Days in the Life

Chapter Twenty-Four

August 29, 1966.

I stared at the date on the little mini-calendar from Pine Lake Savings and Trust that I carried around in my purse as I tossed my sunglasses in the next morning before I showered. This was it--this was the day of the Beatles' last concert...and I was the only one outside of their inner circle that knew the humbling reality. Sighing, I gathered up my clothes I would wear that day--my pink mini, a white blouse, and white tights--and then went into the bathroom to hang up the towels that Paul had left in a heap next to the sink the night before.

It was so quiet inside the house that morning, like an anticlimax to such a monumental event that would take place later that night. I pulled the shower curtain closed across the tub as I poured a good dollop of shampoo into the palm of my hand. Just then I heard the bathroom door open and close over the sound of my transistor radio playing on the sink ledge.

"Paul?"

"Yeah," he said. "Good morning, luv...how are you?"

"Fine," I said, scrubbing my hair with the sweet-scented suds. "What do you want?"

"Nothing...just wondering if I could join you to wash up."

I paused from washing my hair and turned my head to look through the translucent shower curtain. "Yeah, right...join me to sneak a peek is more like it..."

"It's not as if I haven't seen you in all your glory before," he laughed, tapping the shower curtain with his fingers, "and vice-versa..."

"True...okay...but you'd better bring your own shampoo. I don't think you want to go downstairs smelling like a flower," I said, turning the water temperature up a little warmer.

I heard him pull the shower curtain open behind me, then closed it again as he stepped over the edge of the tub. He kissed me on the back of my neck quickly. "Mmmm...violets," he whispered, threading his fingers through the dampened strands of my hair. He gently massaged my scalp, and I just sat there and closed my eyes, feeling the softness of his fingertips and the shampoo bubbles running down the sides of my face and neck.

"Rinse up, luv," he said after a moment, uncapping his own bottle of shampoo so he could wash that moptop of his.

"I think you missed your calling," I murmured as I rinsed all the suds out of my hair. "You should have been a hair stylist--girls would've lined up around the block to have you wash their hair."

"Very funny," he said, giving me a pinch on my side. "Smart-ass..."

I giggled, stepping out of the way as he rinsed his hair. "Now, now...behave yourself. Shall I wash you hair, too?"

"If it pleases the lady," he laughed, handing me the bottle of shampoo. "Just don't burn me eyes out."

"Of course not. I can be careful. I've been careful ever since the time I was giving a bath to a two year old I was baby-sitting and went to rinse her hair and got shampoo in her eyes," I said. "I don't think I've ever heard a child scream louder in my entire life. I thought for sure her mother would find out and fire me."

"Well, just don't do the same to me," he warned, closing his eyes tightly.

"Oh, come on," I scoffed, scrubbing his scalp gently with my nails. "Don't you trust me?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he laughed.

I stopped washing for a moment and waited until he opened his eyes for a peek. "Don't you?" I asked, looking at him sadly.

"I'm just joking, luv. I do trust you, very much so," he said, closing his eyes again so I could continue. "I trust you with everything. You wouldn't go blabbing to everyone in the world that you've come on the tour with us, would you?"

I shook my head. "Nope. I would never do that...even thirty years from now, I don't think I'd ever tell anyone if you guys didn't want me to."

I hummed along to the song on the radio--the Seekers' very folksy "I'll Never Find Another You". "If I should lose your love, dear...I don't know what I'd do...for I know I'd nev-er fiiind...another you..." I sang softly.

"Laurie, live and in concert," he murmured. "I could show you how to play this one on the guitar...it's pretty easy."

I smiled sadly. Ohhhh, god...this song was speaking volumes of truth as it echoed off the tile walls in that room! I'd never find another you...really! Now where in the world would I ever find another guy like Paul? Probably nowhere and never! Could I really let him go home in a heartbeat the next day without saying anything?

"R-rinse up," I stammered, turning away from him for a moment so he wouldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes. I sniffled, hiding my face in a wet washcloth as I moved to the side so he could stand directly under the running water.

Once we were both finished, we stepped out of the tub, and I wrapped myself in my bathrobe as Paul snatched one of the towels from the brass bar on the wall. Praying that my eyes weren't red from crying, I started combing my hair, yanking the tangles out.

Paul went into the bedroom to get dressed; he came back over to the bathroom doorway, buttoning up his shirt. "Laurie?"

"Hmm?" I said, looking at him from the mirror.

"I want to ask your honest opinion on something," he said soberly.

I turned to him quickly, my heart racing. "What?" I asked nervously

He opened his mouth to say something, but, as usual, there came a knock on the bedroom door. Rolling his eyes, he left me there and went to answer it. "What is it, John?" I heard him say. "Yeah...hold on...Laurie?"

"Yes?"

"I'll be right back," he said, then I heard the door close quickly behind him.

"Laurie, Laurie, Laurie," I muttered to myself, carefully lining my eyes with black pencil. "He was probably just asking if his shirt matched with his pants...guys are like that... don't go jumping to conclusions..."

I had already finished dressing by the time Paul poked his head back inside the bedroom. "Oh...you're already done," he said.

