The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

4. 5,000 Screamin' Birds

May 1968
New York City

Paul

John peered out of the tiny window of the airplane as it touched down in New York City. His nose nearly touched the double-paned glass as he squinted at the grey skyline.

"Nell, you forgot to order up five thousand screamin' birds," he said as we taxied toward the terminal. 

"I didn't forget," Neil said from his seat across the aisle. "I delegated it to Mal."

"Oh, did you?" I leaned forward to give him a faux-stern look. "You delegated it, did you?"

"Where are all the birds, Malcolm?" John asked. "We're bloody stars, you know. I shouldn't be able to even hear meself think right now, with all the screaming that should be going on down on the tarmac."

"There's a song somewhere there," I replied. "'Down on the Tarmac.' Another Lennon-McCartney original."

"I tried my best," Mal replied from the row behind. "But the girls didn't want to come. They're saving themselves for The Monkees."

"I'd scream if I saw Davy Jones coming my way," I agreed. "He's a dish."

"New airport regulations say that the screaming girls must remain inside the terminal. I'm sure one or two will be there to greet you fellows," Derek said from two rows back. "Or at least the two call girls that I hired."

A lovely stewardess approached, her hips swaying and her tits pushing against her blouse. Her hair was teased slightly at the top and flipped out at the bottom, her lips cherry red. She was a total flirt, and her name was Candy.

"Mr. Lennon, Mr. McCartney," she said in that confident American way. "I'd be happy to escort you off the plane before the other passengers."

We all stood and shrugged on our jackets, which were slightly wrinkled despite our best efforts. John was dressed in all white, while I sported a kelly green coat with large black velvet patches. Mal and Neil were dressed in formal black suits, looking a bit like pallbearers, while Derek's outfit was anchored around a groovy silk scarf knotted jauntily around his neck.

We lined up next to the aircraft door, hyper-aware of the other passengers craning their necks and leaning into the aisles to get a peek at us. I always wondered if a glimpse of Paul McCartney and John Lennon doing absolutely fuck all provided some sort of odd fulfillment for people. Did it confirm or deny what they already thought?

Candy gave us a knowing smile before pulling the lever that opened the cabin door. She asked us to wait at the top of the stairs while she completed the flight check with the ground crew.

"I bet she'd love to escort your cock straight to her--" John mumbled close to my ear, yelping when I elbowed him in the ribs. Candy looked up from the tarmac to see if we were okay, and we flashed innocent smiles her way.

"Down on the tar-mac," I sang in a silly falsetto to the tune of The Drifters' song. "We'll be having some fun."

The walk to the terminal was much quieter than when we had arrived four years ago. Just after passport control, there were a perfectly respectable number of fans waiting. Not shrieking, per se, but certainly excited to see us. We signed for a dozen people, posed for photographs, and walked through the baggage claim.

The black limousine idled by the curb with the driver in his livery uniform standing tall next to it. We all piled into the car, Derek somehow ending up on Mal's lap before they quickly rearranged themselves. There was absolutely no need to have Mal, Nail, and Derek along on the trip, but it never hurt to have a few more people to act as a buffer in case things got awkward. In fact, there was no real need to have the press conference in the States at all. John and I had just fancied a trip over.