Lonely People

The Call and The Substitute

I felt like there was a rope connecting my heart to my home. The further I went, the tighter it became, pulling at my heart and twisting me into homesickness. As I got closer, I slowly became more giddy. Home was just one step away as we stopped on tour in Ireland.

The tour was drawing to a close. After a few more nights in Ireland and a last hurrah for The Royal Family in London, we would be finished with the world tour. It was so close I could almost taste it. Almost.

Ireland was always fun. Contrary to popular belief, not everybody there was drunk and a ginger. In all the times that I had gone, I had never once seen a drunk wandering the streets. While you could get beer around every corner, people weren't drinking every five seconds.

From what I have been told, Ireland is a beautiful country, but I never saw any of it. During the touring years, we didn't see much of anything. The greatest sight we could see was Paul in the morning, and that only lasted from the bedroom to the bathroom. 

"You arse," I muttered.

John cheekily grinned at me, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful."

"Beautifully stupid."

John blinked innocently as the rest of the group laughed. We were barely two minutes into our game of cards and I was already forced to fold. I dropped my hand of cards on the table with a huff and a pout.

"Aw, come off it, Lia," Paul waved his hand, "You're just a sore loser, aren't ya?"

I pouted, "Bugger off, Paul. John's out to get me, I'm telling you."

"And why would I do that?" John asked innocently.

"Why wouldn't you? They don't call you Cheeky Lennon for nothin'," I replied.

George lifted an eyebrow, "Who calls him that?"

"Mel, apparently," Ringo replied.

Molly put down her cards and grinned brightly. All of the lads sighed, being forced to draw and move on. As Linda struggled with her turn, I gazed at the window.

Even from sixteen stories high, we could hear the ear-splitting screams of the fans lining the pavement. They had been there for days, some arriving a week before us and camping on the sidewalk. All they wanted was a small glimpse of their idols, perhaps even the privilege of touching them. I never have understood the mentality of a fan.

They were a hive-mind, that much I understood. As soon as one started screaming, the rest weren't a second behind. They didn't even have to know what they were screaming about, they would just scream. All of their screaming did nothing but push us further away, if that were even possible.

"Dammit," Linda muttered, folding.

I shook my head, "They're after us, I tell you!"

"Isn't that the point of the game?" Ringo asked.

"That's besides the point."

John placed down an ace, winning the game. All of us groaned loudly. John was known for hiding aces up his sleeves. He was so good at cheating, nobody could ever tell whether he was being truthful or not. Sometimes, I don't even think he could tell.

"You're all a bunch of swines," John smirked. 

"John W. Lennon," I muttered, "Where the W stands for wanker."

"Eleanor A. McCartney, where the A stands for Arse."

Both of us set to staring the other down. As usual, I was the one to look away first. There was a soft, almost timid, knock on the door. Paul flung his head back and shouted, "Come in!"