"Mmm-hmm," I said, searching under the bed for my shoes.

"It's time to eat; the food's on the table," he told me. "I'll meet you downstairs."

"Okay," I said, unbuckling my black Mary Janes.

At lunch, he acted like everything was perfectly normal, like it was any other concert date for him and the others. How could he act like this? I thought, staring out the window at the driveway. Doesn't he know how profoundly upsetting this is going to be for millions of fans? I was even upset--when it all came down to bare facts, I was still a huge Beatle fan, even though I knew the group personally, and the prospect of never seeing them again was becoming more and more upsetting as the minutes until we left for the airport passed by.

I sat on the edge of the couch at two-thirty, waiting with the others as John tried loading film into his Pentax camera before we left the house. Neil came into the house from telling the limo driver to hold on for a few minutes and approached me.

"Laurie...things have been so hectic around here today that I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet," he said. "I've arranged for your flight home to Chicago at seven tomorrow morning."

"The flight leaves at seven?" I repeated.

Neil nodded. "So you'd have to leave here no later than six," he explained, looking out the window at the waiting car. "Come 'ead, John, finish fiddlin' with the camera...anyway, Paul will go with you to Chicago and he'll transfer to the connecting flight to New York after he sees you home."

"Is everyone else flying direct from LA to New York?" I asked.

"Yes...Paul will be able to meet up with us in New York so we can all arrive in London on the same flight," Neil said. "It took about two hours of phone calls to arrange it, but it's done now."

I smiled. "Thank you, Neil...you've been a real star during this whole trip."

"Not a problem, Laurie; that's what I get paid for," he said, rushing off as the telephone rang.

God...more harrowing reality that the trip was almost over! I thought, making a face. You know, you always picture the trip home the entire time you're on vacation, and then it's just miserable when it's actually time to pack up and leave...and this is just a million times worse than any other homecoming from vacation I've ever had!

"Laurie!" Neil called from the kitchen. "Your mum's on the phone."

"Oh," I said, getting up and hurrying into the kitchen. Neil handed me the receiver and I said, "Hello?"

"Laurie? How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mom; what's up?"

"I just wanted to know what time you were coming home tomorrow," she asked. I could tell she was in the middle of washing dinner dishes, for I could hear the water running out of the sink faucet. "Early?...Late?"

"Well, I'm taking a 7 a.m. flight out of LA," I explained.

"Okay...I probably won't be home, then, during the afternoon when you get home," she said. "I have to take Claire downtown to go see The Merchant of Venice for school, and we're going to catch an early dinner before the show. And, of course, your father will still be at work at that time, too."

"No problem," I said. "I'll just see you later on that night, okay?"

"Yes," my mother answered, shutting off the sink. "Just make sure you claim all your bags from the baggage check, and keep an eye on your purse--you know--"

"Mom, I've been in and out of quite a few airports in the past couple of weeks," I laughed. "I'm careful--and I'm still in one piece...don't worry..."

"I know, I know," she said. "I can't help it...but I'm getting better at it."

Getting better? I thought. If this is better, it couldn't get much worse! Worrying about my purse at the airport...jeez...

"Okay, Mom; I think we're ready to leave for the last show," I said, watching through the doorway as the Fabs and entourage were assembled at the front door. "The car's waiting for us...I have to leave."

"All right," she replied. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then. Have a good flight home, dear."

"I will," I said. "Bye-bye, Mom."

"Bye, Laurie."

I hung up the phone and strolled back into the living room. Paul and John were both carrying Pentaxes with them; I guess John had finally figured out how to load film into the camera.

"Well...this is it," Paul said to Ringo with sort of a sad little smile as we all walked out to the car. "Relieved?"

"Completely!" Ringo said. He looked absolutely fatigued, like he'd been up for three days with no sleep. Maybe he had--anything was possible at this point of the game.

"Are you feeling okay?" I whispered to him as we got into the car.

He nodded. "Didn't sleep well last night," he whispered back. "Lot of things on me mind..."

"I'll bet," I said softly as he closed the door once everyone was settled inside the car. No one was really in much of a talking mood as we fought late-day traffic all the way to the airport. They didn't play their Let's Tease the Dolly Bird game anymore on the drives to and from locations. They didn't even bring their transistor radios with to listen to music during the trips, either. All they did was sit in silence and stare out the windows, and all I could do for entertainment was stare at them. With such a sober attitude, they were starting to downright age, like they were already thirty years old or so. George, who was barely two years older than me, looked so much older than me that you would've guessed that he was thirty years old. At that point I was surprised that none of them had gone prematurely gray from all the stress of the past few months (well, not counting that gray streak in Ringo's hair that he'd had for ages...)

We boarded the plane bound for San Francisco and had only about a fifteen minute wait before the plane taxied down the runway and sailed into the blue cloudless skies above around four o'clock that afternoon. The flight wouldn't be a long one--all we were doing was jetting up the California coast a few hundred miles.

"Laurie, you look absolutely bored to tears," Ringo said about twenty minutes into the flight.

I looked away from the window where I'd been staring at the ocean below us. "Pretty much," I admitted.

