The Long and Winding Road
"With a
little help from my friends..."
* * * * *
~ ~ September 11th, 2001 ~ ~
the day stretches into eternity
He'd slept most of the day away.
But, then again, what could one expect when he was stricken with
a terminal illness? Must be in a good mood t'day t'joke 'bout
this. He mused to himself.
Of course, this was the, "I think I'll get up and take a
stroll through the gardens" type of good mood. Not the,
"I'll go run the Boston Marathon just because it sounds
fun" mood. That type of feeling didn't typically overwhelm
him as of late. Did it ever?
"Well, then. No bloody sense in sittin' around 'ere until
doomsday. S'a nice aftahnoon. Might as well enjoy it."
Easing his sore, cancer-weakened body out into the daylight,
George Harrison quickly began to feel a little better. At least,
emotionally he felt some better. He knew that a little sunshine
wouldn't wipe away the effects of a brain tumor. It did wonders
for the soul, though. Seeing God's creation spread around him
always lifted the ex-Beatle's spirits. The flowers were in full
bloom... the sun shone brightly on the cobblestones of the garden
walkway... birds sang their songs in the trees... and yet,
something felt off. It was like a tremendous sadness had suddenly
entered his consciousness.
What's this mean, Lord? He gazed up at the heavens which
had seemed so carefree just a moment before. Somethin's gone
wrong, I know that, but... Ah've nevah felt this way before. So,
so, sad. Was he dying?
No. Not him. But there was death. A lot of death somewhere
nearby. Many lost souls crying out for help.
He turned and gingerly walked back the way he had come. Quiet
reflection would have to wait for now. He needed answers, and
there was only one person who could give them to him since his
wife was out running an errand.....
* * * * *
"George! What're you doin' outta bed, mate?"
"No time for pleasantries, Macca. What's goin' on?"
Paul McCartney's initial happiness over seeing his friend out of
bed and walking around was short lived. "People aren't
supposed to know you're 'ere. Ya wanted a nice, private place
ta---" Paul trailed off. To die. They both knew it
was coming. It was just a matter of time now. If only there was
some way to go back and stop the cancer before it---
"I'm not worried 'bout myself right now. Somethin's
up." George cut off Paul's train of thought in midstream.
"Now, yah're gonna tell me what's wrong." He
persisted.
"I'd say "nothin'" but---"
George gave him a sharp glare.
"-- I'd be lyin'. There was... there was an attack t'day,
George. In New York."
"Bomb?"
Paul worried that his friend might not be able to handle this
news, but it was clear that George wasn't going to take 'no' for
an answer. "S'worse than that, Ah'm afraid. Far, far worse.
Come on in an' we can talk 'bout it." He placed a friendly
hand around his old pal's shoulder and guided him inside his LA
residence.
* * * * *
Ringo had had to call off that evening's concert date. Traveling
anywhere right now was unwise to say the very least. Not to
mention, nationally forbidden. So he was left alone, stranded in
his hotel room in New Mexico with only his guitar, the
television, his suitcases, and his cell phone for company. An'
the fun just keeps comin', doesn't it? He thought wryly to
himself. Staring at the wall for what felt like hours, he
suddenly remembered a little toy that he had brought
with him. Well, if Ah'm ta be locked in... might as well make
tha most o'it.
He pulled his laptop computer out from one of his bags and jacked
it into the wall. Useless machine most of the time. Lots of fancy
wires and designer colors... and what was up with those so-called
"designer colors" anyway? Was there a runway show each
year for IBM and Macintosh? Little red, blue, and green machines,
strutting their stuff as they were wheeled down the runway?
The computer spoke, drawing his attention. Hold it. Spoke?
"You've got mail."
A'course. His son must have loaded a voice into the
email system before his dad went on tour again. Little.. wait
until I see 'im again. Ringo chuckled.
There was the usual influx of forewards from friends... inquiries
as to his health... spam telling him just how much he could save
by going with a Trans-Atlantic DSL Internet connection....
And then there was one that caught his eye. It was simply marked
'heya... in need of help... heard you were in town'. Who's
this? A fan? But 'ow would someone get mah email? Maybe it
was a virus? But there was no attachment to it. Peculiar.
"Alright. I'll bite. Who are ya an' whaddya want?"
The screen expanded from a small icon to a full-page email.
Richard Starkey's eyes went wide, and he began to read in
earnest.
* * * * *
"What's the point, Micky?" Davy wasn't looking at his
friend as he spoke-- he was staring at the wall. It was nearly 5
o'clock in the afternoon. "Petah won't answer."
