Holding Onto the Things that Slip Through Your Fingers (8- 56)
What? Stuff happens this chapter????
Thats weird.. . . .
So much love to beagle_agent and mollybeakers I don't even have words . . .
Phase eight, in which Paul panics.
Previous chapters are HERE
*
Paul ripped through his small room uncaringly. It seemed ridiculous that something was so difficult to find in such a tiny room; it really shouldn’t have been. Nonetheless, he was pawing through his things looking for his notebook.
He and John had procrastinated a good part of the day away. Making pancakes with Julian, smoking a few joints too many, even having a laugh as they made fun of people on the telly. They knew Brian expected them to have the songs for the next album done before they got back in a week and a half, but neither of them had felt particularly inspired after coming off the last tour. Eventually though, they rallied their spirits enough to put the weed away. Now that they had gotten some idleness out of their system, they were ready to start on the new album.
The only trouble with that, though, was that Paul had left his notebook at the Asher’s residence. So John drove him there, of course ready with a quip as Paul exited the car,
“I can wait, but are you sure you don’t want to run back? I’m sure the birds would love that shit. Who doesn’t appreciate a good hunt, eh?”
Paul promised he’d nip in and grab the notebook quick. That plan was foiled when he realized he didn’t know where the original 1965 Paul had left the bloody thing.
The attic room was stupidly small, so it was a mystery how finding anything in it was so difficult. But difficult it was and Paul found quickly himself getting exasperated.
“Oh you’re back are you?” The voice was cross sounding. Paul turned and found Jane standing in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. He immediately felt the guilt of abandoning her so abruptly that morning. He also realized he’d hung up on her later that same morning, when he saw Julian. He gave her a sheepish smile.
“Hello luv, I suppose I should explain myself a bit,” He began. Her raised brow confirmed that he really should.
He quickly explained about the chasing, watching her blank face through his explanation. It was easy to tell that she still had no clue why he even decided to go for a run around the streets in the first place, but that was something he doubted she’d understand even if he tried to explain it multiple times. It was better to plow on and seem as apologetic as was humanly possible.
“So what was so important you had to hang up on me?” She asked, not satisfied with his explanation yet.
“Julian was trying to eat a block,” He lied.
She stared at him for a long time before she sighed and shook her head. “Only you . . .” she trailed off, but she smiled as he gave her a quick kiss.
“What are you doing?” The actress asked as she looked around the recently disheveled room. Paul was usually pretty neat.
“I’m looking for my notebook. Have you seen it anywhere?” He asked, resuming his search in his sock drawer.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jane said before she looked around the room unhappily. “You know, I cleaned everything yesterday, and now it’s back to being a mess!”
Paul perked up, an old and shadowy memory entering his mind.
“Jane, you didn’t happen to throw anything away when you cleaned, did you?”
“Of course I did, you’re a right pack-rat Paul,” She said, chastising him. She quickly caught onto his train of thought and the implications of it.
“I didn’t throw you’re notebook away, though, I know what should and shouldn’t be tossed,” Jane seemed vaguely offended.
“They haven’t picked up the rubbish bins, have they?”
“No, but Paul, I didn’t throw it away!”
He ignored her for what must have been the third time that day, and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He dug through quickly, pushing aside the bags of rubbish, and avoiding the bunch of rotting green apples near the bottom like the plague. An utterly relieved feeling overtook him as he found his prize and discovered it wasn’t ruined or spoiled by anything in the bin.
Paul really couldn’t blame Jane too much; the notebook was ratty and partially destroyed. He had abruptly remembered, in the former 1965, she had accidentally thrown the notebook away but he didn’t realize it until it was too late. He was glad he had been able to catch it in time. He treasured his notebooks.
“O-oh.” Jane had the decency to blush.
Paul was more interested in the notebook in his hand.
The weight was familiar, and as he ran his fingers over the paper, he found the texture soothing. He was excited to fill these pages again with their music. So many memories would be contained within these pages and Paul was determined to make them.
Still, it would be hard for him to stop himself from writing different songs, or changing them. Paul didn’t want to upset the timeline too much, or things wouldn’t happen the way they were supposed to. He needed for the band to continue in the same way they had last time, so this meant he would refrain from adding anything extra. It was so tempting, though. There were so many things he could add, or change that would make everything so much better. However, he didn’t know the kind of effects doing something like that might have.
Also, he wasn’t too confident in the changes he would make. Each and every part of each of their songs had reached out to one person out in the world. He had read so in all the fan mail he’d ever received.
“-song inspired me to-“
“-helped me get over my breakup-“
“-saved my life when I was in a dark place-“
“This song changed everything.”
He honestly didn’t think their music was as special or life-changing as people made it out to be. The important part, though, was that they had found something meaningful in the lyrics. Paul did feel a bit of weight on himself due to the importance others placed on his and his band’s songs. John had once snapped at some chap in ’75 if he remembered correctly,
“Don’t go nailing me to your cross!”
