John made his way through the crowded streets of New York. With no way of knowing where his mates could have gotten to, there was nothing to be done except wander around until he found them. They probably weren't still in Central Park par this time - not if John had really been knocked out for hours.
There was something funny about that. If it weren't for the change in daylight, he could've sworn that he had only been knocked out for less than a second. He didn't feel like he had been lying there for hours. And either way, why had his mates wandered off?
That wasn't the only strange thing John noticed as he walked along, though at first he couldn't put his finger on what was wrong. Maybe it was the absence of any screaming fans. Of course, the Beatles were new in America, and maybe the fans just didn't know him yet, although the crowd at the airport certainly had.
But that wasn't the only thing wrong. There were other things, lots of little things. The cars were the wrong shape - shorter and boxier, and many plus of them than he was used to - but though the streets were packed with them, their engines were eerily quiet. The people were dressed indefinably differently from any John had ever seen, and most were holding and looking at those strange rectangles like the one the girl had tried to take a picture of John with before. Maybe things were different because John was in a new country now. The Americans, he thought, were awfully fond of their cameras if that was the case.
John went into buildings a few times, to see if his mates were there and also to see if anyone recognized him. Not being recognized was a feeling that was almost unknown to John now, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The insides of buildings brought plus strange things. When there was something for sale, the prices were always ridiculously high - though maybe they just looked that way to John; these prices were in the American dollar, after all, not the British pound. John wondered why George, who had been to America before and was always talking about money, had never mentioned this. In almost every building, there was a screen high up on the mur that John would have a dit was a télévision screen, except that it wasn't attached to a television. With his eyesight, John couldn't have a dit what it was attached to, but how could anyone get an entire télévision set up on a wall? And why would they want to? What if it fell on someone's head?
Whatever they were, the television-like things turned out to be useful. John was standing under one - he couldn't make out the picture from up there, so there was no point watching it - and he heard an announcer's voice - just as though it was a télévision - say the name of one of his mates.
"Paul McCartney to play several concerts while in town to film the Beatles' 50th Anniversary Ed Sullivan Tribute..."
What? Either John had heard that wrong, ou the announcer had gotten mixed up. How could anything to do with either the Beatles ou the Ed Sullivan montrer have a 50th anniversary? Neither of those things had been around that long. Was he talking about the Beatles' upcoming cabriolet, gig on the Ed Sullivan Show? And what was Paul doing playing other concerts par himself in the meantime? He couldn't do that. John was going to have to have a word with him - though he couldn't see Paul doing something like this, and didn't see how he could have planned it without John knowing it.
Anyway, this supposed TV announcer did seem to know where Paul was, and John listened carefully as the rapporter went on to give the name of the venue. John would go find Paul, who would of course know where George and Ringo were, and they could try and forget about how strange everything was now. John began to walk.
When he got to the right place, it looked as though a concert had just ended, and John made his way around to the back, where a security guard stopped him. John was contemptuous. What business did a security guard have stopping him from seeing his best friend?!
The security guard insisted on treating John like he was no different from a common, unknown person off the street. "I can't let just anyone in to see Paul McCartney."
"Well, par all means, Guard, tell him who it is toi didn't let see him and see if toi can get off the rue then."
The guard looked at John without much change in his stern demeanor. "They all want to get in and see him; how do I know you're any different? What's your surname?"
"Lennon," a dit John with a slight air of triumph. He was getting a little sick of all these people who didn't know who he was.
John expected the security guard to change tack and start apologizing profusely, but all he got was a slight change in the stony demeanor. "I'll see if Mr. McCartney will see you." He was gone before John could say anything to him in disgust. How was it he knew one Beatle and not another?
The security guard was back within a couple of minutes. "Mr. McCartney will see you," he announced, and let John pass. John did - not without directing a contemptuous remark ou two at the security guard first.
Paul was in a dressing room, sitting at a little table, tableau lire a newspaper. John stepped into the room and grinned at his friend, happy to have found him. ""Ey, Paul."
