Dear Sean

Four

One day we went to Hamburg, with the whole band. Hamburg, Sean, is a city in Germany. We went there and camped together in a little movie theater, which was a lot of fun. We’d be playing shows every night, and we were all very excited to be there.

            “This?” Paul asked, disgust etched on his every feature.

            I surveyed the small, dirty room, with five beds shoved in, four bunks and one sad mattress in the corner. The lone bed was obviously the worst.

            Uncle George was there too. By then he’d joined the band.

            “Harrison, you take that bed,” I said, pointing towards the sagging, discolored mattress.

            He was youngest, and I had to establish a certain pecking order.

            “Wanker,” he muttered, flipping me a two-finger salute, but he put his bag of measly possessions onto that bed anyway.

            “Right, I want the bed nearest the door,” I said, setting my bag decisively onto a bottom bunk.

            Paul slapped his bag down on the bed above mine, and all the others divided the rest up amongst themselves. Paul went to talk to George and I busied myself with my bag. There wasn’t much to unpack, really; I just had some clothes, a notebook with a pen, a picture of Julia and other assorted things I’d brought.

            When we were going to play our first show, I was very nervous. Everyone gets a bit of stage fright sometime in their lives, and I did too. If that ever happens to you, stay calm and remember that it’s normal to be scared sometimes.

            Bravery is about facing your fears, not about avoiding them.

            Remember that you’ll always do well, and tell all your friends that your daddy is John Lennon and that he’s bigger than Elvis.

            “This…shit, this is it,” I muttered. The crowd was already loud before it was our turn to be onstage, and I could feel myself beginning to break down.

            “Nervous?” Paul asked, a hint of laughter in his voice, darting by me with a lit cigarette in hand.

            “Shut up, Paul,” I growled. This was no moment to be weak, and I knew it; which was why McCartney completely infuriated me by bringing attention to it.

            Paul touched my arm lightly. “We’ll be gear,” he said confidently.

            I looked at him and decided to let him take charge for once; if he said it then it must be true.

            “Yeah,” I said with a weak smile.