Lonely People

One Shilling

It became a daily routine to take those drugs. The drug, Preludin, gave me a feeling unlike any other. It made the long hours go by faster, and it made playing consistently ten times easier. The world seemed brighter every time we felt high. Even the grimy sleeping quarters we had seemed like Buckingham Palace.

Most of all, the drug made me happy. I was always happy to play, but recently, my joy had subsided. Everything seemed to pile on top of me to make happiness seem impossible. From bad playing conditions, rude customers, and the fact that my father still didn't want to see me, it seemed as if happiness was nothing more than a distant thought. The drug made everything seem better.

Each day went by in a blur. Wake up, eat, take the drug, play, and pass out, nothing else. Each day was the same and everything was in monotone, but we didn't care. The high made everything easier.

The only day we had off was Sunday. The Indra Club closed for religious reasons, giving all the staff a much-needed day off. After a month of constantly being with the group, I became sick of them. That Sunday, I left them to go off on my own.

My goal was to find a pay phone to make a call. As it turns out, the district we were in had a shortage of pay phones. I had to walk four miles before I finally found one.

The doors were hard to open. Poorly drawn graffiti covered the walls, mostly names and couples signing it. Some had 'call this number for a good time.'

I stepped inside and shut the door. Digging in my pocket for a shilling, I picked up the phone and began to dial. The sound was scratchy, but not incoherent.

"Hello?" a female voice asked.

I smiled, "'Ello, Molly."

"Melly!" she exclaimed, "It's about time you bloody rang. I thought you'd forgotten about me."

I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me, "This is the first time I've actually had a free minute. They've got us working to death here."

"Is it bad?"

"Bad? It's hell on Earth," I replied, "We play eight to twelve-hour shows with barely any breaks. We have one bedroom right next to the girl's lavatories, and it's a pigsty as is! They only let us breathe on Sundays when they go to church."

"Blimey, that's terrible!"

"Yeah."

"Why do you keep going?" Molly asked, "If it's that bad, why not just quit?"

I shrugged, "We have a contract, we can't quit. Besides, it's the first real step this band has ever taken. We're not at The Cavern Club anymore, we're higher. We have a chance here."

I could almost hear Molly shake her head, "How do you do it?"

"Well, we found something that helps," I rubbed the back of my neck, "The waitresses-they told us about it."

"About what?"

"It's called Preludin. It gives us enough energy to play these ungodly hours."

Molly was silent for a full minute. I knew exactly how she would react, and it wouldn't be pretty. She had been raised in a strict, Catholic, environment. To Catholics, drugs were nothing but sin.

"Drugs?!" she exclaimed, "You're doing fucking drugs?!"

I cringed, "It's not that bad, Molly. They're not habit forming, supposedly, and they keep us going. It's the only solution."

"Drugs are never a good solution, Amelia, what possessed you to do that?"

She began to sound like my mother. Her voice was cross as she lectured me. I could vividly picture her standing with her arms tightly crossed across her chest and her foot taping, just like a disappointed mother. 

"I didn't have a bloody choice!" I replied, "The hours they have us on are impossible without it. We would collapse."

"Get less hours, do something that's not taking drugs."

I frowned, "I wanted too, but there's no other options. We're stuck with the drugs or no job."

"Is the job really worth it?"

"It is," I replied, "This is the first step in advancing our career. It comes with some risks, but, hell, we've made it this far, it's too late to turn back."

I was hoping to play to her sympathies. She knew how much I wanted this, how much we all wanted this. She knew the risks we were willing to take and the sacrifices we were willing to do. 

Molly sighed, "Alright, I just wish you didn't have to take drugs."

"Me too, Mols, me too."

We were silent for a second. The silence tore at me, grating my very skin. It was cold, I could feel her disappointed gaze even from thousands of miles away. Eventually, I cleared my throat and asked, "How's everything back in jolly ole Liverpool?"

"Bloody boring," Molly replied, "Mum sent Gina and Reggie to a boarding school in London. It's quiet without them."

"Did you start school?"

Molly had decided to go to university, unlike me. Her parents fully supported her. In fact, they were forcing her to get a degree in business. Just between the two of us, she told me she wanted to go to an art school, not a business school. They wanted her to be a CEO, she wanted to make art. 

"Yes," Molly answered, "It's no better than our old school."

I chuckled, "I find that hard to believe."

"Honest, it's boring as all hell and they teach us the same thing every bleeding day."

"Sounds like hell."

The phone began to beep, signaling that my time was up. I searched in my pockets for another shilling, but I didn't have one. Sighing, I said, "My time's up and I don't have another shilling."

"Oh," Molly sounded sad, "Promise to call again soon?"

"Promise. Bye, Molly."

"Bye, Melly."

The phone hung up after that. I released a dejected sigh. I had wanted to talk to Molly for longer than that, but I was running out of shillings. Between food, drugs, and other necessary supplies, our paycheck wore thin very quickly.

Perhaps it wasn't worth this. We barely got any money because of those drugs, but we needed those drugs to survive. The only exposure we got were drunken men and hookers. All we were left with was buckets of sweat and fingers rubbed raw. In the end, it wasn't worth it, not in my opinion anyhow.

I left the phone booth with my hands hidden in my pockets and my head hung low. A thick fog had settled over Hamburg. It was a quiet sort of fog, the kind that comes just before a rainstorm. It was a depressing fog.

It began to rain just as I entered a café. It was a French café in a German neighborhood that a Brit had just entered. There were very few people inside, and they all stared at me like I was an alien. In a way, I was. I didn't belong in Hamburg, I belonged in England, and they knew it. 

"Coffee, please," I told the barista.

She nodded and wrote it down. I paid for it and found a seat near the window. Rain pelted against the glass, tapping out a melody only nature can create. I watched the rain, sipped my coffee, and sat in a world of loneliness.

I was a lonely person, and I always would be. The one person I could ever love was miles away. My friends were with me, even my brother was there, but it wasn't the same. Even surrounded by friends, I was lonely.

Lonely people are everywhere. Tucked away in houses, businesses, churches, graveyards, clubs, and coffee houses. They are in plain sight, but nobody sees them. They sit in silence and listen to the world, though the world will never listen to them. Lonely people fill the world, yet they do not belong there.

All the lonely people.

Where do they all belong?

(Photo- Amelia McCartney, 1960. Taken by Astrid Kirchherr.)