The Time They Almost Ruined Everything

“Paul, you seem kind of distracted… What are you thinking about?”

            “John…” Paul mumbled, staring dumbly at the wall, his lips parted and his mind nearly shut off from the press conference.

            “You’re thinking about John?”

            “What, what?” He snapped up, alert now, thinking furiously for a way to save the situation. “Uh, no, I meant…I think it’s John’s turn to answer.

“I’m tired,” he added lamely.

            The John in question hit Paul under the table, his face frozen in a wide smile for the cameras. This would be the perfect moment for Paul to ruin everything and tell the press about their secret relationship.

            “Have I told you all about my scandalous secret?” John drawled, pulling the attention away from Paul. He was going to blow their cover any time now, but it was true that all four Beatles were falling asleep at the press conference. There had been a late concert the night before, and they’d ended up smoking their nerves off in the hotel balcony until maybe five in the morning.

            Ringo was doodling absently on a napkin, and George’s head kept dipping down until he snapped it back up with a startled snort every few minutes.

            “George.

            “George.”

            Ringo finally took pity and elbowed the poor lad, who jumped up into an upright position.

            “What—er—oh—I get my inspiration from my family!” George said quickly, answering something that had been asked around ten minutes ago.

            Two reporters exchanged anxious glances, but none of their concerned faces could match Brian’s, who looked like he was one wrong answer away from ripping his hair completely off.

            “So, John, what would you say your relationship with Paul is?”

            “Good.”

            “Good? Sounds like a rather tepid answer.”

            “No, I mean great. Really great.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yeah, we’re practically married,” John chuckled.

            Now it was Paul’s turn to hit him, this time much less discreetly. “Shut up,” he whispered angrily.

            “Paul, this answer doesn’t sit quite well with you?”

            The hawklike stare of the reporter turned to Paul, whose voice came out as a squeak when he spoke.

            “I mean, we’re not married, no, no, that we are not, we’re not even together, why would John—say—that,” he said quickly, punctuating his last three words with whacks under the table to John’s bruising leg.

            “Well, aren’t the two of you close?”

            “No, not at all,” John said, trying to backtrack.

            “They’re not,” Ringo said, and George nodded unconvincingly.

“Not close. Not in any way.”

“Well this is unusual. Haven’t you two been friends for seven years now?” another reporter needled.

“We are friends. But not…close…friends…” John said, struggling to find words. “Friends that are friends but not close or married. Definitely not.”

Brian was shaking his head and making exaggerated gestures behind the crowds, mouthing at them: “STOP STOP STOP.”

“Alright,” said the reporter slowly, like he was dealing with severely disturbed people, and he was starting to think that maybe he really was.

“George, what do you think of the singer-songwriter duo’s dynamics?”

“I sing and write songs too,” George said proudly like a small child showing off a drawing.

“Yes,” said the man irritably, “but we’re asking about them right now.”

George opened and closed his mouth. “Fine. Great,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Do they get along well?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Spend a lot of time together?”

“S’ppose so.”

“Why then aren’t they close?”

“They’re just not! I dunno, do I?”

“Ringo, any thoughts?”

“No, not really.”

“Are you sure? No opinions?” the man persisted, overall frustrated with the whole conference.

“No thoughts, no opinions; really I wonder what’s going on in my big great empty head,” Ringo said with a benign smile.

“Fine,” the man said in frustration, throwing up his arms into the air. “Fine.”

He left, and, taking his cue, the rest of the crowd drained out slowly, with a few backward glances at Ringo who was still smiling dumbly to anyone who would catch his eye, George who had fallen face-forward and was snoring on the table, and Paul and John who seemed to be having an intense whispering match, their hands’ movements nervous and furtive.

The room itself was completely empty now except for Brian Epstein, who looked like he’d aged thirty years that day. The Beatles, minus snoring George, expected a bout of explosive anger from their manager, but he surprised them by moving towards the door where the crowd had gone.

“Maniacs,” he muttered.