Paul wished he could share that attitude. Despite what John said, though, Paul knew John felt some responsibility and he tried to stop it in post Beatles life. People were constantly making their way to John’s house, trying to impress upon him the massive impact his writing had on them. Everyone felt like some certain verse, in some certain song was speaking directly to them. John would reluctantly go and talk to them. He would always try and make them see that their music was not as significant as the person thought, and that the answers to whatever their problems were existed elsewhere. John also spent a fair bit of time explaining lyrics, trying to show they were just songs, nothing more, and certainly nothing to base your life on.
Paul knew how much it hurt John for him to have to say that his lyrics were nothing, just something he made up with no real point. Because they did have meaning. Certainly not the kind of meaning other people saw, but to John, every word he wrote meant something to him.
In any case, Paul would have to keep things the same. While he didn’t think their music changed the world too much, the fact that others thought so was what mattered.
“Jesus Christ, Paul! Are we going to write a song or did you want to continue to have your perverted way with the rubbish?!” John startled Paul out of his musings as he honked his car horn impatiently. “Jane!! I can’t fucking believe you’d stand there and watch your boy fondle the rubbish! I would call that cheating, yeah? Unless, you’re into that stuff. Does that turn you on, Janey-girl? Watching Paul with a chicken carcass? Just because he won’t eat them, doesn’t mean he won’t- ” Paul snapped his head toward John:
“SHUT UP! Settle down, I’m coming,” he hollered. John shut up, but continued his creepy leer. Paul turned to Jane to give her a quick goodbye kiss, and murmur he’d be back later. She still looked a bit chastised, but John’s disgusting banter seemed to temper it a bit. He’d forgotten John’s preponderance for trying to shock Jane any chance he could. That part of history could stay. He could appreciate the humor now, and actually enjoy it instead of losing his mind over it. He realized he didn’t have to worry quite so much for his present girlfriend. Jane could handle John just fine. He knew she could have a sharp tongue towards the man when she wanted. She looked back at John with disdain, throwing him a two finger salute. Paul quickly headed for the car with a grin on his face. Yep, Jane could handle anything John could dish out.
“OI!! So much for Lady Jane, there, luv!! You must have a better use for them fingies than waving them at me!!” John shouted back at her with unbridled glee.
As Paul finally stepped back into the car, he reached over and slapped John’s shoulder muttering, “Just drive. NOW.” John hit the gas and pulled away from the Asher residence. Still smiling at his fun-with-Jane, John turned to his passenger, “Y’know, I bet you’d be a pretty successful dustbin pervert. It’s never too late to switch professions!”
“I dunno, I think you’re the best with the rubbish. I mean, half of what you write is utter codswallop so-, “ the bassist bit off a laugh as John reached over to jab Paul repeatedly in the stomach.
“John!” Paul exclaimed, now giggling uncontrollably, “Focus on driving you twit!” The other man just grinned.
“My, my, you are getting flabby aren’t you?” John pinched the layer of fat, and Paul tried to swat the offending hand away. “Someone’s been feeding our not-so-little Bessie too much cow food.”
It took Paul a good thirty seconds to recall their conversation in Canada.
“Are you still on that? Haven’t you ever heard of beating a dead horse?” Paul asked with a slight roll of his eyes.
“Dear lord Macca! Why would you beat a poor defenseless dead creature? How inhumane!” he gasped with fake outrage.
“Better than eating the poor defenseless dead creature,” Paul returned with a grin, “You’d be gnawing on the corpse.”
“After you bludgeoned it to pieces? Not bloody likely.” John snorted, and Paul uttered a laugh.
The colors outside the window drew his eyes and he peered out into the familiar town. People walked through the streets, dipping in and out of each other’s’ lives as they passed. All of them were striding somewhere, and from far away it seemed like everyone had some important business to see to. Well, not quite everybody.
On the corner of a street, he spied a group of children playing in the greenery. They climbed trees and chased one another with aimlessness only attributable to children. Paul smiled faintly.
Inspiration hit him unexpectedly and he turned excitedly to John.
“Let’s go the park!”
“What?” John asked him with a look of bewilderment at his friend’s sudden choice of topic.
“You can bring Julian and I’ll make some butties. It’ll be a nice break from all the tours and writing,” Paul suggested.
“Cooking, cleaning, making a picnic at the park-- you’re turning into quite the bird Macca,” John pointed out.
The bassist barely stifled the guffaws that were threatening to escape. John in the future was the ultimate housewife in a way. He took care of Sean all day and managed the small details. It was almost funny how things had come from this point to that one.
He was yanked from his thought as John pulled out a ciggie and began to light it.
“Jesus John! Keep your eyes on the road; you’re the worst driver, you should have let me drive!” Paul exclaimed as they dipped in and out of the other lane dangerously, leading many cars to honk at them.
