Momma's Little Girl

Chapter 2

“Half eight”, Paul thought as he looked at the watch on his right wrist.  He was as anxious to leave the studio as a student waiting for that last school bell of the year.  All he wanted was to return to his home where Marha, his Olde English Sheepdog, would be faithfully waiting with enthusiastic kisses.

Those, however, were not the kind of kisses he wanted.  The kind he longed for were from a beautiful, friendly, empathetic, funny, talented and intelligent woman.

Linda 

Instead, he was here recording “Back In The USSR” with John and Ringo, two of his three closest friends…well, according to Beatles fans.  Of late, it seemed like there had been an increasing number of arguments and rivalries.  Their trip to India had relaxed their minds and provided much-needed relief from their real-world pressures of being fabulous Beatles.  In the ashram, they had a creative reawakening; John, Paul and, even, George came back with stacks of completed songs and song ideas.

While their creative spirit had endured these past few months, the feeling of peace and togetherness that they left India with had not.  This time, they mostly chose to work alone on their songs.  When they did, the mood was always tense, their conversations strained.

Sexually (and emotionally), his needs were not being satisfied.  Over the past few weeks, he had apathetic sex with Francie Schwartz, the nightmare he just kicked out of his house.  As her stay extended, she grew more demanding and greedy.  The last few times they did try, he could not even get hard.

‘At least there’s some coke left in the tin by my bed,’ he thought.  Martha would, faithfully, sit next to him as he snorted the substance that could take him away from this harsh reality for a few hours.  Maybe it would also dull the ache his heart had for Linda.  His heart longed for happier times, like the weekend they spent together in the Beverly Hills Hotel in June.

“Paul, let’s try another take,” he distantly heard the Beatles’ longtime producer, George Martin, say over the talkback microphone from the engineering booth.  “Paul?...Paul?”

“Hey, he’s talking to you, Macca!” John Lennon yelled.

“Oh, sorry,” Paul dazedly replied.  “What’d he ask?”

“If you wanted to do another take.”  Taking on an older male voice, John mocked “Paul does very well in his studies but has his head in the clouds.”  He then went back to noodling on his guitar.  In his own voice, he added “nice tent.”

Paul shook his head ‘no’. “Not yet, George,” he said.  “I want to get the cymbal fill right.”

“Christ,” Ringo muttered.

“Never knew you were a praying man, Ringo,” John snidely remarked.

“Come on,” Paul said, shrugging off John’s inane comment.  “We’ve been at this for too long, Ringo.  It’s got to sound more even.  You’re not playing it evenly enough. 

Clenching his jaw, Ringo played the cymbal fill.  Again.  Quickly, after grabbing the cymbals to silence them, he averted Paul’s gaze.  Based on the pattern of the afternoon, the next words out of his mouth would, surely, be some sort of criticism.  If there was a clock on the wall in the studio, the second hand would have been moving backwards.  Ringo just wanted to go home and play with little four year-old Zak 

Paul heaved a heavy sigh.  “Give me the sticks and I’ll show you,” he demanded.  Practically breathing down Ringo’s neck, he pushed him off the drum kit to demonstrate.  “you didn’t hit it hard enough.  You should give it more attack and more gradual sustain.  Not too much, you know.  I want it to sound like The Beach Boys.”