"It wasn't Peter I sent that to, Davy." Micky replied.
David Jones cocked his head in confusion.
"Another... business associate of mine."
The businessman/producer side of Michael Dolenz was the one
speaking at the moment. Davy could tell the difference. And yes,
it was important to differentiate. Musician Micky was a lot more
carefree than his "other half". Granted, this Micky was
the one he saw the most of lately, but he trusted Micky in
business mode as much as music mode.
"An associate who happens to be in New Mexico this week, if
I recall correctly."
* * * * *
Mike exited his office, having just completed a two-plus hour
conference call to business associates halfway across the
country. They had had connections with companies that were lost
in the Trade Center collapse, and needed to deal with the fallout
of the day's events. Not today, but soon. It felt heartless and
cold talking about replacing the companies wiped out by the
horrible tragedy, but it would have to be done eventually.
When Mike had left Peter alone in the parlor at 6pm, he'd said
that he wouldn't take too long. Now it was 8pm. Obviously, that
hadn't been the case. He felt bad, but knew Peter would keep
himself occupied.
And occupied, he was. After realizing Mike wouldn't be returning
for a while, Peter had taken out his guitar for an impromptu
composing session. He was halfway through a bluesy rendition of,
what sounded like a cross between "Grandma Got Run Over By a
Reindeer" and "House of the Rising Sun", when he
realized that Mike had returned.
"Hey. How'd it go?"
"Alright. I mean, given the circumstances. We lost a lot of
good people today."
Peter knew Mike meant the company sense of the word 'we', but he
could hear those words being applied to the nation as well.
"Yes." His tone was sullen, his song quickly forgotten.
"Watching those images on the television... hearing the
people crying out in terror..." Peter turned away and
grabbed a Kleenex from a box sitting on Mike's curio cabinet. He
bit his lower lip and blew his nose a little. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. I understand."
"But you. You haven't---"
"Haven't what?"
"Cried. All day."
It was Mike's turn to take a pause. "How'dya know that?"
"Well, you're so strong, Michael, and... and you've never
been one to show your feelings openly."
"Doesn't mean I don't think about it, Pete. All that time we
were watchin' MSNBC? I was near breakin' down myself."
Peter felt foolish. He'd just assumed that Michael had shut
himself off from his emotions again. That's what he always did
back in the day when things got intense. He'd bottled everything
up inside. Now, as then, Peter mused just how Michael could be
that calm. When Peter was too broken up for words, he knew how to
make his escape from the world. His music. But Mike had even shut
himself off from that.
Feeling as if he should make a mention of Mike's disassociation
with music again, Peter shifted in his seat. It was high time
someone tried to get the guitarist to change his mind. And yet,
he was quickly struck with the realization that it wouldn't
change anything anyway. If a person dared to mention the dreaded
five letter M-word, Mike would tune out.
So, conflicted and wishing desperately for the old Mike back for
just a moment, Peter readjusted the strap on his guitar. He
strummed a little, noting a strange look lance across Nez's face.
Almost... longing? Peter shook his head a little and bent down
over the strings so that he couldn't see Michael's face.. No use
in prolonging the torment. As it was, his playing music here was
probably as welcome as a smoker in the home of a person who was
trying desperately to quit.
He hummed, feeling the music move up through his fingers and deep
inside to his soul. That was the magical thing when one played...
he could forget the world around him. It was a place for just the
musician and his instrument. He needed that escape, now moreso
than ever before. The tune that slowly spilled out wasn't one of
his own composition. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd
learned it, frankly. It seemed that he had known it forever.
"How many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
The answer is blowin' in the wind."
Mike watched and listened without a word or motion. He'd
forgotten just how wonderful Peter's playing was. It was almost
enough to make a guy... well...
As Peter continued, Mike stepped out of the room and into a side
closet. Where did I leave that thing?
"How many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
How many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?"
After the refrain, Peter improvised his way through a musical
interlude. As the next verse picked up, a second guitar joined
in, faltering at first, but gaining back it's old confidence with
each chord change. Peter didn't even have to look up. He knew,
and that made him smile broader than he had in days... possibly
years. In spite of himself, Peter hazarded a glance up to see
Mike's face. Nez was concentrating deeply on his strumming. It
was like anything else; you needed to practice to get back into
top performance shape. Still, the chords were rich and full...
comforting in a long day, full of ragged, cruel twists.
"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind."