“And now you’ve started nagging! It’s a slippery slope and you are quickly sliding into the realm of poofters,” John continued, “How long will it before you start fucking calling Brian at all odd hours of the day for some-“
“John,” Paul said sounding exasperated. “I want to go to the park. When did that become a sign of being a poofter? We spent plenty of time in one when we were in secondary. Hell if the park is too sissy for you we can go a bloody cemetery, though I doubt Julian would like that too much.”
The other man hesitated. Paul knew he didn’t really have too much of a problem going to the park. John enjoyed people-watching, (bird watching mostly,) and harassing any poor soul that crossed him in some vague wrong way.
“Bringing Julian along is a bit of a hassle,” John noted with a bit of reluctance. “Besides, taking care of him is more Cyn’s job.”
The time traveler barely stifled a groan. The gender roles in this time were killing him. Not only was it unfavorable to the women, but it also allowed him less flexibility to do whatever he wanted without it seeming out of the ordinary, or being called out as a sissy. He didn’t mind that all too much. John was right in a sense, it did make him stick out, and some might view it in a different light as John had alluded. Paul composed himself and began again.
“I don’t think it’s too much trouble, besides I think it’s worth it.” Paul looked earnestly to him, but he kept his tone light. “You have to admit, the other day wasn’t horrible.”
John mulled over his answer carefully before he replied with a slow, “No, it was alright. “
“See, it’ll be fun.” Paul spoke as though the matter was already settled. John had the most curious expression on his face, and Paul furrowed his brow in question.
“What?” Paul asked.
“I just-“ John fell short, seeming to have a bit of difficulty with his words, which was a rarity for the quick-witted man.
“I didn’t know they could be fun,” John admitted. “Kids, I mean.”
Paul gave a soft smile. All John had known was that babies were hassles, unable to do anything but eat, cry and shit. He was barely realizing that they would grow into people, capable of more impressive things, and possessing the ability to create a two-sided relationship. He nudged his friend with his shoulder.
“Well that’s the good thing about them growing up, they start being to be able to do more things. Like ruin furniture,” Paul said with a smirk.
“As I remember, that was mostly you, Macca,” John’s normal expression was back.
“I like to think it was a more of a communal effort.” Paul replied, once more with fake solemnity, and John replied with a quick grin.
There was a relaxed atmosphere in the car as the two men made their way back to John’s temporary living space. More idle chitchat was had, but the closer they drew to their destination the more focused their minds became on song ideas they could work on.
Paul was thinking about which song to start with, and he settled on, “Drive my car.” If he remembered correctly, he came over to John’s house with the gist of the song figured out, but the lyrics were a total mess. He figured it would probably be an easy one to start out with. He’d provide the tune, and he would shepherd John into making the same realizations he had last time. Presto. Instant success.
Of course, Paul knew all of the lyrics, and he could easily finish off these songs in one quick go. But he wanted the writing to be communal, as it had last time. That was half the fun of what they did. Besides, he wanted John to enjoy creating music as much as he did. Hopefully he would be able to guide John into the right spots and add in his own part whenever it was necessary.
They settled in the living room, ready to work. Cynthia had taken Julian shopping with her, so the boys had the manor to themselves. They brought only guitars and some pens and paper. Paul quickly played some of the song, and from the bright look in John’s eyes, he knew he liked it just as much this time around as he did in the past.
“How long have you been sitting on this one?” John asked, quickly trying to get a hang of the melody on his guitar.
“Just a bit. This parts good, but the lyrics are shit. I think we should start from scratch,” Paul suggested.
“Well that’s for granted,” John replied with a toothy smile.
“Git,” Paul replied, and he paused as he thought of how he should proceed from this point. John was already scratching out lyrics on a piece of paper. He arranged them before he spoke them aloud to Paul.
Paul blinked slowly at the words he’d never heard before.
“What d’you think? I think saying she’s a prickly pear is a pretty good summation of the state of her-“
“No!” Paul cut him off quickly and suddenly, so fervently that John started.
“What? Look, no one’s going to really call us on the reference, stop worrying about it,” John replied, looking dissatisfied with Paul. “Stop being a ponce.”
“No, it’s just, uh, why don’t we make it about driving a car,” Paul stuttered out. Unable to comprehend quite what happened. Why had John said that?
“Write that down Macca! That could be the start of another song.”
Paul felt his heart skip a beat. John hadn’t suggested the idea. Why hadn’t he? John had done that last time. What was all this about prickly pears he was going on about? That hadn’t happened last time. These weird changes were making Paul’s head shift suddenly.
“How can I bear~”
“that woman’s prickly, prickly pear,~” John sang, as jokingly as they always did, but it was lost on Paul who was starting to feel a bit numb.
“I think we should do the car one for this,” He stated, trying to get a handle on the situation.
John’s mood dwindled, and he leveled Paul with a challenging look. “If you don’t like my lyrics, come right out and say it instead of dancing around it like a fucking pansy.”
