St. Peter's Church

2

Paul's stomach churned with anxiety as they parked in the parking lot. There were lots of cars, and lots of people dressed nicely; Paul assumed there must've be some sort of party that day.

Looking up at the sign two feet above the ground in the front of the church, he read:

ST. PETER'S CHURCH

"There's a fête going on today, so John's bound to be here somewhere. I called him this morning and told him to meet us in the lobby at around this time, so come on," said Ivan, already walking out towards the front doors.

Paul caught up with him quickly, walking at his pace once he was by his side. "How old is he?" asked Paul. "My age," said Ivan, opening the door for him. "Seventeen? A-alright..." answered Paul, and immediately shrugging off his awkward response.

There were slightly loud footsteps, and a young man in black leather and cowboy boots pushed his way through a large throng of people.

From immediate observations, Paul noticed how he smelled of cigarettes and cheap cologne. "Aye, Ivan," he said, his voice slightly gravelly. "Where's your Sunday best, mate?" asked Ivan. "In the washroom, I was waiting to change until about half an hour before I perform," answered the man in leather, who turned to face Paul.

"Sorry, mate, bit rude of me not to introduce meself. I'm John Lennon," he said, holding out his hand for Paul to shake. "Paul McCartney," Paul responded, shaking his hand. "I like that name. Bit long, though... I'll have to give you a nickname," stated John.

"I'll go find us a seat outside," Ivan whispered to Paul, running off. "Come with me to the men's room, I need to change," said John. Paul obliged, following John through several narrow hallways to an even smaller hall that held the restrooms.

"Give me a minute," said John, disappearing into a stall and changing quickly. When he came back out, he looked nothing like before; he was wearing a red and white checkered button-up that was tucked into his pants and secured by a belt, with black slacks and shiny black shoes.

"Don't let me forget my shit in there," John said. Paul watched as he stepped back into the stall for a second, pulling a small box out of the pocket of his leather rocker.

Then he realized what it was.

"Thank God there's matches in here," John mumbled under his breath loud enough for Paul to hear.

Paul could see the flicker from the corner of his eye as John brought a cigarette to his lips. "Do you want one?" John asked. "Oh, I don't smoke," said Paul. John raised his brows. "Do you want to try it?" he asked, holding out the cigarette for him to grab.

Stuck, Paul grabbed it, holding it up in his left hand for a moment before bringing it to his mouth.

The inhale sent a sharp, hot pain down his throat and into his chest, causing his eyes to water and for a wave of nausea to hit him. He coughed hard for about 10 seconds, trying to keep his eyes from pouring.

"S'alright, everyone reacts like that their first time," John said, almost with a bit of comfort in his voice. He took the cigarette from him, pulling another out. "If you'd like, you can try with your own, to get used to it."

Paul hesitated. He wasn't sure how his dad would feel if he found out about this. Ignoring it to look cooler in front of John, he took up the opportunity, watching as John lit it for him.

He continued to torture himself, feeling dizzy and tingly after the second hit. He leaned against the counter with his head in his hands.

John chortled. "How does that feel?" Paul raised his head. "Actually... it's kind of nice..." he said, sitting upright.

"Come on, mate, come watch me on stage," said John, beckoning Paul to follow him outside.