"How about one last Speed tournament?" he laughed, reaching into his suit coat pocket and pulling out the deck of cards we'd nearly worn out that first night I taught the four of them to play the game.

I laughed. "For old time's sake, why not?"

I pulled down one of the trays on the back of the seat in front of me, and Ringo came to join me in the empty seat next to me. I dealt out the cards into piles of eleven and fifteen, then counted, "One, two, three, go!"

The game was over in about one minute--I managed to get rid of about five of my cards one right after the other in a very slick maneuver at the start of the game, so Ringo didn't even have a chance to beat me.

"Hey, you're not playing very fair, missy," he laughed as I gathered up the cards at the end of the game. "Your hands were in the way of the discard piles the whole game."

"Well, that's the breaks, isn't it?" I giggled, shuffling the cards into a neat pile. "Try again?"

"Of course!"

For about half an hour we played back and forth, and I think we ended up about even on wins by the time Paul came over to us to watch. "Any chance I can play?" he asked, kneeling on the seat in front of us and leaning over the back of the chair.

"Right after this hand," I said, getting ready to pick up my five starter cards. "Okay...go!"

That game was really close--Ringo beat me by one card, throwing down a six of hearts onto a five of spades about half a second before I could toss out my four of hearts.

"All right, all right...Paul's turn," he said, shuffling the deck before he got up from the seat and Paul sat down.

Paul began dealing out the cards, and I reached over to straighten the collar on his striped shirt. "You look like you just fell out of bed," I said, smiling as I also adjusted the lapels on his suit coat.

He yawned, covering his mouth with one hand after he dealt out all the cards. "I was asleep over there," he explained. "I had a terrible time sleeping last night."

"Did you really?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "I couldn't tell...you weren't tossing and turning or anything."

"I know; I was sitting still so as not to kick you or anything," he said, reaching under the tray and pinching my knee. "There's a lot of things to think about."

"Ringo said the same thing when we left the house today," I said. "What are you so worried about?"

Paul glanced around us, seeing that everyone else nearby was engrossed in conversation. "The future..."

"Well, you can't worry about that too much," I said, shrugging. "Now that you guys have decided to stop touring, it's pretty much an open book...what have you got to worry about?"

"Precisely the fact that it is an open book," he said, straightening his cards into a neat little pile. "Laurie, for the first time in about five or six years, I have nothing planned to do...neither do the others. When I get home, there will be nothing to worry about--no recording studio dates, no deadlines...not even any songwriting while John's off filming that Dick Lester film."

"Paul, it's just a well-deserved vacation," I said, patting his arm.

"No, no, it's not like that. I've been on well-deserved vacations, and even while I was away skiing in Switzerland or living it up in Paris, I always knew that there would be things for me to do when I got back home. Now I'll be home and there will be nothing to do."

"Aren't you guys going to record a new album for the Christmas sales boom?" I asked.

He shook his head. "That's just it; we don't have any of that planned out right now. I don't know if we'll even record anything together for a while...we all need a break from this whole Beatle thing."

"Well, break or not, the Beatle thing can't be shut off like a faucet," I explained. "You can't escape it entirely."

"I know, I know...I think right now we're all just tired of seeing each other day in and day out. It's like being on the road for four never-ending years, seeing the same three other faces every single day. It's not that we hate each other or anything like that, but, you know, it's just time for a change...Laurie, I've spent my whole adult life so far as Beatle Paul...there has to be more to life than that...some things are just bound to change..."

Changes, I thought. That's what this whole tour has been for him...changes. Leaving Jane--possibly permanently...moving into his own house...stopping touring...and now feeling washed-up and worn out.

The plane touched down on the runway in San Francisco not far away from a few thousand screaming fans crowding any free space they could cram themselves into without crossing police barriers. The boys collected their carry-on cases and walked down the narrow aisle to exit the plane ahead of everyone else. Mal, Brian, and Neil were just in back of them, and I was behind the entire troupe of them.

"I can't believe this is the last time you'll ever do this," I commented as we all filed towards the exit door.

"Well, I wouldn't say we'll never do it again," Paul replied. "We're just going to take a very long, well-deserved break from it."

A wall of screams hit my eardrums as the four Fabs stepped down the stairs outside the plane and paused for a moment so the hordes of photographers could snap their pictures of the band. I stayed well behind them, praying that the rose-colored sunglasses were enough to hide my identity from the cameras being aimed so very close to me. Even in plain daylight, the light from the flashbulbs hurt my eyes.

A brisk wind nearly blew my scarf off of my head as we walked along the tarmac to the tour bus waiting near an exit road. The air felt a little cooler than the warmth of LA, sort of like the night air does during late summer back in Pine Lake. We quickly boarded the bus after a few more photo opportunities. The driver closed the doors as soon as I stepped onto the top step, and Brian turned around in his seat to make sure everyone had made it onto the bus safe and sound.

I giggled as I took my seat next to John. "It's like being on a field trip," I said, taking off my sunglasses.

"Field trip?" John said.

"Yeah...you'd probably say 'school outing' or something like that," I said, once again translating from American to British. "The last one I took in high school was such a scream! Two girls got left behind at the Art Institute downtown, Katie Deegan broke her leg when she fell down the front stairs, and I think all the teachers and chaperones were ready to kill all the boys at the back of the bus."