“I’m not - they’re great and all, I just don’t like them for this song,”
“Well help me change them then instead of complaining,” John snorted, as though he was talking to a child. “You’re the one that asked me for help and I’ve got a really good feeling about this one. I promise, we can write a song about driving a car later,” John said, as he began to pour more lyrics onto the paper. “It’ll be a great one on the album.”
The control was rapidly slipping from Paul’s fingers. The more he watched John, the worse he felt.
Everything was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be!
“Asked a girl what she wanted to be,
She said baby, ‘can’t you see?’
I wanna be famous, a star on the-“
John cut him off, with an exasperated look. “Paul, which song did you want to work on? You’ve gotta pick one. Despite my many talents, I can’t work on ten fucking songs at the same time.”
“Don’t you think the lyrics go well with this one,” Paul pushed.
“Eh, they’re pretty alright. I think these will work better. Besides, I have a little riff I’ve been thinking of that your lyrics would suit well. But, again, let’s finish up this little bastard first before we tackle another one. We’ve barely even started.”
Paul felt himself turn an ashen color. Things were so wrong! Why wasn’t he able to steer things in the same direction as he had before? It wasn’t that difficult! It shouldn’t be. What was he missing out on? He must have screwed something up in the beginning that led John to thinking up the lyrics. Why couldn’t he remember what the right thing to do was? He needed to remember!
But he couldn’t.
The bassist didn’t remember which arguments he needed to lose and which he needed to win which inevitably led to one of them reaching a brilliant conclusion. Paul sure as hell wasn’t going to magically summon up the lyrics for all their songs. Even though he tried, John had turned them down and begun with an entirely new idea! Paul didn’t know what to do. He ran an agitated hand through his hair.
He needed a break, his hands were trembling and he felt so anxious and frustrated with himself.
“I’m, going to get some air,” He announced suddenly. John made a sound of protest, but Paul ignored it and strode quickly into the garden. The extreme feelings of panic began invading his thoughts, and he felt them morph into his worst fears.
Failing, he was failing all of them.
He tripped into the grass, some small tears of frustration slipping out-
He was failing the band, now they would drift apart, bitter and angry, never becoming true legend..
-as he stood, a wave of dizziness swelled over him-
Yoko would steal John, dragging his bright personality under the murky water where no one would find them.
-stumbling to his feet, he scrambled, mostly tripped on the grass of the back garden to no avail-
No one would ever hear their later work.
-lightheaded, he fell against the side of the house-
Millions of people who had written to him about how that certain song had changed their life, they would never hear it.
-was the brick hard and rough-
Their music would never touch them.
-were those desperate breathy sounds coming from him?-
All the artists they had ever inspired wouldn’t be reached, and music would drive in an entirely different direction.
-he didn’t know-
Leaving the remains of a band with so much potential behind.
-he didn’t know anything anymore-
He would never meet Linda, none of their children would ever be born.
-nausea was an unwelcome addition, threatening to spill his paltry lunch as he swayed back across the greenery-
George would eventually succumb to disease, bitter and uncaring when the band split, lacking that inner peace he found on the India-trip they never got to go on.
-his already racing heart jumped, and he felt it pounding like a galloping horse-
Why couldn’t he remember? He was such a screw up, he’d already done it before, he should remember, he should!
-air was spasming in and out of his lungs in short pants, breathless and weak-
He was damning them all! It was his job! He needed to do this!
-he was hot, melting, and helpless to the fact-
His mother had given him this chance and he was disappointing her, disappointing all of them!
-every pant he fought for was short and sharp-
“Remember damn it!”
-Paul couldn’t even walk straight, his vision was failing and he collapsed on the grass, chest heaving, and body aching all over-
Defective! He was useless. Why? What was wrong with him, to mess up such a simple thing, and everyone else would suffer for it?
-electric tingles licked at his fingertips, feeling as though he’d dipped them in dry ice-
And John . . .
-the sensation faded and all he was left with was numbness, a sinking numbness that wrapped his entire body, engulfing him, and swallowing him whole-
John would probably still be shot.
That particular moment, the walls of his esophagus froze, closing up and denying him air.
“I-I can’t-!” It was a high-pitched little shout, as thought fled his mind; the consuming fact he was drowning in air occupied every spot of his being.
“John,” he whispered, breathily. Pleading, hoping for anything, anyone, just something to save him from suffocating.
Eyes flickering, he saw flashes of blue sky countered with black nothingness and piercing, white-hot sunlight. The world was swirling, and he was going with it, swirling down, down, down into the sun.
Brown invaded his sight, and it turned blurry as wetness streaked down his face.
“ha- I-nHe Plu- sa,” the half-gasps he managed were inane and it wasn’t long before the black won out the color game flashing before his eyes.
He was sinking.
*
AN: . . . Ah, I am actually quite nervous about this one. Ah, let me know if you don't understand it, or want an explanation. Paul likes having a handle on things, and the fact he can't control it makes him freak out a bit. Oh control-freak Paul, I love you so~
Uh, leave me feedback, good and bad. Oh, oh and let it be known you were here,
Next chapters are HERE
Thats weird.. . . .
