DISLCAIMER: I don't own the Beatles, as much as I would like to.
Note: Ok, I'm really proud of this chapter hope you like it and thanks to all my faithful readers!
Chapter eight- No reply
I run until my legs aching and sore and can't possibly go another inch. I don't care where I've come from, or where I'm headed to, I just want to end up away, away, away…away from all of it, back home to my mom, or even back to the concert on that stage, as long as I am not here. Anywhere but here.
I stop short at a corner, panting, huffing, wheezing. I put my hands on my knees to rest for a single moment, then I lift my head and my eyes wander. I've run for blocks, a mile even. I'm away, far, far away, but I'm farther away from where I started and I don't know where I am. Nothing is familiar. Nothing. I'm lost and alone and possibly going crazy and nothing is familiar.
My eyes don't wander long until they spot an old-fashioned telephone booth. I quickly dart towards it and into the booth. Somehow, it made me feel safer. Somehow, being in such a closed in little place made me feel sheltered. Protected.
I study the telephone. I've never used a payphone, believe it or not. With cell phones, it isn't' necessary, honestly. There are buttons- and a phone and a cord. It won't be that hard, I think. That is, until I eye the little slot on the side of the payphone. INSERT 25 CENTS, it reads.
I search my black fuzzy-wuzzy sweater for some change, emptying out my pockets: a bubblegum wrapper, the key to my apartment, a ball of lint, my ipod, and a bright shiny new quarter.
I insert it into the slot, grateful that I didn't spend that money on the vending machine yesterday in the cafeteria.
With the change now inserted, I hesitantly press a button. I dial my home number, the one that I've known by heart since I was four. Even in this strange new place, it is one thing I can be sure of.
All I have to do is call her. I think to myself, cheering myself on. All I have to do is call my mother. I'll tell her my predicament. Then she'll do what she always does: she'll quote some wise old proverb, probably from a Beatles song, and that will make everything A-OK.
All I have to do is- No. No, that's not true. I think. My mom never answers her phone. Never. She wouldn't even have a cell phone if I hadn't given her my old one. I wouldn't even have a cell phone if I hadn't raised half the money for it myself. She hates the things. She calls them silly and new-fangled.
Mom. I send her a telepathic message. Answer your phone. Answer your phone. Just this once. Answer your phone. My finger lingers on the last number: nine. Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine…number NINE…NUMBER NINE. I press down with my finger and then hit call.
As I wait for the phone to start ringing, I notice that sticking out of the telephone book is a fairly new newspaper. I open it up to the page that's been marked and my eyes scan the newspaper. I'm not really reading it, more like just skimming it to take my mind off my problems. The headline reads:
BRISTISH INVASION AFFECTING MINORS ACROSS THE COUNTRY
British Invasion? I've heard of an alien invasion, or even a zombie invasion, but never a British one. I continue reading.
Are you letting your children listen to the new British bands such as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Zombies, The Moody Blues and many more? Allowing your children to attend the concerts of these bands is affecting their physical and mental safety.
One ring. I jump and cross my fingers.
The frenzy, hysteria and screaming taking place at Beatles (and other) concerts is resulting in broken police barriers and hospital visits.
Two rings.
Not only that, the Beatles (and others) are influencing minors all over the country to grow out their hair, wear tight jeans, boots, or surfer shirts, and overall become rebels.
Three rings.
Some radio stations have devoted their entire channel to British rock bands, and still others are Beatles only music all day long. But the question is- should you be exposing your children to this music?
Four rings, and somebody picking up. My heart leaps out of my chest. I don't wait for a reply, maybe because I'm afraid there won't be one. The words pour out of my mouth with haste: "Mom? I'm lost and alone and confused and I need you to pick me up. I'm stuck someplace-
I poke my head out of the telephone booth and squint in the sunlight, trying to make out the lettering on the street sign. The block capitol white letters spell out a familiar phrase, something that I must have heard somewhere but I can't concentrate on remembering right now. "Abbey Road, mom. I'm stuck on Abbey Road."
I keep squinting, really studying for the first time the street. Something odd is going on. There are cars, longer and bigger than I remember them. There are people, but their clothes are funkier and more colorful than I remember. The sun shifts and my view blurs.
I duck back into the telephone booth, now looking down at the newspaper once more. "I need you to pick me up from Abbey Road, ok?"
My eyes wander towards the top of the newspaper article, then back to the street and back again to the article.
"Mom…something weird is going on." My eyes widen, reading and re-reading those unbelievable words on the top of the newspaper. Sunday, June 13th….."Mom-"
I am interrupted by a dial tone. I sadly lower the receiver from my head, my eyes glazed over, glaring at the fine print on the top of the newspaper.
A sudden jolt goes through me, a surge of electricity. mages flood through my mind, jumbled and in quick flashes, warping in all directions: My Beatles T- shirt, my mom's I LOVE PAUL poster, the crowd's eyes glued to me, the familiar stare of the old Paul McCartney….everything goes black, then the memories flood back again: the confused faces of the young Beatles, the city blurring past me as I run, the old-fashioned telephone booth, the street sign, the strange cars and people, and finally my mind zooms in on the fine print on the top of the newspaper article:
Sunday, June 13th.
Sunday, June 13th….
Sunday, June 13th, 1964.
