CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
by Kelonzi

"567... 568... 569..."

"Will ya stop that, already?"

"570..."

"I'll count to ten, and then---"

"510?" John Lennon roared in frustration. "Bloody hell, Macca. Make a man loose count. Nearly done an' ya have to start mentionin' numbers." He sighed heavily. "Just one thing to do then."

"Give up and go count the holes in the ceilin' of George's room? Leavin' me alone ta rest before the show tonight?" Paul McCartney was sprawled out across the couch in his Denver dressing room, holding a hand over his eyes.

John shook his head. "Start all over again."

Rolling over onto his face, Paul grunted into the cushions.

"1... 2... 3..."

A knock came at the door, followed by a voice. "Housekeepin', Room A45."

"GRRRRRAAAAAGH!" John exploded as the door opened, allowing a very surprised George Harrison through.

"Anger management classes. That's what ya need ta cure that boredom thing." The 59 year old guitarist quipped as he set a stack of papers on the coffee table in the center of the room. "Just some notes about t'night's show."

Paul sat up slowly, eyes still clamped shut. Without a word, he began groping around in front of him to reach the papers.

"Head hurtin'?"

"Just a bit, mate." Paul's fingers crawled across the marble tabletop at the same moment John sprouted a wicked look on his face. Sitting up from his former reclined position, he slid the papers just out of Paul's reach. When Paul would come close again, he'd slide them a little bit farther.

George rolled his eyes. "Times like this Ah wonder if it was such a good idea, lettin' you two room together."

"Well, Ah don't like it much more than you, but it's the only place Ah absolutely do not allow the press to visit." Paul reached out suddenly and slapped John on the hand, snatching the papers. "Ah may 'ave my eyes shut, but Ah'm not stupid." He muttered as an aside.

John giggled a bit. "Just keepin' ya on yer toes."

"So this is the only safe place for us ta keep John when we're in town." Paul completed his previous thought as he sat up slowly. Opening his eyes he still had a horrible ache in his head, but perhaps slightly less severe. Good sign since he had a series of interviews to begin in a few minutes. Leafing through the pages, he made mental notes of the information displayed there, glancing up occasionally at John.

He felt guilty. Keeping John penned up like this was cruel. And he felt even worse when he realized how often he was leaving... going places John couldn't, for fear of being discovered. John couldn't even join them for after show parties. While he and Ringo, and even George, on occasion, were out dining with their wives and friends, John was sitting in the tour bus, playing solitaire and reading magazines.

Yet something would change. Soon. And that was what equal parts excited and terrified Paul. John had been getting more daring lately, even going as far as to be waiting offstage watching the show when they passed through Cleveland, Ohio. Paul had a feeling that John would just keep pressing that envelope. And it wasn't like he could control his friend. He had realized slowly that he wouldn't... even if it was for the best.

"Alright, if you two blokes don't start talkin' ta me right quick Ah promise ta break inta another refrain of "It's a Small World"." John threatened, crossing to his guitar in the corner, slipping the strap over his shoulders.

"No! Anything but 'The Song'!!" George feigned panic as he jacked his laptop into the far wall. "A fate worse than death! The song those in hell suffer through the rest of their days!"

Strumming a bit, John shook his head. "Nah. They play Manilow there."

Paul and George stared, open-mouthed.

"Kiddin', mates." John looked at them over the top of his glasses. "Little joke an' all that."

"Well, as much as Ah'd love to stay an' chat, it's time ta make my rounds on the press circuit." Paul grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "Wish me luck."

"Break a leg, mate." George waved as the computer came to life in his lap.

"Break both of 'em an' maybe Ah'll actually get a chance ta play." John quipped.

The door closed without another word.

"Ah'm serious, ya know. Ah'll get on that stage again soon. It's not fair that you an' Paul an' Ring should 'ave all the fun."

"Might be true," George spoke, obviously distracted by the graphics on the small glowing screen before him, "but none of us 'ave come back from the dead. We can play because we're among the livin'."

"An' Ah'm not."

"Not to the general public."

Frustrated, John crossed to the door.

"Where are ya goin' now?"

"To the loo. Wanna watch?" John snapped before walking out.

George shook his head. "Ah know yer un'appy mate. But we're workin' on makin' things better." He spoke to the silence as he double clicked on a desktop icon labeled 'taxcreditreport'. Opening it, he came face to screen with three golden letters set against a cloud-patterned background- J I A.