So much love to beagle_agent and mollybeakers I don't even have words . . .
Phase eight, in which Paul panics.
Previous chapters are HERE
*
Paul ripped through his small room uncaringly. It seemed ridiculous that something was so difficult to find in such a tiny room; it really shouldn’t have been. Nonetheless, he was pawing through his things looking for his notebook.
He and John had procrastinated a good part of the day away. Making pancakes with Julian, smoking a few joints too many, even having a laugh as they made fun of people on the telly. They knew Brian expected them to have the songs for the next album done before they got back in a week and a half, but neither of them had felt particularly inspired after coming off the last tour. Eventually though, they rallied their spirits enough to put the weed away. Now that they had gotten some idleness out of their system, they were ready to start on the new album.
The only trouble with that, though, was that Paul had left his notebook at the Asher’s residence. So John drove him there, of course ready with a quip as Paul exited the car,
“I can wait, but are you sure you don’t want to run back? I’m sure the birds would love that shit. Who doesn’t appreciate a good hunt, eh?”
Paul promised he’d nip in and grab the notebook quick. That plan was foiled when he realized he didn’t know where the original 1965 Paul had left the bloody thing.
The attic room was stupidly small, so it was a mystery how finding anything in it was so difficult. But difficult it was and Paul found quickly himself getting exasperated.
“Oh you’re back are you?” The voice was cross sounding. Paul turned and found Jane standing in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. He immediately felt the guilt of abandoning her so abruptly that morning. He also realized he’d hung up on her later that same morning, when he saw Julian. He gave her a sheepish smile.
“Hello luv, I suppose I should explain myself a bit,” He began. Her raised brow confirmed that he really should.
He quickly explained about the chasing, watching her blank face through his explanation. It was easy to tell that she still had no clue why he even decided to go for a run around the streets in the first place, but that was something he doubted she’d understand even if he tried to explain it multiple times. It was better to plow on and seem as apologetic as was humanly possible.
“So what was so important you had to hang up on me?” She asked, not satisfied with his explanation yet.
“Julian was trying to eat a block,” He lied.
She stared at him for a long time before she sighed and shook her head. “Only you . . .” she trailed off, but she smiled as he gave her a quick kiss.
“What are you doing?” The actress asked as she looked around the recently disheveled room. Paul was usually pretty neat.
“I’m looking for my notebook. Have you seen it anywhere?” He asked, resuming his search in his sock drawer.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jane said before she looked around the room unhappily. “You know, I cleaned everything yesterday, and now it’s back to being a mess!”
Paul perked up, an old and shadowy memory entering his mind.
“Jane, you didn’t happen to throw anything away when you cleaned, did you?”
“Of course I did, you’re a right pack-rat Paul,” She said, chastising him. She quickly caught onto his train of thought and the implications of it.
“I didn’t throw you’re notebook away, though, I know what should and shouldn’t be tossed,” Jane seemed vaguely offended.
“They haven’t picked up the rubbish bins, have they?”
“No, but Paul, I didn’t throw it away!”
He ignored her for what must have been the third time that day, and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He dug through quickly, pushing aside the bags of rubbish, and avoiding the bunch of rotting green apples near the bottom like the plague. An utterly relieved feeling overtook him as he found his prize and discovered it wasn’t ruined or spoiled by anything in the bin.
Paul really couldn’t blame Jane too much; the notebook was ratty and partially destroyed. He had abruptly remembered, in the former 1965, she had accidentally thrown the notebook away but he didn’t realize it until it was too late. He was glad he had been able to catch it in time. He treasured his notebooks.
“O-oh.” Jane had the decency to blush.
Paul was more interested in the notebook in his hand.
The weight was familiar, and as he ran his fingers over the paper, he found the texture soothing. He was excited to fill these pages again with their music. So many memories would be contained within these pages and Paul was determined to make them.
Still, it would be hard for him to stop himself from writing different songs, or changing them. Paul didn’t want to upset the timeline too much, or things wouldn’t happen the way they were supposed to. He needed for the band to continue in the same way they had last time, so this meant he would refrain from adding anything extra. It was so tempting, though. There were so many things he could add, or change that would make everything so much better. However, he didn’t know the kind of effects doing something like that might have.
Also, he wasn’t too confident in the changes he would make. Each and every part of each of their songs had reached out to one person out in the world. He had read so in all the fan mail he’d ever received.
“-song inspired me to-“
“-helped me get over my breakup-“
“-saved my life when I was in a dark place-“
“This song changed everything.”
He honestly didn’t think their music was as special or life-changing as people made it out to be. The important part, though, was that they had found something meaningful in the lyrics. Paul did feel a bit of weight on himself due to the importance others placed on his and his band’s songs. John had once snapped at some chap in ’75 if he remembered correctly,
“Don’t go nailing me to your cross!”
