Deja Vu Affair---parts 13 & 14
Paul showed up at John’s house the next day.

“Since John has gone crippled,” he grinned, “ I was wondering if you would like to come down to the studio with me. We can’t do any real work until John gets better, but the studio is interesting in itself. I could show you around.”

Mary was torn between an opportunity to see the inside of a real-life recording studio (to say nothing of seeing it with a real-life Beatle!), and the need to look after John, who was more real and alive than anyone she had ever met.

“Ah...I’d love to Paul...but maybe some other time. I’m not sure that Cyn is quite sure how to take care of John yet, and if something happened to him I’d lose my job. Which is not to say that I, ah, wouldn’t want to see the studio....” Mary was babbling and she knew it. She shut up before she said something stupid.

“You’re sure, then? In that case, I’ll cancel the arrangements for that limosine....”

Mary laughed. “I’m sorry, Paul. But I will in fact get fired if John hurts himself, and knowing John, I’d feel much better staying here...for the time being.”

Paul looked down at his feet for a minute, then straightened up. “Very well, then. I’ll drop by later, John. Goodbye.”

By late afternoon, Mary wished she had gone with Paul. John had slept all day, and she had never been more bored in her life. Cyn was out for the day, and the excitement of staying in a Beatle’s house had worn off somewhat, as had the novelty of touring the house. She couldn’t leave, because she knew she would be lost in no time at all. She wished that Paul would come by, or John would wake up, if only so that she could have someone to talk to.

She sighed and turned to walk out of the room. To her amazement, John was sitting quietly in an armchair by the door.

“Suprised to see me, love?”

“Yes, to say the least. What are you doing out of bed?”

“Can you honestly say you want me to go back up to bed? You weren’t but a bit lonely...bored, perhaps?”

“John Lennon, you know very well---”

“I know I know very well. Shut up and come sit over here. You can see the garden from this chair.”

Mary clamped a vice on her imagination, and tottered over to where John was seated. He moved over so that she would have room to sit down.

“I know it’s hard,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be a bit more of a host to you. . .but, for the moment, will you just stay here?” He put his head on her shoulder, and was soon asleep.

Mary woke up to find that she was still seated next to John in the big armchair by the door. She looked down at his head on her shoulder, startled to realize that his hair was almost red with the light hitting it.

“Why,” she wondered, “are some people born beautiful, and not others?” Suddenly, she was filled with the desire to wrap her arms around his neck, bury her face in his hair, and not move ever, ever again. She sighed. What was she thinking, anyway? John was married, he wouldn’t want her, she had to leave, and she wasn’t really interested in him anyway. Big, big lie. Of course she was.

She moved to get up, and John stirred, sleepily, and banged his head against the back of the chair. He cried out in pain, and Mary automatically tried to comfort him, sitting back down and smoothing his hair with her hand.

That stopped him, and he looked up in surprise.

Mary cringed. She had stepped out of line and was about to be the recipient of a famous sarcastic Lennon remark. Maybe.

“Could you honestly care for a bloke like me?” John asked, quietly and almost shyly. Mary couldn’t believe her luck.

“When your head mends, but yes, I could. Of course I could.”

“I hoped so....”

Mary got up and picked up a blanket that was lying on a nearby chair. She returned and draped it over John, who was nearly asleep again. Running her hand through his hair again, she warned him to be a good boy for at least a few hours (that got a grin), and told him she was going to clean his room, which was undoubtedly a mess. He smiled back, and she left, turning out the light and closing the door.

“Where has she been?” John wondered as he fell asleep.

John’s dreams slid in and out of reality. He dreamed he went into a bar, and saw a girl sitting at a table in the back of the room. He tried to go to her, but the table dodged him, and people kept sliding into his way. He tried to move past them, but more kept taking their places.

As dreams will, it started to get very surreal:

“John, where are your papers?” a voice asked from a table behind him.

John turned to find a goat with a long beard holding an account book and drinking a vodka-and-tonic. It was wearing half-moon spectacles and an ugly tweed jacket. John disliked it almost immediately. It drew a purple pencil from its mouth and began writing.

John Lennon, arrived in Liverpool Saturday last. Charged with breaking the silence. No papers on his person. Perhaps he should be strip searched...

At that moment, the goat turned into the girl from the table in the corner. She pulled him up onto the table to dance, and within moments had pulled him into a kiss that left him gasping for breath. But try as he might, he couldn’t pull away. Her hands slipped down below his waist, pulling him towards her. She kissed him harder and harder, until finally they slipped under the table, and the girl actually began to strip search him. He struggled, and tried to make her stop, but he felt like his arms were made of wood.

When she had finally gotten him down to just his shorts and his shoes, he closed his eyes, and tears started to trickle down his cheeks. This seemed to amuse the girl.

“What,” she said, “John Lennon, the John Lennon, afraid of sex?” John curled up into a ball and turned over on his side. When she started stroking his leg he screamed -

and woke up.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the chair, and let the tears come. Why was he so upset? Dreams had no right to infringe upon his personal peace. Right then, Mary came in. She ran to his side.

“Oh my God, John! Are you all right? I heard you screaming . . . .”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then moved next to her and cried on her shoulder. What else was there to do?

Written by The Walrus. May not be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by e-mail.

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