Blackbird, Fly (A Paul McCartney Story)

Chapter Two

I normally rode the bus into the city with my father, but that day he rode with a neighbor.  Though I had done it for about a year then, but without him it was different.  People stared at me as I made my way quickly towards the back of the bus.  I took a seat next to an elderly woman who was reading her magazine and gave me a small smile.  It was one with the current events, and it had the Beatles face plastered on the cover.  I bit my lip, feeling a dread in my stomach to see him again.  

Things promptly got worse when I arrived at work.  The manager himself came up to me and said that Mr. McCartney wished that I would help him with something.  The man told me that I would do everything I wanted for him; he didn't want to hear any complaints.  This was a four-star hotel.  

When I arrived up at his door, I brought fresh towels, linens and pillows with me.  Knocking on the door, I said, "House-keeping."

Paul opened the door.  "Hello.  Thank you for coming."  When I walked in, he said, "How was your evening?"  

"Good, sir."

He smiled.  "Maura, you don't have to call me that."  He offered me a chair, but I didn't take it.  

"It is part of my job, sir.  I must address you properly.  Can I help you in anyway, Mr. McCartney?" 

He stood.  "I tore my trousers last night.  On the leg.  Can you sew?"  

I nodded.  "Yes, sir."

Fifteen minutes later, after I obtained a needle and thread, I began to sew up the tear in his slacks.  And though I knew I shouldn't haven spoken to him, I asked, "Your performance...wasn't it supposed to be last night?"

Paul nodded, setting aside his book.  "Our drummer, Ringo, got sick, and we're doing a bit of...negotiation with the staff of the venue we're supposed to play at.  Hopefully, we'll be able to play, but they don't want to agree to our terms."  

Though I was curious to know what these terms were, I knew not to ask.  Another man walked in the room.  He had the same haircut as Paul, but was slightly shorter.  He was wearing a cap and a light sweater.  "Any news for Ringo yet?"

Paul shook his head.  "I hope he's better soon, mate."  Noticing me sitting in the corner, he said, "Oh, John, this is Maura.  She's fixing up my trousers."  

"Just make sure to say thank you, Paulie.  It was nice to meet you, Maura.  I'm John, but now I have to go.  George wants me to play cards with him."  He waved goodbye to me, which was just as strange as the occurance the day before.  

Once I had finished, he thanked me, and I changed the sheets as quickly as I could.  When I was done putting the towels back in the bathroom, he offered me fifteen dollars as payment.  He said he would have given me more, but it was all he had that was converted into money I could use.  

Even though it would help pay the bills at home, I refused.  There would be trouble if I accepted it, I knew so.  Mama said that unless she knew about it first, I shouldn't take anything a white person offered, even if it was out of the goodness of their heart.  

But I wouldn't risk being called a thief.

"You did what I asked you to do.  You did your job, and now I am paying you for it."  

"Sir, I can't take your money."  I was gathering the dirty sheets, and all of them smelled like cigarette smoke.  Didn't they know that it could kill you?

Paul tried to help me, but I refused that, too.  "If I'm lucky, there's more where it came from.  Please...you've been so helpful.  I know you could use it."