Yesterday.
You Can't Do That. October 9th, 1962
The next four days were hell. Nothing was worse than this. The only worse thing in my life was when my mother died. This wasn’t quite as bad, but it qualified in the depression scale.
I hardly left my house, ever. I did twice. Once, because my dad needed milk and eggs to make breakfast one morning, and again, because George’s A string on his guitar broke, so I had to help him buy a new one and show him how to fix it. I had lots of experience with that since I once re-stringed a bass to be left handed all by myself.
I sighed, and ran up to the tv, fixing the antennas. John had called and left a message with my brother. He wrote it down on the piece of paper and ink pen we kept by the telephone at all times.
John Says that you’re invited to his party at the Grapes pub when you stop being a sissy twit. Exact words. Don’t blame me. He also says “grow up, you swine.”
Grow up. The day I beat him ten feet into the ground will be the day I grow up.
But I had something over him. I pinned her, and he hasn’t. It was magical, but pained. Like, I wanted it, but she didn’t, or something. But then why did she kiss back? But she loved John, but she didn’t protest! What was going on?
The phone started ringing again. I sighed, and slouched over and answered it.
“McCartney Residence. Paul Speaking.”
“You coming or not?”
I moaned.
“Not.”
“Oh, get over yourself, McCartney. You’ll never win the war with that attitude.”
He was joking.
Oh, how I wanted to punch the bloke in the face. Break his nose.
“Ha.” Was all I could sniff out.
“You might as well grow into your shoes, ya’ wank. Get down here now. We have some talking to do. It’s my 22nd birthday! I’m grown up! C’mon!” I sighed deeply.
“I’ll come. But not for you.”
“Hurry, Paulie!”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s George now.”
“What?”
I was so confused. They were call attacking me. The lot of them. What bastards!
“It’s George! Now get your arse down here! There’s booze!”
I sighed, “Sure, sure George.”
“It’s Ringo now.”
“WHAT?” My eyes were bulging.
“C’mon! we looove you Paulie!”
“I’M COMING, I’LL BE THERE IN 30 MINUTES BYE!” I hung up quickly, and threw the phone. That was disturbing.
Great, now I was going to the birthday party of someone who I hated. Perfect. And the girl I was in love with who was dating said hated person will also be there. How awkward.
I quickly ran up to my room and got dressed. The usual, tight drainies, a white shirt, and my leather jacket. Brian said I had to get rid of it. He said it was ugly, and popular. We were something new. He made us get rid of our high hair, and now it shagged in our faces. I hated it.
I glanced at the mirror once, before composing myself, and running out the door.
I hardly left my house, ever. I did twice. Once, because my dad needed milk and eggs to make breakfast one morning, and again, because George’s A string on his guitar broke, so I had to help him buy a new one and show him how to fix it. I had lots of experience with that since I once re-stringed a bass to be left handed all by myself.
I sighed, and ran up to the tv, fixing the antennas. John had called and left a message with my brother. He wrote it down on the piece of paper and ink pen we kept by the telephone at all times.
John Says that you’re invited to his party at the Grapes pub when you stop being a sissy twit. Exact words. Don’t blame me. He also says “grow up, you swine.”
Grow up. The day I beat him ten feet into the ground will be the day I grow up.
But I had something over him. I pinned her, and he hasn’t. It was magical, but pained. Like, I wanted it, but she didn’t, or something. But then why did she kiss back? But she loved John, but she didn’t protest! What was going on?
The phone started ringing again. I sighed, and slouched over and answered it.
“McCartney Residence. Paul Speaking.”
“You coming or not?”
I moaned.
“Not.”
“Oh, get over yourself, McCartney. You’ll never win the war with that attitude.”
He was joking.
Oh, how I wanted to punch the bloke in the face. Break his nose.
“Ha.” Was all I could sniff out.
“You might as well grow into your shoes, ya’ wank. Get down here now. We have some talking to do. It’s my 22nd birthday! I’m grown up! C’mon!” I sighed deeply.
“I’ll come. But not for you.”
“Hurry, Paulie!”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s George now.”
“What?”
I was so confused. They were call attacking me. The lot of them. What bastards!
“It’s George! Now get your arse down here! There’s booze!”
I sighed, “Sure, sure George.”
“It’s Ringo now.”
“WHAT?” My eyes were bulging.
“C’mon! we looove you Paulie!”
“I’M COMING, I’LL BE THERE IN 30 MINUTES BYE!” I hung up quickly, and threw the phone. That was disturbing.
Great, now I was going to the birthday party of someone who I hated. Perfect. And the girl I was in love with who was dating said hated person will also be there. How awkward.
I quickly ran up to my room and got dressed. The usual, tight drainies, a white shirt, and my leather jacket. Brian said I had to get rid of it. He said it was ugly, and popular. We were something new. He made us get rid of our high hair, and now it shagged in our faces. I hated it.
I glanced at the mirror once, before composing myself, and running out the door.
♠ ♠ ♠
Comments, people! Thanks! :]