When the plane landed, it may as well have crash-landed. Maybe it was my onset of jetlag, or the fact that the pilot really was having a bad time up in the cockpit, but I'm surprised I didn't get sick. Pregnant Maureen, on the other hand, had her face shoved into a bag the whole way down. After the shaky landing, an unfortunate Stewardess took Maureen's sick bag and tossed it. Maureen guzzled down a cup of water and rinsed her mouth out and gave me an apologetic look with her big eyes. "Sorry about that Sandra," she said.
"Don't worry about it," I said we the two of us slowly stood up to get ready to get off the plane. "I'm surprised I didn't lose my lunch with that horrible landing."
"Well, you're not pregnant," said Maureen as we exited with our carry-on bags. "And to think we're gonna be on yet another plane later on today."
"Ah," I said. "Yeah, I forgot about that." Maureen and I left the plane and walked into the terminal. I had no idea what time it was there in London, and frankly, I really didn't care. All I knew was that I felt incredibly sluggish and my head and stomach were in a great deal of pain. "So, are we meeting everyone here?"
"Yeah," said Maureen. "The boys and their manager. Everyone else is in The Bahamas already, the boys have just been busy with recording the music and everything for the film."
"Sounds good to me," I said, following Maureen down to wherever we had to be. We arrived at the conveyer belt with the checked bags on it, and we took ours up and put them on carts. "Where do you suppose they'll be?"
"Anywhere," said Maureen flatly, pushing her cart. "They'll be kind of discreet; you know how rowdy Beatles fans can be. I get mauled on a regular basis."
"Wow!" I exclaimed, looking around wildly. "Won't anyone recognize you here?"
"Nah, not too worried about it," said Maureen. "Too many people here, and I blend in pretty well. Now, if Jane Asher—that's Paul's girl—were here, she'd get beaten to shreds! All of that red hair and all, they'd recognize her in a snap."
"Well…let's be thankful that you blend in better…" I said, now very anxious. I seriously hoped I didn't bite off more than I could chew here.
"Oh, look, there they are!" exclaimed Maureen, dashing over to five male figures in a corner, wearing hats designed to draw attention away from their faces. "Sandra, I'd like you to meet The Beatles, and their manager Brian Epstein. Everyone, this is Sandra Cohen, the photographer from California State University."
"It's very nice to meet you all," I said as each one shook my hand. I was shaking…why was I so nervous?
"Nice to meet you as well, Miss Cohen," said Paul, grinning at me from under the brim of his hat. "Or may I call you 'Sandra'?" His big dopey eyes leered somewhat, but it was more of a flirty gaze than something dangerous.
"Oh, knock it off McCartney," snapped their manager, Brian. "Sorry about that, Miss Cohen."
"Oh, it's fine," I said. "You all can call me 'Sandra' I'm not at all that formal."
"It was such a coincidence," said Maureen, walking over to her husband, Ringo. "Sandra and I were on the same flight, and I just happened to sit next to her!"
"Well, that all worked out then, didn't it?" said Ringo. His puppy-dog blue eyes were more friendly than Paul's eyes had been, but I had expected that from someone who was happily married.
"I'd say it has," said George in his trademark drawly voice, looking at me intensely with dark eyes and grinning a bit. "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Sandra Cohen." He tipped his hat.
"That'll do, Harrison," said Brian before I could get a word in edgewise.
"Hey, hey, Eppy, hey!" piped up John suddenly, causing Brian to jump and grunt unpleasantly. "When're we getting out of here, I'm starving!"
"Lennon, can you, for once know when to shut up!" Brian snapped, but John still looked unphased, his almond shaped eyes fixed on his manager. "I am trying to let Miss Cohen—oh, Sandra, sorry—know what she is to do today, so the least you can do is let me!" It looked rather comical that someone like Brian was shouting at John. He looked to be only a few years older than the boys in the group, yet he was acting like their father.
"Sorry Eppy," said John. "It's just so hard to concentrate with a pretty girl in the room!" He winked at me, and I swiftly looked away. Was this what I had to deal with during the filming?
"Oh, shut up John," said Maureen. "You're married! And listen to your manager, cause if you don't, I'm going to shove a fist up your mouth!"
"That's my girl!" said Ringo.
"Thank you, Maureen," said Brian, exasperated. "So, Sandra—welcome to England, first of all."
"It's nice to meet you all," I said. George winked and tipped his hat again. I smiled back nervously and looked back at Brian. "So…do we get right on the plane?"
"Well, yes, if we want to get to The Bahamas by tomorrow," said Brian. "You girls look pretty sick by the way."