They didn't know when it happened, but both Peter and Mike became
aware that a third person had joined them in the room. Whoever it
was waited patiently just out of view in the entryway. This
person clearly wasn't in any rush and wanted to listen to the
music. He or she had, likely, had a rough day as well.
It was Mike who finally broke off and got up. "Who's
there?"
"That was wondahful, lads." An English-accented voice
echoed in the hallway.
Both men exchanged a glance. Davy? No, this voice
clearly marked it's owner as coming from a different part of
London. Liverpool? Besides, Davy was supposed to be halfway
across the country.
Richard Starkey, known better as Ringo Starr to his fans, entered
the room to the surprise of both men sitting near a large
fireplace. "Ah didn't know you 'ad company, Michael, or Ah
might 'ave called b'fore Ah dropped in."
Mike smiled. It had been a long time since he'd seen Ringo.
Years, in fact. The last time they had really had the opportunity
to talk was way back in the 60's when The Beatles threw a party
for The Monkees in London. Paths had crossed, but actual
conversation was scarce in the insuing years. "Hey. What
brings you out here?"
"Tour. But to your little estate, 'ere?" Ringo glanced
around the nicely furnished room. "One a'yer friends,
actually. Michael Dolenz. 'E knew Ah was in town and hoped that
Ah could pop in ta check on ya. Said ya nevah called 'im."
Micky found us after all. Son of a gun. "I've...
uhm... been busy." Mike hid his shame as best he could. Even
before today, communication lines between the ex-Monkees had been
strained at best.
Ringo continued as if Mike hadn't spoken. "'E didn't mention
Mr. Tork bein' 'ere with ya."
"I kinda dropped in on my own." Peter apologized.
"Unannounced. It was just a spur of the moment decision, I
guess."
"Ah-hah. Ah read 'bout what 'appened with you an' thah
othahs.. No need ta explain." Ringo nodded.
"Thanks." Peter said simply. It still hurt to think
about the things which he and Micky said to each other.
"Quite a day, isn't it?" Mike suddenly remarked out of
the blue. Ever since they'd finished playing "Blowin' in the
Wind" he had seemed completely lost in thought. The germ of
an idea was poking persistently at the back of his mind.
Ringo's eye darkened. "Quite."
"I was thinkin' that there has to be some way we could help
those people..."
"What?" Peter cocked his head. Had Mike's excursion
back into the old days gone to his head? "Fly down to ground
zero? We aren't exactly trained rescue personnel, Mike!"
"That's not what I meant. And," Mike shook his head,
"I know. We're musicians. We help in the way we
know how." He waited for the others to pick up on what he
was saying.
Peter and Ringo exchanged a glance. They both seemed to
understand at the same time. A benefit concert!
Something to raise money for the people displaced by this day's
events.
"Yah sure yah can pull this off, mate?" Ringo did
like the idea, but a lot would have to be worked out. These
things weren't just thrown together on a shoestring.
"If we get all our resources together, I'm sure we can do
it." Mike sounded excited. More than he had in a long time.
And why not? If this came off, it would help many, many
people. "But we need help."
"Just so 'appens... I'm old pals with a guy who knows a
thing or two about organizin' benefit concerts." Ringo
smiled. Providin' Georgie's up for it, 'e could 'elp us out a
lot.
"And..." Peter stopped. I could call Mick. Aw,
hell. Screw it. This had nothing to do with them, and had
everything to do with helping others. "And I'll call
Mick."
"How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
How many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
How many deaths will it take 'til he knows
That too many people have died?"
__________________________________________________________________________________
Hefty
Disclaimer:
Alright, I'm taking MAJOR liberties here, I know it. I know
diddly about these guys and their real lives, and even less about
how they interact with one another. However, I did want to write
a piece about the events of September 11th, 2001 from a different
standpoint. I could have written a poem... a lengthy essay about
Islam and Bin Laden. Instead, I picked a medium that I know...
music, and the people who make it. Music really is the universal
language. It sounds corny, but it can lift you up in your darkest
moments, and put a smile on your face.
Okay, now for the general disclaimer. The Beatles are themselves,
I don't own 'em. The Monkees are themselves too, and I don't own
them either. Frankly, I don't own much except an excessively busy
brain that cranks out stuff like this.
Oh yeah. And if this offends anyone too much... I will remove it.
I mean it. This piece has everything to do with how I deal with a
major trajedy and how I imagine others would. However, I don't
want to cause more pain by publishing it.
With all of this said.... read away!