Paul wished he could share that attitude. Despite what John said, though, Paul knew John felt some responsibility and he tried to stop it in post Beatles life. People were constantly making their way to John’s house, trying to impress upon him the massive impact his writing had on them. Everyone felt like some certain verse, in some certain song was speaking directly to them. John would reluctantly go and talk to them. He would always try and make them see that their music was not as significant as the person thought, and that the answers to whatever their problems were existed elsewhere. John also spent a fair bit of time explaining lyrics, trying to show they were just songs, nothing more, and certainly nothing to base your life on.
Paul knew how much it hurt John for him to have to say that his lyrics were nothing, just something he made up with no real point. Because they did have meaning. Certainly not the kind of meaning other people saw, but to John, every word he wrote meant something to him.
In any case, Paul would have to keep things the same. While he didn’t think their music changed the world too much, the fact that others thought so was what mattered.
“Jesus Christ, Paul! Are we going to write a song or did you want to continue to have your perverted way with the rubbish?!” John startled Paul out of his musings as he honked his car horn impatiently. “Jane!! I can’t fucking believe you’d stand there and watch your boy fondle the rubbish! I would call that cheating, yeah? Unless, you’re into that stuff. Does that turn you on, Janey-girl? Watching Paul with a chicken carcass? Just because he won’t eat them, doesn’t mean he won’t- ” Paul snapped his head toward John:
“SHUT UP! Settle down, I’m coming,” he hollered. John shut up, but continued his creepy leer. Paul turned to Jane to give her a quick goodbye kiss, and murmur he’d be back later. She still looked a bit chastised, but John’s disgusting banter seemed to temper it a bit. He’d forgotten John’s preponderance for trying to shock Jane any chance he could. That part of history could stay. He could appreciate the humor now, and actually enjoy it instead of losing his mind over it. He realized he didn’t have to worry quite so much for his present girlfriend. Jane could handle John just fine. He knew she could have a sharp tongue towards the man when she wanted. She looked back at John with disdain, throwing him a two finger salute. Paul quickly headed for the car with a grin on his face. Yep, Jane could handle anything John could dish out.
“OI!! So much for Lady Jane, there, luv!! You must have a better use for them fingies than waving them at me!!” John shouted back at her with unbridled glee.
As Paul finally stepped back into the car, he reached over and slapped John’s shoulder muttering, “Just drive. NOW.” John hit the gas and pulled away from the Asher residence. Still smiling at his fun-with-Jane, John turned to his passenger, “Y’know, I bet you’d be a pretty successful dustbin pervert. It’s never too late to switch professions!”
“I dunno, I think you’re the best with the rubbish. I mean, half of what you write is utter codswallop so-, “ the bassist bit off a laugh as John reached over to jab Paul repeatedly in the stomach.
“John!” Paul exclaimed, now giggling uncontrollably, “Focus on driving you twit!” The other man just grinned.
“My, my, you are getting flabby aren’t you?” John pinched the layer of fat, and Paul tried to swat the offending hand away. “Someone’s been feeding our not-so-little Bessie too much cow food.”
It took Paul a good thirty seconds to recall their conversation in Canada.
“Are you still on that? Haven’t you ever heard of beating a dead horse?” Paul asked with a slight roll of his eyes.
“Dear lord Macca! Why would you beat a poor defenseless dead creature? How inhumane!” he gasped with fake outrage.
“Better than eating the poor defenseless dead creature,” Paul returned with a grin, “You’d be gnawing on the corpse.”
“After you bludgeoned it to pieces? Not bloody likely.” John snorted, and Paul uttered a laugh.
The colors outside the window drew his eyes and he peered out into the familiar town. People walked through the streets, dipping in and out of each other’s’ lives as they passed. All of them were striding somewhere, and from far away it seemed like everyone had some important business to see to. Well, not quite everybody.
On the corner of a street, he spied a group of children playing in the greenery. They climbed trees and chased one another with aimlessness only attributable to children. Paul smiled faintly.
Inspiration hit him unexpectedly and he turned excitedly to John.
“Let’s go the park!”
“What?” John asked him with a look of bewilderment at his friend’s sudden choice of topic.
“You can bring Julian and I’ll make some butties. It’ll be a nice break from all the tours and writing,” Paul suggested.
“Cooking, cleaning, making a picnic at the park-- you’re turning into quite the bird Macca,” John pointed out.
The bassist barely stifled the guffaws that were threatening to escape. John in the future was the ultimate housewife in a way. He took care of Sean all day and managed the small details. It was almost funny how things had come from this point to that one.
He was yanked from his thought as John pulled out a ciggie and began to light it.
“Jesus John! Keep your eyes on the road; you’re the worst driver, you should have let me drive!” Paul exclaimed as they dipped in and out of the other lane dangerously, leading many cars to honk at them.