"Rough landing," said Maureen, stroking her belly.
"Mo, what in the world made you want to fly on a plane pregnant?" asked Paul.
"I don't know, but everyone makes bad judgment," said Maureen.
"Do you think you should stay in England for now, love?" Ringo asked, concerned. It was rather sweet how he was worried for his wife.
"No, are you kidding?" said Maureen. "Won't that get boring quickly? No, I'll go with all the rest of you, if that's okay for everyone."
"Please do Maureen," said George. "As of now the female to male ratio is all topsy-turvey."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Paul.
"Oh, I dunno," said George, shrugging. "Just trying to make a point ya know."
Brian rolled his eyes and ignored that little exchange. "So Sandra, you have your camera with you?"
"Yes I do!" I said, swelling with pride.
"Well…don't take any pictures on the plane…" said Brian, shuddering a bit. "Don't ask why; you'll find out soon enough."
"Uh…okay?" I said, pretty confused.
"Don't let him scare ya," said George, passing by me as we started to make our way over to the boys' private plane. "Were not all that bad, you know."
"Oh, don't listen to Georgie," said John, who had popped up right behind me, making me jump about a foot. "We're horrible people, just plan nasty! Say, what's that around your neck?"
I reached up to the silver Star of David I wore around my neck nervously. Maureen was right, John did seem to be a "pain in the arse."
"Hey, hey, Eppy!" exclaimed John, bouncing up and down like a child. "Susan's a Jew, just like you!"
"Yes, I gathered that from the 'Cohen'," said Brian, sounding very bothered, like he was about to slam John in the face. I didn't really know what to think; I sort of just stood there, feeling small and embarrassed.
"Knock it off John," said George. "So what if she's Jewish? She can blackmail us with those pictures she'll be taking if we piss her off."
"But she wouldn't, would she?" asked Paul in mock-worry.
"As of right now, I'm thinking about it," I muttered.
"Oh, stop bugging her, you three," said Ringo. I could tell he meant it; his blue eyes met mine apologetically. "She's here to help us with publicity, the least you can do is stop treating her like a fangirl."
"Thank you, Ringo," I said. Maureen looked at her husband lovingly.
"Boys, stop bugging the photographer and let's get a move on to the plane," said Brian, ushering the guys away from me. I followed everyone to their private terminal where their private plane was waiting to take off to The Bahamas.
"So Sandra," said George, somehow getting passed Brian and sneaking up to me. "Where are you from?"
"Uh…Brooklyn," I said. George seemed friendly enough, but the way he was looking at me made me feel like he could read me like a book and see right through my skin.
"That's nice," he said, nodding. "I'm a fan of New York; nice place to do a show. I guess that explains the Jewish too."
"Very much," I said.
"Yeah, sorry about the others," said George. "Ringo and I are the only two of us who have a shred of sense."
"Maureen did say that John could be a pain," I said.
"Well, isn't she right?" said George as we neared the plane. "But really, once you get to know him it gets better. He stays the same and all, but you just get used to it."
"Okay everyone, time to board," Brian cut in. He ushered all of us onto the smaller private plane. I was hoping that this pilot new how to land better than the one who had flown me out of California. It was a smaller plane, so maybe.
"Hey, John," said Paul as soon as the plane was boarded. The band and their manager had shed their hats and coats and were now looking just like their normal selves. "John, you have…that stuff?"
"Boy, do I!" said John.
"Oh man…" Maureen moaned. "Sandra, I hope you don't have asthma."
"I don't," I said. "Why, are they gonna be smoking cigarettes?"
"Oh, better than that, darling," said John, grinning slyly as he pulled something out of his suit in a plastic bag. Was that…oh my, it was. I'd always had my suspicions, I mean, musicians in the nineteen sixties did do that stuff, there was no doubt about that, but seeing it in person was…well, alien, especially to a girl like me who was raised to be shielded from this sort of thing. "Hey, Paulie, catch!" John tossed the bag of weed to Paul, who was only sitting right next to him.
"You can thank Bob Dylan for this," said George as he took the empty seat next to me. He gave me that smoldering look again and I felt a blush creep up in my cheeks. "You got papers, John?"
"Duh, I do!" said John. "Ya think I'd waste all this?" John and Paul feverishly worked on rolling a joint while the plane took off. Brian had his face in his hands up front as John lit it up and it started to travel around the plane.
"These boys are gonna be the death of me," said Brian to me, turning around.
"Oh, come on Brian, don't be so soft," said George as the joint traveled over to him. He took a long drag and the smoke came out of his mouth in swirls. He held the joint up to me with a questioning glance.
"Ah…no, I don't smoke," I said quickly.
