Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

26. Very unswinging

August 1966
Chicago - Cincinnati - Memphis - Saint Louis

Paul

The American tour was very unswinging.

It started out with a long drive from the Chicago airport to the hotel. The world was a hazy, jet-lagged blur. As soon as we arrived, we hurried to our rooms to freshen up before a hastily-arranged press conference. The reporters didn't give a shit that we were bleary-eyed and needed time to regroup. All they cared about was getting the story. God forbid we be allowed to get a good night's rest before we had to face the music.

When I arrived at Eppy's suite, George let me in wordlessly before he flopped onto the sofa next to Ringo. I eyed the closed bedroom door, where I could hear the muffled voices of John, Brian, and Tony.

"How long have they been in there?" I asked, throwing myself into an overstuffed armchair across from them. I pulled out a cigarette and caught the lighter that George tossed my way.

"About ten minutes," Ringo replied as he took a drag of his cigarette.

The three of us sat in silence; the only noise was the distance commotion of the crowd below. Fragments of the conversations drifted through the door, and it sounded like the world was about to end. I tapped a frantic beat on my thigh while George's foot never stopped moving against the floor. Ringo was more even-keeled and patient than both of us, so he sat there calmly smoking.

George finally broke the silence. "This is a bloody nightmare."

Before anyone could respond, the bedroom door opened. John emerged, looking like he might be sick. His hair was sticking up as if he'd run his hand through it a million times. He had a look in his eyes that I didn't often see: uncertainty.

"You ok?" I asked. He nodded without making eye contact and rustled through his pockets for a stick of chewing gum. Tony followed closely behind, retrieving his jacket from the back of a chair.

"Look, fellows," he said, shrugging on the pin-striped jacket and running a hand wearily across his face. "We just need to get through this. You've done this sort of thing a million times before, and it's always been brilliant. John's going to apologize--"

"You are?" I asked, glancing over at my friend. He met my eyes with a raised eyebrow that was probably meant to be cheeky but just emphasized his weariness.

"I do know how to say the words."

"I assumed that," I replied, trying to lighten the mood. "I've just never heard you say 'em before."

"Oh, don't exaggerate," George jumped in. "There was the one time in Mallorca a few years ago-- John said he was sorry for stepping on that girl's foot."

"I think you'll find that what he really said was, 'I'd like to go on a safari," I shot back mischievously.

"Let me drive your Ferarri," Ringo added.

The corner of John's mouth lifted briefly as if, in any other circumstance, he'd have a clever retort. He finally made eye contact, and I saw a glimpse of sheer terror in his eyes. He was about to face the world not as just one of four interchangeable Beatles but as John Lennon, the one who had stuck his foot in his mouth.

Tony looked at his watch and winced. "It's showbiz time... just come in when you're ready."

He and Brian walked out the door looking like they were about to walk the plank. We stood around in a circle, no one saying anything. John clenched and unclenched his fist, chewing the gum vigorously.

"You don't have to," I said finally. "Apologize, I mean. If you want to, sure, great. But don't do it on our behalf. We'll weather whatever storm comes, just like we always have."