“And now you’ve started nagging! It’s a slippery slope and you are quickly sliding into the realm of poofters,” John continued, “How long will it before you start fucking calling Brian at all odd hours of the day for some-“
“John,” Paul said sounding exasperated. “I want to go to the park. When did that become a sign of being a poofter? We spent plenty of time in one when we were in secondary. Hell if the park is too sissy for you we can go a bloody cemetery, though I doubt Julian would like that too much.”
The other man hesitated. Paul knew he didn’t really have too much of a problem going to the park. John enjoyed people-watching, (bird watching mostly,) and harassing any poor soul that crossed him in some vague wrong way.
“Bringing Julian along is a bit of a hassle,” John noted with a bit of reluctance. “Besides, taking care of him is more Cyn’s job.”
The time traveler barely stifled a groan. The gender roles in this time were killing him. Not only was it unfavorable to the women, but it also allowed him less flexibility to do whatever he wanted without it seeming out of the ordinary, or being called out as a sissy. He didn’t mind that all too much. John was right in a sense, it did make him stick out, and some might view it in a different light as John had alluded. Paul composed himself and began again.
“I don’t think it’s too much trouble, besides I think it’s worth it.” Paul looked earnestly to him, but he kept his tone light. “You have to admit, the other day wasn’t horrible.”
John mulled over his answer carefully before he replied with a slow, “No, it was alright. “
“See, it’ll be fun.” Paul spoke as though the matter was already settled. John had the most curious expression on his face, and Paul furrowed his brow in question.
“What?” Paul asked.
“I just-“ John fell short, seeming to have a bit of difficulty with his words, which was a rarity for the quick-witted man.
“I didn’t know they could be fun,” John admitted. “Kids, I mean.”
Paul gave a soft smile. All John had known was that babies were hassles, unable to do anything but eat, cry and shit. He was barely realizing that they would grow into people, capable of more impressive things, and possessing the ability to create a two-sided relationship. He nudged his friend with his shoulder.
“Well that’s the good thing about them growing up, they start being to be able to do more things. Like ruin furniture,” Paul said with a smirk.
“As I remember, that was mostly you, Macca,” John’s normal expression was back.
“I like to think it was a more of a communal effort.” Paul replied, once more with fake solemnity, and John replied with a quick grin.
There was a relaxed atmosphere in the car as the two men made their way back to John’s temporary living space. More idle chitchat was had, but the closer they drew to their destination the more focused their minds became on song ideas they could work on.
Paul was thinking about which song to start with, and he settled on, “Drive my car.” If he remembered correctly, he came over to John’s house with the gist of the song figured out, but the lyrics were a total mess. He figured it would probably be an easy one to start out with. He’d provide the tune, and he would shepherd John into making the same realizations he had last time. Presto. Instant success.
Of course, Paul knew all of the lyrics, and he could easily finish off these songs in one quick go. But he wanted the writing to be communal, as it had last time. That was half the fun of what they did. Besides, he wanted John to enjoy creating music as much as he did. Hopefully he would be able to guide John into the right spots and add in his own part whenever it was necessary.
They settled in the living room, ready to work. Cynthia had taken Julian shopping with her, so the boys had the manor to themselves. They brought only guitars and some pens and paper. Paul quickly played some of the song, and from the bright look in John’s eyes, he knew he liked it just as much this time around as he did in the past.
“How long have you been sitting on this one?” John asked, quickly trying to get a hang of the melody on his guitar.
“Just a bit. This parts good, but the lyrics are shit. I think we should start from scratch,” Paul suggested.
“Well that’s for granted,” John replied with a toothy smile.
“Git,” Paul replied, and he paused as he thought of how he should proceed from this point. John was already scratching out lyrics on a piece of paper. He arranged them before he spoke them aloud to Paul.
Paul blinked slowly at the words he’d never heard before.
“What d’you think? I think saying she’s a prickly pear is a pretty good summation of the state of her-“
“No!” Paul cut him off quickly and suddenly, so fervently that John started.
“What? Look, no one’s going to really call us on the reference, stop worrying about it,” John replied, looking dissatisfied with Paul. “Stop being a ponce.”
“No, it’s just, uh, why don’t we make it about driving a car,” Paul stuttered out. Unable to comprehend quite what happened. Why had John said that?
“Write that down Macca! That could be the start of another song.”
Paul felt his heart skip a beat. John hadn’t suggested the idea. Why hadn’t he? John had done that last time. What was all this about prickly pears he was going on about? That hadn’t happened last time. These weird changes were making Paul’s head shift suddenly.
“How can I bear~”
“that woman’s prickly, prickly pear,~” John sang, as jokingly as they always did, but it was lost on Paul who was starting to feel a bit numb.
“I think we should do the car one for this,” He stated, trying to get a handle on the situation.
John’s mood dwindled, and he leveled Paul with a challenging look. “If you don’t like my lyrics, come right out and say it instead of dancing around it like a fucking pansy.”
