on how I looked like a doll as I sat on Paul's lap. What? If I was stuck in the limo, I might as well have a good picture to remember the night by. Unfortunately, posing with the Beatles wouldn't last long. We were all exhausted and, when nobody couldn't fall asleep, they mainly took to rolling down the window and blowing smoke out into the early morning breeze. Sometimes, the smoke would fly back into the car and I'd cough, but they didn't mean any harm by it.

Ringo's favorite thing to do was stick his head out and shake it, ruining his perfectly combed hairdo. I would laugh, telling him how missed up it was, and he'd say, really? well, what am I supposed to do now? so I'd offer to brush it for him with my fingers. It was silly, but he knew that I had nothing else to do in the meantime.

After a brief talk with Pop over food, the car stopped at a little diner that was still open. The only other car was a truck whose owner sat inside at the counter. At least we didn't have to worry about people bothering us. We didn't bother to wait for a waiter to come by and claimed the largest booth available. I could've fallen asleep in the cushy seats, but the buzzing lights above kept me up. I got restless as I tried to calm my bouncing leg. Eventually, a waiter, who looked as if he'd be happier anywhere else but here, noticed us and grabbed his notepad.

"Well, look who it is: the four mop tops." He let out a laugh. "I never thought I'd live to see the day, but here you are. Just keep your yeah yeah yeahs to yourself, alright?"

I gritted my teeth as I wanted to hit him with my menu. There was something in his tone that I didn't like. He looked to me, probably surprised that I wasn't screaming my head off. I tried to read his thoughts, and that's what I came up with. He introduced himself to us as Sam and went around the table asking for our orders. I let out a yawn and gave him mine before putting my head down. I drifted in and out of sleep, but from what someone told me, I missed one of John's cheeky moments. When Sam was asked what John wouls like, he replied,

"I'll have a ham sandwich, a salad, and two elephants came and a policeman bit my head off."

Sam didn't even seem to notice until he had finished jotting down the orders. He did a double take and crossed out the part about the elephants. That was when I had woken up from my little nap. The fluorescent lights above were brightly-colored blobs until I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. Faces became more recognizable as Pop's took up most of my sight.

"Morning, sleepyhead." He softly kissed my forehead. His stubble rubbed against my skin even though he knew that I hated it. "You know what day it is?"

I shook my head. Was it still August 25th? I was mistaken, as according to Pop's watch, it was 4:30 a.m. I held his wrist up to my face and kept my focused in on the minute and hour hands.

Y T
E O
S D
M A
A Y
R !
G
I
E

The littlest hand ticked away the seconds like it was waiting for me to comprehend it all. My heart was beating out of my chest and my smile grew as I pulled Pop in tight for a hug.

"I'm thirteen! I'm a teenager!" I squealed while he laughed along with me.

On August 26th, 1953, I made my grand entrance into the world—very loudly as Mom liked to put it—and the world was never the same. Now, I was no longer a giggling teenybopper, but just plain "teen," which sounded much more mature.