"Suit yourself," said George. He took another puff and passed it back to Ringo.
"Good stuff," said Ringo, sitting back after he took his puff. "Want some, Mo?"
"Ritchie, you know I don't," said Maureen, pushing it away. "And not to mention I'm pregnant. I really shouldn't."
"Ah…right, sorry love," said Ringo, passing the joint back up to John where it started. Of course, through the whole flight, that one little joint passed between the four of them. Before long, they were as giddy and giggle as a bunch of schoolgirls. The haze, of course, was unbelievable. I fanned my hand around to get rid of the cloud of smoke that surrounded a very glazed-eyed George Harrison who was smiling absentmindedly.
"Oh, sorry there love, is all that bothering you?" he asked hazily. He made a motion to try to get rid of some of the smoke, but he failed miserably and ended up nearly crashing on the floor in silly giggles.
"You alright there Georgie-poo?" asked John from his seat with the widest smile I had ever seen on anyone.
"Man, is he ever okay?" asked Paul. "That kid almost just fell on his ass…on his ass!"
"Hey guys, stop cussin' will ya?" asked Ringo, passing the joint back over to John. "My kid's here in the plane!"
"Nah, he's not, ya bloody liar!" said John. "He's in your wife!"
"Who's on the plane," said George, still snickering. "I'm right, aren't I Sandra?"
"Well, yeah," I said. I still really didn't know what to make of this situation…boy would I have something fun to write to Martha about once we landed. "Mr. Epstein," I whispered discreetly to Brian in front of me.
"Yes Sandra?" asked Brian, looking like the father of four three-year-olds.
"Are they…always like this?" I asked.
Brian shrugged. "It comes and goes," he said. "The whole cast and crew is counting on me to keep them in line…good thing Ringo has his wife her, God bless her."
"Hey, Eppy!" John called goofily from his seat. "Are we there yet?" All four boys burst into outrageous laughter at that stupid little comment. I hid a little grin, but George, high as a kite, caught me and yanked me in with his arm around my shoulders.
"Lennon, shut your mouth and for the love of all things sacred, stop smoking," moaned Brian. "I'll tell your wife of you!"
"Yeah, she won't care," breathed John. "Oh Cynthia, nothing but a flower on a rainbow…"
"Flower on a rainbow?" asked Maureen. "I really think you need to stop now boys."
"Ain't no stopping us now," said Ringo. "Ay, John, give us one more puff each!"
"Ringo that, Roger!" said John. "Oh wait…HAH!"
"John, you're a bloody stupid wanker," said Paul.
George leaned over to me and gave me that same look, except with very red eyes. "Ya know, we're not always like this," he said with a silly grin. "We're capable of being perfect professionals…except that we chose not to." He laughed a little at his comment and turned back again.
"I swear, the next time I run into Bob Dylan I'm gonna punch him," said Brian. "gave 'em this stuff ya know. Bloody big mistake."
"I'm sure that the boys will sober up while on the set," I said. "At least, one would think."
"One would think, wouldn't they?" said Brian. The flight went on, and the boys did end up smoking through most of it. Oh, the celebrity life…by the time we landed in the airport in The Bahamas, however, they had sobered up, thanks to Brian being smart and force-feeding them coffee.
"Okay boys," said Brian briskly as John, Paul, George, Ringo, Maureen, and I exited the plane. "I expect top performance and behavior from all of you, that includes you too Lennon."
"Sir yes sir!" John called, giving a phony salute.
"Well you can't really expect the likes of him to be on his best behavior," said George. "But the rest of us will do our best to have a crack at it."
"Okay…" Brian groaned. "Sandra? Yes, we will be on the sight soon, so have your camera ready for it and click away."
"I thought we were going back to the hotel first," said Paul. "Ya know, for unpacking and such."
"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," said Brian. "Come on, follow me, the taxi's going to bring us there." The group of us followed Brian through the small terminal and out to the front lot where a taxi was parked.
"After you, Sandra," said George, opening the taxi door for me.
"Thank you, George," I said as I slid inside the car. Maureen came in next to me, and then everyone else followed suit.
"Ya know," Maureen whispered to me. "I think George has taken a shine to you."
"Well if he has, he's got a funny way of showing it," I said. "All he did was stare at me."
"Yep, that's our George," said Maureen.
"Shy?" I asked.
"No," said Maureen. "Just…well you know what they call him, 'The Quiet Beatle'."
"I see," I said. The taxi drove off to where we'd be staying at the hotel and I was already mentally composing the note I would start to write Martha when we got there. Bumpy landings and high Beatles…sounds like a hit.