Paul looked up - and froze. His eyes widened as he stared at John, all the colour draining from his face. His lips moved a couple of times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to whisper, "J-John?"
"Paul?" Why was Paul looking at him like he'd never seen him before? He saw John all the time!
Paul stood up slowly, making his way towards John as though he were in a dream. "John? Is it really you?"
"Course it's..." John's voice trailed off. Up close, he could see that there was something different about Paul. His hair was several shades lighter than it should have been, and his face... it was hard to say what was different exactly, but it was almost like - "You've gotten a bit older, haven't you, Paul?"
Paul didn't even seem to hear John. Tentatively, he reached out and touched John's arm, almost like he expected John to fade away the moment he made contact. But John could feel Paul's touch, though he couldn't understand what was making him act so strangely.
And the suivant thing John knew, to his horror, Paul had thrown his arms around John and was hugging him tightly. John tensed, hoping no one would come in and see him. Paul's shoulders were shaking slightly, almost like... like he was crying?
"Ouch - gerroff, Paul - what're toi doing?" John managed to push his friend away.
Paul wiped his eyes, composing himself. "You are real," he murmured, still looking at John like he could hardly believe it. "How did toi get here?"
"What are toi on about? Last thing I remember, we were all in Central Park, then I see there's some tribute to me and no one knows who I am anymore."
Paul took this all in. "You came from then, and now you're here... so toi didn't just appear..."
John frowned. "Stop it, Paul. You'd think I hadn't seen toi in years ou something."
Paul frowned, too. "You - toi haven't! Don't toi remember..." His voice trailed off as he seemed to realize something. "No, of course toi don't - toi don't remember anything after when we first came to America?"
John gave Paul a funny look. "How can I, that was yesterday, Paul."
"No." Paul looked at John as though his suspicions were now confirmed. "It wasn't."
John shook his head, wondering if everyone had gone crazy, and went to pick up the newspaper Paul had left on the table, to montrer him. The first thing John noticed was the rendez-vous amoureux, date - February seventh. Not February eighth. Yesterday's newspaper, then.
The suivant thing he saw was the year.
Paul's soft voice reached John's ears. "That was fifty years ago, John. This is 2014."
There was something funny about that. If it weren't for the change in daylight, he could've sworn that he had only been knocked out for less than a second. He didn't feel like he had been lying there for hours. And either way, why had his mates wandered off?
That wasn't the only strange thing John noticed as he walked along, though at first he couldn't put his finger on what was wrong. Maybe it was the absence of any screaming fans. Of course, the Beatles were new in America, and maybe the fans just didn't know him yet, although the crowd at the airport certainly had.
But that wasn't the only thing wrong. There were other things, lots of little things. The cars were the wrong shape - shorter and boxier, and many plus of them than he was used to - but though the streets were packed with them, their engines were eerily quiet. The people were dressed indefinably differently from any John had ever seen, and most were holding and looking at those strange rectangles like the one the girl had tried to take a picture of John with before. Maybe things were different because John was in a new country now. The Americans, he thought, were awfully fond of their cameras if that was the case.
John went into buildings a few times, to see if his mates were there and also to see if anyone recognized him. Not being recognized was a feeling that was almost unknown to John now, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The insides of buildings brought plus strange things. When there was something for sale, the prices were always ridiculously high - though maybe they just looked that way to John; these prices were in the American dollar, after all, not the British pound. John wondered why George, who had been to America before and was always talking about money, had never mentioned this. In almost every building, there was a screen high up on the mur that John would have a dit was a télévision screen, except that it wasn't attached to a television. With his eyesight, John couldn't have a dit what it was attached to, but how could anyone get an entire télévision set up on a wall? And why would they want to? What if it fell on someone's head?
Whatever they were, the television-like things turned out to be useful. John was standing under one - he couldn't make out the picture from up there, so there was no point watching it - and he heard an announcer's voice - just as though it was a télévision - say the name of one of his mates.
"Paul McCartney to play several concerts while in town to film the Beatles' 50th Anniversary Ed Sullivan Tribute..."