“I’m not - they’re great and all, I just don’t like them for this song,”
“Well help me change them then instead of complaining,” John snorted, as though he was talking to a child. “You’re the one that asked me for help and I’ve got a really good feeling about this one. I promise, we can write a song about driving a car later,” John said, as he began to pour more lyrics onto the paper. “It’ll be a great one on the album.”
The control was rapidly slipping from Paul’s fingers. The more he watched John, the worse he felt.
Everything was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be!
“Asked a girl what she wanted to be,
She said baby, ‘can’t you see?’
I wanna be famous, a star on the-“
John cut him off, with an exasperated look. “Paul, which song did you want to work on? You’ve gotta pick one. Despite my many talents, I can’t work on ten fucking songs at the same time.”
“Don’t you think the lyrics go well with this one,” Paul pushed.
“Eh, they’re pretty alright. I think these will work better. Besides, I have a little riff I’ve been thinking of that your lyrics would suit well. But, again, let’s finish up this little bastard first before we tackle another one. We’ve barely even started.”
Paul felt himself turn an ashen color. Things were so wrong! Why wasn’t he able to steer things in the same direction as he had before? It wasn’t that difficult! It shouldn’t be. What was he missing out on? He must have screwed something up in the beginning that led John to thinking up the lyrics. Why couldn’t he remember what the right thing to do was? He needed to remember!
But he couldn’t.
The bassist didn’t remember which arguments he needed to lose and which he needed to win which inevitably led to one of them reaching a brilliant conclusion. Paul sure as hell wasn’t going to magically summon up the lyrics for all their songs. Even though he tried, John had turned them down and begun with an entirely new idea! Paul didn’t know what to do. He ran an agitated hand through his hair.
He needed a break, his hands were trembling and he felt so anxious and frustrated with himself.
“I’m, going to get some air,” He announced suddenly. John made a sound of protest, but Paul ignored it and strode quickly into the garden. The extreme feelings of panic began invading his thoughts, and he felt them morph into his worst fears.
Failing, he was failing all of them.
He tripped into the grass, some small tears of frustration slipping out-
He was failing the band, now they would drift apart, bitter and angry, never becoming true legend..
-as he stood, a wave of dizziness swelled over him-
Yoko would steal John, dragging his bright personality under the murky water where no one would find them.
-stumbling to his feet, he scrambled, mostly tripped on the grass of the back garden to no avail-
No one would ever hear their later work.
-lightheaded, he fell against the side of the house-
Millions of people who had written to him about how that certain song had changed their life, they would never hear it.
-was the brick hard and rough-
Their music would never touch them.
-were those desperate breathy sounds coming from him?-
All the artists they had ever inspired wouldn’t be reached, and music would drive in an entirely different direction.
-he didn’t know-
Leaving the remains of a band with so much potential behind.
-he didn’t know anything anymore-
He would never meet Linda, none of their children would ever be born.
-nausea was an unwelcome addition, threatening to spill his paltry lunch as he swayed back across the greenery-
George would eventually succumb to disease, bitter and uncaring when the band split, lacking that inner peace he found on the India-trip they never got to go on.
-his already racing heart jumped, and he felt it pounding like a galloping horse-
Why couldn’t he remember? He was such a screw up, he’d already done it before, he should remember, he should!
-air was spasming in and out of his lungs in short pants, breathless and weak-
He was damning them all! It was his job! He needed to do this!
-he was hot, melting, and helpless to the fact-
His mother had given him this chance and he was disappointing her, disappointing all of them!
-every pant he fought for was short and sharp-
“Remember damn it!”
-Paul couldn’t even walk straight, his vision was failing and he collapsed on the grass, chest heaving, and body aching all over-
Defective! He was useless. Why? What was wrong with him, to mess up such a simple thing, and everyone else would suffer for it?
-electric tingles licked at his fingertips, feeling as though he’d dipped them in dry ice-
And John . . .
-the sensation faded and all he was left with was numbness, a sinking numbness that wrapped his entire body, engulfing him, and swallowing him whole-
John would probably still be shot.
That particular moment, the walls of his esophagus froze, closing up and denying him air.
“I-I can’t-!” It was a high-pitched little shout, as thought fled his mind; the consuming fact he was drowning in air occupied every spot of his being.
“John,” he whispered, breathily. Pleading, hoping for anything, anyone, just something to save him from suffocating.
Eyes flickering, he saw flashes of blue sky countered with black nothingness and piercing, white-hot sunlight. The world was swirling, and he was going with it, swirling down, down, down into the sun.
Brown invaded his sight, and it turned blurry as wetness streaked down his face.
“ha- I-nHe Plu- sa,” the half-gasps he managed were inane and it wasn’t long before the black won out the color game flashing before his eyes.
He was sinking.
*
AN: . . . Ah, I am actually quite nervous about this one. Ah, let me know if you don't understand it, or want an explanation. Paul likes having a handle on things, and the fact he can't control it makes him freak out a bit. Oh control-freak Paul, I love you so~
Uh, leave me feedback, good and bad. Oh, oh and let it be known you were here,
Next chapters are HERE