"And you're sure you don't want to teach high school?" George laughed, leaning across the aisle to join the conversation.

"Couldn't pay me enough!--anyway, the boys were making signs out of loose-leaf paper and the pictures in the free pamphlets they picked up at the museum and hanging them up in the windows," I giggled, vividly recalling the hilarious event. "They tore out this goofy-looking Kabuki mask or No theater mask or something, stuck it onto a piece of paper and right next to it wrote 'THIS MAN KIDNAPPED US!!!!' in big black bold letters! Then they started banging on the windows and making desperate faces to get the attention of passers-by! I was laughing so hard I think I nearly split a gut."

"We couldn't act up on the bus to school," George remarked. "My father was the bus driver...we saved our outbursts for the classroom."

"I've said it once and I'll say it for the rest of my life--it's because of people like you guys that raise all sorts of hell that I refuse to teach anything higher than sixth grade!" I said, pointing at John and Paul.

"Oh, and I suppose you were a complete angel in high school," John said, staring straight into my eyes.

"I was."

"Bollocks."

"No, seriously. I went through four years without a detention or a single demerit."

"Is that right?"

"Yes it is...it was when I got to college that I started causing problems," I said, making a face.

Paul, who was sitting in the seat in front of us, turned around and kneeled on the seat so he could talk with us. "Yeah, pissing off the sisters and all that."

"Pretty much. I think Sister Janet is still going to have me excommunicated one of these days," I remarked. "Mary Ann Ellerbee and I ditched one of her classes once, and we never did it again after what happened, even when we were sick and dying with colds."

"What happened?" George asked.

"Well, the two of us were having a hell of a time with one of our English papers--we had to analyze one of Shakespeare's sonnets and practically beat it to death to squeeze five pages out of it," I began. "All the Shakespeare books at Rosary were checked out, so we were going to go around to the Elmwood Park and River Forest libraries to see if we could find something. Mary Ann had her car with her that day--she lives in Oak Park, which isn't too far from school--and we were going to skip Sister Janet's American Revolution class that day. No big deal--I was going to go home for the weekend directly afterwards, as would Mary Ann, so Sister wouldn't see us again until Monday."

"And let me guess--you got nabbed," Paul said. "Story over--the end."

"Well, not quite," I said. "You see, it was snowy that day, and the streets were a bit icy. So Mary Ann and I were driving around that Circle in front of the school where Sister's car was parked...and Mary Ann hit an icy patch and went skidding all of a sudden...and guess whose car got a dent on the edge of the bumper?"

Paul laughed. "Dear old Sister Jan, perhaps?"

I nodded. "We must have sat there for thirty seconds just dumbfounded, then Mary Ann starts crying and saying 'Oh, merciful Jesus, have mercy on us!' about twenty times. She wouldn't drive the damn car! I finally had to punch her shoulder and scream at her to get the hell out of there."

"Did Sister ever find out?"

I shook my head. "No, thank god. I didn't want to face the wrath that is Sister Janet...though I'm probably going to hell for doing that."

Paul grinned wickedly and leaned over to my ear to whisper, "Luv, if you're going to hell, it isn't gonna be for something like that, compared to what you've done during the past two weeks' worth of nights..."

"Oh, stop it," I scoffed. "Hey, you were there too, you know; you're the farthest thing from a holy innocent."

"I never said I was one," he laughed, sticking his tongue out at me and crossing his eyes to make a hideous face.

Not very long afterwards, we pulled up to the gates of Candlestick Park, the final venue of the long tour. As the bus slowed down, I heard Brian say to the driver, "Are you certain this is Gate C?"

"Yes...I don't understand why it isn't open," the driver replied, and then the rest of the conversation on the bus drowned out the rest of their words. Oh no...not another instant replay of last night's horror! I looked out the window at the screaming fans pounding on the sides of the bus and jumping up and down incessantly, trying to get a quick glimpse of the inside of the bus. One of the guys from the Remains slid his window closed quickly after some hangers-on attempted to climb up the side of the bus but slipped off. Hopefully we weren't going to drag anyone around on our vehicle again! The last time that happened, that poor girl got her face smashed into the pavement at thirty miles an hour! I shivered, recalling that terrible sight vividly.

"And you think we're going to miss this?" Paul whispered to me, pointing at the fervent fans outside the bus. "Not a chance, darling...not a chance..."

Since apparently no one had their head screwed on right at that ballpark, we ended up circling the parking lot so many times I was sure I'd be dizzy. Fans who had driven their cars to the show chased alongside the bus, beeping their horns and hanging dangerously far out the windows trying to get our attention. Ringo eventually got up from his seat and waved out the window to appease them, but that only made them more ardent in their quest.

At long, long last, someone opened up the stadium gates and we were allowed to drive into the park. The police had quite a job on their hands, blocking all those nutty fans from following us through the gates and causing havoc before the show even started, but somehow the bus managed to get through without incident. We were hustled down a narrow hallway to the dressing room, where I crashed into the first available chair in the room. Someone had left a whole stack of posters for the concert on a folding table in the corner. If I'd had more room in my purse, I definitely would have snatched one for my wall at home--they were so cool! They had "Here Come the Beatles" in white letters across the top of the black paper, and beneath that was a colorfully rendered picture of the lads.