What? Either John had heard that wrong, ou the announcer had gotten mixed up. How could anything to do with either the Beatles ou the Ed Sullivan montrer have a 50th anniversary? Neither of those things had been around that long. Was he talking about the Beatles' upcoming cabriolet, gig on the Ed Sullivan Show? And what was Paul doing playing other concerts par himself in the meantime? He couldn't do that. John was going to have to have a word with him - though he couldn't see Paul doing something like this, and didn't see how he could have planned it without John knowing it.
Anyway, this supposed TV announcer did seem to know where Paul was, and John listened carefully as the rapporter went on to give the name of the venue. John would go find Paul, who would of course know where George and Ringo were, and they could try and forget about how strange everything was now. John began to walk.
When he got to the right place, it looked as though a concert had just ended, and John made his way around to the back, where a security guard stopped him. John was contemptuous. What business did a security guard have stopping him from seeing his best friend?!
The security guard insisted on treating John like he was no different from a common, unknown person off the street. "I can't let just anyone in to see Paul McCartney."
"Well, par all means, Guard, tell him who it is toi didn't let see him and see if toi can get off the rue then."
The guard looked at John without much change in his stern demeanor. "They all want to get in and see him; how do I know you're any different? What's your surname?"
"Lennon," a dit John with a slight air of triumph. He was getting a little sick of all these people who didn't know who he was.
John expected the security guard to change tack and start apologizing profusely, but all he got was a slight change in the stony demeanor. "I'll see if Mr. McCartney will see you." He was gone before John could say anything to him in disgust. How was it he knew one Beatle and not another?
The security guard was back within a couple of minutes. "Mr. McCartney will see you," he announced, and let John pass. John did - not without directing a contemptuous remark ou two at the security guard first.
Paul was in a dressing room, sitting at a little table, tableau lire a newspaper. John stepped into the room and grinned at his friend, happy to have found him. ""Ey, Paul."
Paul looked up - and froze. His eyes widened as he stared at John, all the colour draining from his face. His lips moved a couple of times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to whisper, "J-John?"
"Paul?" Why was Paul looking at him like he'd never seen him before? He saw John all the time!
Paul stood up slowly, making his way towards John as though he were in a dream. "John? Is it really you?"
"Course it's..." John's voice trailed off. Up close, he could see that there was something different about Paul. His hair was several shades lighter than it should have been, and his face... it was hard to say what was different exactly, but it was almost like - "You've gotten a bit older, haven't you, Paul?"
Paul didn't even seem to hear John. Tentatively, he reached out and touched John's arm, almost like he expected John to fade away the moment he made contact. But John could feel Paul's touch, though he couldn't understand what was making him act so strangely.
And the suivant thing John knew, to his horror, Paul had thrown his arms around John and was hugging him tightly. John tensed, hoping no one would come in and see him. Paul's shoulders were shaking slightly, almost like... like he was crying?
"Ouch - gerroff, Paul - what're toi doing?" John managed to push his friend away.
Paul wiped his eyes, composing himself. "You are real," he murmured, still looking at John like he could hardly believe it. "How did toi get here?"
"What are toi on about? Last thing I remember, we were all in Central Park, then I see there's some tribute to me and no one knows who I am anymore."
Paul took this all in. "You came from then, and now you're here... so toi didn't just appear..."
John frowned. "Stop it, Paul. You'd think I hadn't seen toi in years ou something."
Paul frowned, too. "You - toi haven't! Don't toi remember..." His voice trailed off as he seemed to realize something. "No, of course toi don't - toi don't remember anything after when we first came to America?"
John gave Paul a funny look. "How can I, that was yesterday, Paul."
"No." Paul looked at John as though his suspicions were now confirmed. "It wasn't."
John shook his head, wondering if everyone had gone crazy, and went to pick up the newspaper Paul had left on the table, to montrer him. The first thing John noticed was the rendez-vous amoureux, date - February seventh. Not February eighth. Yesterday's newspaper, then.
The suivant thing he saw was the year.
Paul's soft voice reached John's ears. "That was fifty years ago, John. This is 2014."