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

 

Everybody’s Trying to be my Baby

 

In the space of about thirty minutes, George and Althea had gotten precisely almost nowhere. They had yet to locate Althea’s missing beau, but they had found John, which Althea insisted was a step in the right direction. Now that their numbers had grown, she asserted, they could search faster. (George personally thought it was a step backwards; now on top of looking for her boyfriend, he insisted, they had to baby-sit the Lennon as well.)

Either way, none of the three had gotten much searching done. They were all sitting behind the hotel at the rather oddly named Cozy Nook, a poorly-defined area of slightly more abundant vegetation and litter wherein apparently three Paleolithic picnic tables had been separated from their herd and died, fossilizing over the aeons into the strange, rock-hard, patently uncomfortable agglomerations of material at one of which the heroes were parked to discuss strategy—or, rather, to doggedly shove their own agendas forward until they crashed into each other, train-wreck-like, in a gruesome aftermath of frayed tempers and (on Althea’s part) slight hysteria.

John was all for seeking out the aid of one of the Miller family members who happened to be awake at that hour, like—oh, say—Gwendy, for instance, who just happened to be up and about and who might know a few things about where to find errant steady sweeties, and he just wanted to let everyone know that this had nothing at all to do with his plans for Gwendy, nothing at all, this was just a suggestion, would George please quit giving him that look as though his nose was growing.

George, on the other hand, was (*yawn*) all for just going somewhere where they had a pretty good view of the whole hotel and just keeping a look out for him, ‘cos he was bound to be along (*yawwnnnnn*) sometime and anyway how hard could it be to lose him against a flat parking lot? At most, you’d only need two people to look out, so that way he could go back (*yaawwwwwnnnn*) and—hey, George was only resting his eyes a bit, John didn’t need to pinch him like he did just ‘cos he was yawning a little.

Althea didn’t say anything. She was beginning to seriously question the sense of asking either of these two for help, and, watching the seconds tick away on George’s wristwatch, she was beginning to feel quite hopeless. So she remained silent, save for the occasional sob or hiccup or sniffle that made both the boys feel a twinge of guilt for not having a coherent plan of action, or even a napkin to dry her eyes on, between them.

Finally she said: “Would it make both of you happy if you just tried one plan, then the other?”

The boys stared at her. She was just supposed to make them feel guilty, wasn’t she? Neither had really expected her to contribute the deciding vote. But they were both willing to concede that hers was a very good idea, considering (thought each to himself) that the other fellow’s plan couldn’t possibly work and that the lack of sleep must be making him crazy as a loon for even suggesting it. Very magnanimous of her, that. So, with a hearty across-the-shoulder “I extend my sympathies while making it plain I’m not coming on to you or anything” one-arm hug from both boys, the intrepid band of beau-hunters set off (John in the lead, of course) in the direction of Gwendolyn’s bedroom.

A thought occurred to George, in rather the same way a meteor occurs through the sky into a patch of ground. “Hey—how is it you’re so sure the guy you want is staying here and not someplace else? You never did give us his name or anything.” If she’d just been leading them on, he’d—

“Of course he’s staying here. He’s the owner’s son. Vern Miller? The Vern Miller that isn’t going bald and fat? I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. His father works him like a mule, poor fella.”

“You mean Vern Junior?” John’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “The kid’s on such good terms with the ground, it keeps coming up to meet him.” A stifled snort and giggle from behind him convinced John that the line had worked as intended.

“Yah,” she conceded, “but he’s sweet like nobody else I ever met. He’s great with drawing, and he writes like an angel, let me tell you.”

“He draws?” This statement especially piqued George’s interest. “I used to draw a whole lot, and John still does.”

“He’s a step up on his dad in that respect then, isn’t he?” added John. “I didn’t even know I was a loose European type ‘til he said so.”

“That’s just Vern Senior. Everyone from outside the lower forty-eight is from foreign parts, and he’s got a thing about foreigners that has to be seen to be believed. I mean, my parents moved here from Toronto over twenty-five years ago—years before I was born and everything—but they’re still foreigners to him, and his son isn’t supposed to keep company with those unscrupulous foreign-types. And their children,” she added with a hint of bitterness. “So before his precious son can have a whole idle summer for my evil ways to rub off on him, he arranges to ship him off to his uncle’s place and tries to make sure I don’t find out.”

“Then how did you find out?” asked George. “Sounds pretty shrewd and foreign to me.” He grinned. “Almost European.”

“Well, thank you.” Now Althea was grinning too. “You know his sister Birdy?”

“Oh yes. Blond girl, looks a bit weathered around the edges, if y’know what I’m getting at.” John looked over his shoulder at her. “We definitely know who you mean.”

“Yeah, well, put it this way—there is no source of information easier to tap into than a blabbermouth who doesn’t know she’s a blabbermouth. I asked the right questions, and I learned all I needed to know.”

George felt a frisson of newfound respect for the young lady and her endeavors. “Hey—that’s pretty devious of you. I’m impressed. How’d you like to enrage the over-forties and become an honorary Loose-Minded European?”

“It’s not all the over-forties who don’t like you guys. My parents, for instance. They think you’re just a phase.” Althea nudged George conspiratorially with her elbow, like a spy in a comic strip. “Hey—just write a song about taxation. You’ll have ‘em eating out of the palm of your hand,” she said as finally the trio approached Gwendolyn’s door.

Gwendolyn hadn’t been able to sleep at all that night, between John’s serial romantic sallies and her newly blossomed béguin for one-quarter of the Fab Four. She had taken out all her Beatles LPs and spread them before her on the bed. What was it? she wondered. What was it about him that inspired such heights of infatuation in her? Could it be his eyes, his captivating smile, the interesting ambiguity the teen magazines gave to his personality? Why was it that she’d fallen so hard for this teen idol, this pop star, this—

 A knock at the door, and immediately she shoved the LPs to the floor as quickly and gently as she could. If it was her father, she didn’t exactly want to advertise her newfound passion.

It was Mister Lennon—again. She slammed the door and hoped it’d been in his face.

It had been. “What, is it me?” he muttered as he nursed a nose the trauma to which had been purely psychological.

“Maybe it is. Let me try,” said George as he strode to the door. “Miss Gwendy?”

“Is that you, Mister Lennon?” replied a voice from inside the room. She wasn’t about to get up for him again. Not when she’d just begun setting her LPs back up.

“No, it isn’t John. Promise it isn’t.”

Well, in that case, who could it be? Gwendy didn’t think any of the other Beatles had a reason to take interest in her. For one brief, giddy moment before she opened the door she entertained the notion that maybe it was the one she had such a pash on. You never know ‘til you open the door, she thought with a small titter. Maybe, if she got really lucky, it would be—

The door opened, and the expressions on her face fought brutally for supremacy for nearly half a minute before she finally settled into a look of abject wonder mixed liberally with wide-eyed devotion. She’d just gotten lucky, very lucky. Before her stood the object of all her romantic energies, her musical Prince Charming, the man of her dreams.

George Harrison.

 

 

***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? ;-)