The Beatles became intent on creating some art of their own. They'd somehow gotten their hands on some drawing paper and some colorful markers and were busily scribbling away at the table in the middle of the room, nearly oblivious to all the hustle and bustle going on around them. It looked like drawing time in a kindergarten classroom--they were fighting over the markers as well as table space to draw on. Eventually I walked over to them, put my hands on my hips and said, "Now, now--if you four don't stop fighting, I'll have to separate you, and you'll have nothing for snack today, either!"

John put on a mock-scared face, and Paul just stuck his tongue out at me. "Miss Donaldson is mean," he muttered, threatening to throw a marker at me. "I don't like her no more. She's a mean teacher."

"Go ahead--throw it," I said. "I've gotten clunked in the head with wooden building blocks before; I'm immune to it."

"Oh, really?" he said, then fired the marker at me unexpectedly. I reached out and caught it securely with one hand without so much as a blink of an eye. The other three stopped and stared at me incredulously.

I smirked. "Told you I was good," I said in a singsong voice, setting the marker back on the table and walking away.

Paul just made another face at me, and I said, "You'll be staying after school with me, Master McCartney, if you don't stop it."

He grinned devilishly. "Promise?" he said.

I just rolled my eyes. "I pity your real teachers," I said.

Except for their brief meeting with the press just before showtime, I was with the Beatles the entire length of that last concert experience. I tried my best committing all the details to memory, but, naturally, the emotions welling up inside of me because of the monumental scale of the occasion were preventing me from carefully engrafting everything into my brain.

Tony Barrow visited the dressing room for a few minutes just as the opening acts were starting their sets. Paul approached him and said, "Tony, you're going to tape this show for us, right?"

Tony nodded. "It's all been taken care of," he said. "I'll get the tape to you as soon as the show's over--if it slips my mind, just remind me, okay?"

"Of course," Paul replied, then headed over to the rack of stage costumes to find his suit for the show. He selected his black suit and a multicolored shirt and pulled them from their hangers.

"Well, at least you don't have to dress like the Bobbsey Twins anymore after this," I laughed.

Paul frowned and put his finger to his lips, indicating for me not to say anymore about this night being the final show. "Not here," he said. "Too many ears..."

The other three Beatles changed into their stage costumes, then patted on their stage makeup quickly before retrieving their guitars and drumsticks from the corner of the room. My heart was ready to pound out of my chest at that point. I watched as John and Paul also grabbed their Pentaxes from the table and hung them around their necks. They'd never brought cameras with them onstage...so they were dead serious about this, I thought as I followed them down the hallway to the dugout entrance.

A stiff breeze blew down the hallway as we approached the lit-up doorway and the sound of thousands of fans hit our ears. I tapped Paul on the shoulder and said, "Good luck...and, Paul?"

"Hmm?" he said, reaching in his pocket for his guitar pick.

"Paul, have fun," I said. "Enjoy this."

He paused, then smiled at me. "Thank you, Laurie," he said. "Sometimes I need to hear that."

I smiled back at him, then watched as the four of them dashed onto the neatly trimmed playing field. The stage seemed to be miles away from where I was standing, further away from the stands than it had ever been. Two rows of heavy-duty security fence had been set up around the stage platform, and security guards had been positioned every few feet around the fence for extra protection from the wild fans that were already trying to make a break for it and get to the Beatles before they stepped onto the stage.

They kicked off their set with "Rock and Roll Music," as usual. I could hear just a little bit of the song over the house speakers amidst the screaming and crying of the audience. Flashbulbs were popping all over the stands, and some fans were waving signs painted on white bedsheets over the first balcony railings. For a moment, I wished I could be in the audience, innocent of the knowledge that this was the last Beatles show for some time, so I could just enjoy the show purely for the thrill of seeing the Beatles in concert. Instead of getting a thrill, I was getting a weepy feeling inside of me.

After their second song, Neil tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Would you like to get up close to the stage?"

I nodded. "If we can pull it off without me getting mobbed," I said as he handed me a laminated green stage pass.

"We can do it," he said. "Just stick with me. I want to go check the tape recorder by the stage and make sure it's all running okay."

We got two security officers to lead us to the stage. It really was scary, that feeling of being at the bottom of a massive goldfish bowl, the eyes of twenty-thousand fans boring into me as we made the trek to the stage. Neil and I stood inside the first row of fencing to watch as the boys finished up "Day Tripper" amidst hysterical reactions from the fans. Once they stopped playing, Paul gave me a delighted grin and put his hand over his heart for a moment, then gave me a wink. I blew a kiss to him, and he pretended to get nearly knocked off his feet by it before stepping up to the microphone to introduce the next song, which turned out to be "I Feel Fine." John snapped a picture of him as he spoke, then turned the camera at me and took another one of me meekly watching them from below the edge of the stage.

That show flew by on wings as I watched them play, holding my hair out of my face as the ocean breeze seemed to kick up even stronger than before. I thought it would surely blow us all back to England after a while. Ringo's cymbals looked like they were going to take off and go sailing into the crowds after a while.

