Please don’t forget that this never ever ever happened—this is merely a pleasantly odd export of my tiny little mind. Thanks! ;)

 

Baby, It’s you

 

“So you come here often, do you?”

That was Paul, talking to Birdy as they made their way to their rooms at the other end of the motel. He knew perfectly bloody well, of course, that she lived here. In fact, she’d been dropping hints as to how to find her bedroom. But cutting to the point the same way John did wasn’t in Paul’s social idiom. To ladies he was modest, charming, and gallant, with a soft-spoken, gently self-effacing wit. And the birds ate it out of his hand like—well, like birds, really. This stealth flirtation (or the McCartney Method, as he personally referred to it) had yet to fail him. He was immensely glad he’d hit upon it.

As it was, perhaps John could’ve used a bit more subtlety in his approach. George, for one, had seen cardboard cutout ladies more amenable. At least they didn’t look openly hostile. The Ice Age in Gwendy’s half of the sketch didn’t appear likely to thaw anytime soon.

As suddenly as soap on a tile floor the night air was rent by a shriek amid a cacophony of crashes, thuds, and clatters. A roll of toilet paper, having reeled across the open second-floor walkway, fell softly to the ground and unspooled with a bounce at Ringo’s feet.

“That was a young man’s shriek, wasn’t it?” offered John.

“Rarest kind,” replied Ringo as the entire group clambered up the stairs to the second floor. Next to a huge overturned cart of the variety used by staff in what John would call a “real hotel” lay a young man with far too many knees and elbows and a rather melancholic face, with a rather large nose and hair and eyes the same shade of exceptionally dark brown. He sighed deeply from his semi-supine position on the ground. “Does anyone,” he said at last with a wry smile, “have some liniment for a sprained dignity? I think mine’s twisted pretty bad.”

Birdy rolled her eyes. “It’s not funny, Vernon,” she said. “Don’t try to be—smart with everybody. Let me show you to your room, Mr. McCartney.”

“Oh, you can call me Paul.”

 She giggled and tossed her ostensibly blond hair, giving her the look of a Barbie doll that had seen too many years of service in the backyard. “You and Mr. Lennon are right downstairs of here.” She strolled back down the stairs with a roll to her hips that, in the entire world, is only employed by cows and young ladies of marginal virtue who are confident in the knowledge that tonight is their lucky night.

“How else can I be but smart? I actually pay attention in school,” Vern Junior called after her.

“Need a leg up?” asked Gwendolyn as she began to right the cart.

John grinned. “I know something you could help me with—”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Her words could’ve freeze-dried a side of beef. She hauled her brother to his feet.

Vernon Jr. frowned as he dusted himself off and began to assist his sister. “Huh. Some siblings.”

“You’re telling me,” interposed George.

“I mean, some of ‘em are okay—” He gestured with a roll of toilet paper at Gwendolyn.

“Yeah.” George began to pick up assorted debris from the now-righted cart, along with a few of the Beatle entourage that had followed them.

“—but then there’re other ones—you just wonder if the nurses didn’t switch bassinets with somebody else’s kid when they were born, y’know?”

“No need to tell me twice.” (To be brutally honest, George was only half listening by this point. But it was true that he did have siblings.)

Gwendy looked up. “You have siblings, Mr. Harrison?” she asked interestedly.

“Hey, I think I’ve gone invisible,” quipped John to nobody in particular. “Maybe I don’t exist anymore. You could help me find out,” he added, turning to Gwendy. “On the lips, preferably.” Before she could act on any aggressive reflexes he grabbed her hand and kissed it.

John hadn‘t exactly slobbered on her hand, but she nevertheless made a very public show of wiping her hand on her knee.

When the assembled party had cleaned up and begun to disperse, Ringo turned to George, who was to occupy the neighboring room. “Do you know what’s gotten into John?”

“What, you mean besides the substances that are usually floating around in his system?” George shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.” George scratched the back of his neck absently. “It’s that Gwendy bird, isn’t it? She’s not swooning at the sight of him or hanging about his room or asking him to sign her albums. She’s a challenge, and let’s face it, none of us has seen many of those in a long time. I think maybe that’s what’s gotten into him.”

“Like climbing Mount Everest,” replied Ringo. “It’s nearly impossible, but people keep trying it almost every other week, it seems.”

“I didn’t know you knew anything about Everest.” George grinned.

“Well, that’s what you get from underestimating your drummer.” They both laughed. The joke was admittedly a bit hackneyed at this point, but it could still make them both chuckle a bit. They exchanged good-nights and went to their rooms.

 

 

***Authoress’s note: If you’d like to use this story for anything or take it someplace, please ask me first. It’s just one little email, not too much trouble, and the odds are in your favor for a yes if you ask me nicely. I just want people to recognize the story as mine, okay? ;-)