"Well...this'll have to be the last song of the evening for us," Paul breathlessly announced after the last notes of "Paperback Writer." "We'd like to say thanks to everyone for coming out to the show tonight and to all the shows during our tour here in America--thank you--"

John shouted out thank you to the crowd as well and made some grand gestures, setting the crowd into frenzy, naturally. Paul continued with saying, "This is one... that we used to do in the old days...and the name of it is...'Long Tall Sally.'"

He stomped off the count-in with his foot, then began screaming out the lyrics to the song, nearly out-doing the Little Richard version of the song. I sang along with him, probably getting all the words wrong, but having a blast during those last few moments of the show. From the corner of my eye, I saw the end of the tape on the tape recorder pull loose from the reel and start flapping as the second reel spun out of check. They must have played a bit longer than half an hour, so their last song would be cut off at the end of the tape. Neil dashed over to the recorder and snapped off the power, then pulled the reel from the machine and hid it inside his jacket pocket.

They finished the song with a flourish, then took their bows...and that was it! Paul snapped a couple more pictures with his camera before he and the others left the stage. Thank goodness they immediately began marching back to the dugout--they weren't around to see me burst into hysterical tears as Neil and I headed for the only exit from our iron surroundings at the back of the stage.

"Laurie! What's wrong?" Neil shouted, taking my hand as we followed the lads at a safe distance.

"Oh, I don't know!" I cried, half-laughing and half-sobbing. "I hate when I'm such a crybaby...I just feel like it's all ending..."

"No, it's not," he reassured me, putting his arm around my shoulders. "Believe me, Laurie..."

"But they'll never come back to America now, at least not all four of them together," I said, tears streaking my face. "I'd be so upset if they never came back here...I'm going to miss them so much."

"Laurie, please, take my word for it," Neil laughed, "you will see the four of them all together again. Trust me on this."

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I don't see how you're finding this funny," I said, pouting.

"Not funny...ironic," he said. We stepped carefully down the dugout steps together.

I frowned. "Ironic? How so?"

He waved off my question. "Never mind," he said, approaching Tony Barrow, who was standing near the dugout entrance doorway. "Tony, I have the tape."

"Oh! Okay," Tony said, nodding. "Be sure Paul gets it, will you?"

By the time we got past all the security checkpoints and entered the dressing room, Paul and George had already packed up their guitars in their cases. Paul approached me, kissed me quickly, then said, "Here's a souvenir, luv."

He pressed a guitar pick into the palm of my hand. "If you don't want it, give it to your sister," he said, wiping his brow with his hand and getting the orangeish makeup streaked across his palm. "Let me go wash this crap off my face."

Brian Epstein stood near the doorway talking to Mal for a moment, and then Mal stepped into the hallway to see if our escape transportation was ready. Brian tiredly rubbed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

"Feeling all right?" I asked him, attempting a smile.

"Oh...Laurie...my goodness, you look as worn out as I am," he said with a weak smile. "I'm all right."

I nodded, but then he continued on. "What am I going to do now?" he said, shrugging. "They don't need me now...they don't need me for a single thing now..."

He walked out the door into the hallway, and I just stood there in silence. He was right...besides haggling over recording contracts, what else would the Beatles need him for now that their touring days had come to an end? Apparently they didn't plan on making anymore television or radio appearances, either, if Brian felt that way. I was really starting to think that Paul and the others hadn't told me the whole story. Maybe they were really going to break up now. Paul had really scared me the way he'd talked on the plane to San Francisco, about how he had nothing to look forward to in his future. Maybe that was it--maybe the Beatles were really splitsville now! That was probably what Paul was going to ask me about this morning, something about the band splitting up.

We escaped from the hordes of fans one last time courtesy of a steel-reinforced armored car and drove it all the way to the airport, where our plane was waiting for us already. The boys hadn't even had a chance to change out of their stage costumes yet, and Neil said they'd have to change on the plane.

"On the plane?" I repeated as we stepped out of the back of the car and onto the tarmac. "Jeez..."

"Well, we're due to leave very shortly," Neil explained. "Just as soon as the other bands get here on the bus, we're taking off."

We boarded the plane quickly, selecting seats all the way at the back of the plane, and Paul started unbuttoning his shirt right there in the middle of the plane!

"You're going to get changed here?" I said, quickly turning away from the rest of them and sitting in one of the seats in front of them as he pulled his shirt off. "Why not just change in the bathroom?"

"You try changing in there," Paul muttered back. "The last time I tried doing that, the bloody plane hit air turbulence and my clean shirt ended up in the toilet."

I giggled, but then he kicked the back of my seat. "Yeah, but we're on the ground now, stupid," I said back to him.

"Oh, lay off," he laughed, walking up to the seat next to me. "See? I'm already done." He'd changed back into his street clothes at light speed.

"So? You want a medal now?" I said, shrugging.

"Ooh, you," he said, lurching forward and attacking me with tickles.

"Aaagh! Eeek! Stop it!" I giggled, trying to tickle him back and fight him off as he managed to pin me on my back between the seat and the wall of the plane. "No, no, no...come on!"

"Kindly keep your smart-ass remarks to yourself, Miss Donaldson, then," he said, pinning my arms behind me with one hand as I squirmed to get away. "Oh, now you're dead meat...you've got no way out!" he shouted in a singsong voice.

"No! No! Knock it off!" I laughed hysterically as he tickled my neck. Then he actually grabbed one of my breasts right there where any of the others could plainly see if they happened to look over the back of the seat, and I gasped, "Oh!" and attempted to take a kick at him before whispering fiercely, "Don't do that!"

"Fine; then I'll do this," he said, reaching behind me and snapping my bra strap so hard I was sure I'd have a red mark on my back. "Gotcha!"

"Ow! Dammit!" I cried, still laughing. "You're gonna pay for that!"

His hand slipped, allowing me to pull my arms free and take a few swings at him. I managed to give him a good crack on his right arm before he got his hand behind me and snapped the strap again. "Can't hurt me, Laurie!" he laughed.

"Paul, I swear to god, if you do that one more time, I'm gonna kill you with my bare hands," I said, getting frustrated. "I really hate that!"

"Okay, okay..." he said, letting me go so I could sit up. I'd just straightened out my hair when he got that devious look in his eye again and said, "Hey, Laurie, guess what?"

I didn't even have time to ask what before he yelled "Sneak attack!" and snapped the strap. Dammit! Pearl-Harbored again!

"Goddamnit!" I shouted, giggling. This was way too hysterical to get mad about! I lurched forward at him, pretending to go at his throat with my two hands. "You're really starting to piss me off!"

I had him nearly pinned down on his back when suddenly from behind me I felt another tug on the strap and another snap! Paul roared with laughter as I turned to see John staring angelically at the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs and whistling.

"Now don't you start!" I said, sitting up. "See what you started, Paul?"

I tried rubbing my back, but I just couldn't reach back there without dislocating my shoulders. "You are such a prick!" I cried, still grinning.

"You oughta know by now," he murmured in a low voice.

"Oh...you sick bastard," I replied, whacking his arm again. "Just wait 'till we get home...just wait..."

"Um...no, I don't think I want to wait," he said, reaching over again and commencing Round Two of tickles. I squirmed so hard that I fell out of my seat and tried to sneak away from him by crawling into the aisle, but he jumped down and tackled me, pinning my arms at my sides as he fell on top of me. Oh, now that must have looked really good!

"Not here, loverboy," John scoffed, tapping Paul's shoulder. "Get off the poor bird...the others are coming aboard."

Paul struggled to his feet, as did I, as the other members of the touring party entered through the door at the front of the plane. "I need a drink," Paul said, looking around. "Where's the stewardess?"

He went off looking for one of the stews with a drink cart, and I sat down in my seat again, straightening out my skirt and smoothing down my hair. I must have looked just hideous at that point! I'd managed to wipe off most of the black eyeliner streaks from my cheeks, but I knew that I still had black lines underneath my eyes from the smudging...and after all the wrestling Paul and I had done, I was sure it was even worse.

I searched through my purse for my compact mirror. Behind me I heard George sigh as he settled into his seat, ready for the journey back to LA. "Well, Nell, that's it," he said in a quietish voice. "I'm not a Beatle anymore..."

I sat there in stunned horror for a moment. Oh...my...god...my suspicions were correct! They're breaking up! I thought, ready to start crying again.

"No touring...what a relief," he continued. "No more press conferences...no more acting for the whole world..."

Ohhh...okay...maybe he meant it figuratively, I thought, chewing on one of my fingernails. I suppose they would get tired of playing the cute and adorable moptops everywhere they went. Oh, man, they weren't going to do anything extreme and lop off all their hair in protest, were they? I just couldn't see any of them with buzzcuts! Well...actually, Claire had a black and white trading card with a fake picture of them with cropped hair that some goof had made up a couple of years ago when their haircuts were practically scandalous, but that was besides the point. It was hard to believe that it had only been just over two years since the Beatles had entered my life.

It was even harder to remember what life was like before their images and music was bombarding our eyes and ears. God...President Kennedy had gotten killed just months before the Beatles arrived. Anna had been hell-bent on hunting down Frankie Avalon and marrying him. Claire was only in sixth grade. Mom was still dying her hair that coppery red color before going back to her original brunette color around Christmastime. I had a crush on Ed Miller and wondered if he'd ever even bother giving me the time of day when all of us former Danford High graduates hung out at Davidson's Pancake House after the movies on Saturday nights...so much had changed!

I drank three rum and Cokes while we flew home, and I was just starting to doze off from all the alcohol when the plane touched down in Los Angeles. Gathering up my purse and sliding on my shoes that I'd kicked off of my feet not long after the plane had left Frisco, I followed all the tired, trudging members of the touring party out the door and down the stairs to the limo waiting for the Beatles and me.

Everyone was dead silent in the car on the way back to the house. Through my foggy state of mind at that point, I felt like we were going to a funeral or something with such a somber atmosphere in the car. I think everyone was just physically and emotionally exhausted from the experience, especially the people in our close circle that knew that it was all coming to an end. However, I felt like I was in a haze myself from all the rum!

Paul followed me straight upstairs when we arrived at the house. "Goodness sake, luv, what did you drink?" he said. He must have caught a whiff of my boozy breath as I yawned.

I steadied myself against the edge of the bed, slurring my words. "Roke and rum...no, wait...coke and c--ooh! Not that!" I giggled, taking my unspoken sick joke far too seriously! "My my...that must taste nasty...that'd be the last time I'd let you mix my drinks!"

Paul just rolled his eyes. "Laurie, you're drunk. Stop it."

I grinned like a loon. "Mmm-hmm!" I nodded, nearly throwing myself off balance. "For the first time in my life, I got more than tipsy...tip-seeeeeee...dr-r-r-r-runk...d-r-u-n-k spells 'fucked up'..." I laughed hysterically, kicking my shoes off so far that if we were outside, they would have gone shooting into outer space. "Whee...let the good times roll..."

"I'm glad you've got everything packed up. You're in no condition to take care of all that now," he yawned, pulling his jacket from his arms. "You'll have to help me with all my crap tomorrow morning before we leave...I'm too knackered now to take care of it."

He fell face-first into the bed pillows like he was dead, not moving an inch for about five minutes as I slowly changed out of my clothes and into my pink nightgown. "And who says I'll help you with it, after what you did to me on the plane?" I said, tittering. "Mister Meanie...Mean Mister Mud...Mean Mister Mustard...hee-hee...I like that!"

"Oh, come off it...I'm too tired to joke around," he said, rolling over and covering his eyes with his hands so the lamplight wouldn't bother him.

"Are you just gonna sleep in your clothes?" I asked, making a futile attempt at folding up my clothes and setting them on top of one of my suitcases.

"Maybe...we've got to get up at about five-fifteen in the bloody morning," he muttered. "Neil says we have to leave here by six."

"I know...he told me, dammit," I said, setting the clock radio alarm for five o' clock--or at least what looked like five o' clock to me! "We can get about four hours of sleep before then...I'm gonna pass out on the plane...if I don't puke first..."

"I'm tired of planes," he said. "Tired of hotels...tired of this buggery lamp being on...could you please hurry up?"

"I'm trying," I answered, tossing my class ring into hyperspace after aiming it at my vanity case. "This isn't easy when you're seeing double..."

"Not as tired as I am," he said softly. "You could probably climb on top of me completely starkers and I wouldn't move an inch."

I guffawed. "Oh, yeah, right," I said, switching off the lamp. Biting my lip, I slid the straps of my nightgown down my shoulders, letting the top half of it fall down to my waist. "I'll bet I can prove you wrong."

"Hmph...try me," he said. He was already in sleep mode, breathing slowly and rhythmically.

"Okay," I said. I slid the rest of my nightgown off, then crawled underneath the covers and began kissing his neck. "Come on, smart-ass...wake up..."

"No," he said flatly.

I unbuttoned his shirt slowly, sitting up a little bit. "Come on...please..."

"I think not."

I managed to get him undressed down to his boxer shorts before getting any reaction from him. He let out a fake snore so funny that I started giggling.

"Am I really boring you that much?" I smiled.

"Well...maybe not that much," he said, pulling me on top of him. "You've almost got me awake..."

I leaned over and whispered something very suggestive into his ear, and he snickered, "You'd do what?"

"Well, I can see that's woken you up," I tittered. "Actually, I can feel that you've woken up...you have a dirty mind, Paul."

"You're the one with the filthy mouth that suggested it...getting me all hot and bothered when I should be going to sleep," he said, pulling my face to his and kissing me. "What would your mother think of you?"

"Well, Alice isn't here, now, is she?" I said. "I don't care what she'd think..."

"Thank God she isn't here...she'd kill us for letting you get pissed like this," he said, rolling me onto my back and drowning me in a sea of kisses.

"Well, then?" I said, breathless and mindless. "I want this as much as you do...come on..."

He pulled away from me a little. "No...We have nothing left to, uh, use, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I don't care...I really don't care...believe me, I don't," I said, absolutely drunk with the overwhelming passion of the moment. "Come on...please..."

"Laurie...are you sure?"

"Paul, listen to me; I don't give a flying fuck if you get me knocked up!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, and he clapped his hand over my mouth.

"Bleedin' Christ...you're fucked over," he muttered. "Your judgment has just flown right out the window."

"You've got me at a disadvantage...drunk and willing," I said, trying to kiss him again. "Pleeeease? Pretty please? Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top?...no, wait; I haven't got a cherry...not anymore," I giggled, poking his shoulder. "You got it, you naughty little boy you..."

That was the last thing I can foggily remember saying to him--I think I just passed out at that point, probably much to Paul's relief, as well as mine, in retrospect. It was really embarrassing when he told me what I'd said to him the next day while we were flying home on the plane. If he hadn't been gentleman enough to turn me away when I was in such a state, who knows what would've happened? But he let me sleep it off soundly the rest of the night, thank goodness, and never said a word about it to anyone else. Like I thought earlier in the day, I knew I'd never find another Paul!

Continue to Chapter 25...