A text messaging box popped up.

}}}} Like it? {{{{

}}}} Looks great! {{{{ George typed his reply.

}}}} Good. Now I need help on the next part... {{{{

}}}} You're the computer expert, but I'll try. {{{{

George continued chatting for the remainder of the afternoon. He only stopped when a quick glance at the wall clock revealed Paul's show would begin within the hour.

}}}} Must get off now. {{{{

}}}} Couldn't you have just typed 'g2g'? {{{{

}}}} What's that mean? {{{{

}}}} Got to--- Oh never mind. I keep telling you things would go much
faster if you'd just learn how to use cyber-slang! {{{{

}}}} I'm 59 years old. You're not going to change me now. {{{{

}}}} So you say. {{{{

}}}} See you soon. {{{{ George typed, then added as an afterthought. }}}} Peace be with you. {{{{

}}} Computer hippie. {{{

}}} Hey! {{{{ George's protests were met with an error box indicating his chat partner had already logged off. "Bloody fresh." He shook his head. "Why Ah ever agreed ta set up instant messaging is beyond me."

"George!" Paul called from the hallway. "Comin'?"

"Right." He logged off quickly, shut off the computer and headed for the door.

* * * * *

"Thank you, Seattle! Goodnight!" Paul bowed deeply after hefting his guitar over his head.

"Come up with somethin' new!" John heckled from backstage.

George whirled from his position behind the monitor. "John! Do ya want to be spotted?"

Cocking his head, John nodded. "Yeah. Now that ya bring it up, Ah think Ah do."

Pointless question. George returned to the tech board with a sigh. Ah wish Paul would just tell John 'is plan. It would make everythin' back 'ere so much easier.

"Same old bow since we were on tour in '64." John tapped George on the arm.

"It's a classic."

"Or just as old an' worn out as it ever was, ya ask me."

George rolled his eyes. "Put on the hood. People are comin'."

"Heavens forfend." John hissed, but obediently stuffed his head inside the hooded parka.

"There. Now was that 'ard?"

"I look like a bleedin' Eskimo."

"But at least yer covered."

"Now there's a new idea...." John mused, a smirk in his voice.

Almost afraid of the answer, George asked, "What?"

"Uncoverin'. Been a while since there was a good public streakin' 'round 'ere..."

"Ya wouldn't." George tensed.

"Well...." John considered, "Not now."

George felt the breath rush out of his mouth. Thank Krishna.

"Now." John threw his hands up. "But if Ah don't get onstage soon, Ah may."

The lights dimmed and the audience went crazy. Backstage, the crew remained perfectly still. The biggest rule on the tour, (well, if you wanted your paycheck, that is): No tipping the audience off that Paul and Ringo were going back on.

When George resumed movement at his laptop, he felt the tension leaving his shoulders. His squirmy charge had settled back in behind him. Sure, John was royally pissed off, and with each show tensions grew just a bit worse. But he couldn't let him out. Not yet. The IM beeped.

Rats... George pulled up the screen again. }}}} Sorry. {{{{

}}}} Eh... don't worry. Gave me time to get something to drink.... {{{{

}}}} Good. At least I didn't leave you completely alone. {{{{

}}}} --- and do the laundry, and the dishes, knit a sweater--- {{{{

}}}} Alright, alright. I get the point. {{{{

}}}} How's John? {{{{

}}}} He's--- {{{{ George stopped typing to turn around and check. "'Ey Johnny?"

No answer.

He got up and looked around frantically. Where'd he get to?!

}}}} George? {{{{

}}}} gone. {{{{ George pounded out on the keyboard before going off in search of his missing bandmate.

* * * * *


John was pleased with himself. Extremely. So what if George was going to be mad when he found him? Harrison wasn't his mother. In the meantime, what he was doing now more than made up for any inconvenience he might experience later. He laughed, feeling rather like a naughty school boy who had slipped out to the loo for a quick smoke.

Only the high he was getting off of this was better than any ciggie.

This was the charge you got off performing in front of a live audience.

God, he'd missed it.

"Lady Madonna... lying on the bed.... listen to the music playing in your head...."

It was a good thing Paul had decided to fill his tour set list with old Beatles numbers. John could still play these songs in his sleep. Not that he hadn't already seen the concert enough times to recite Paul's work line for line, but on a song he knew, he could play around a bit. Not to mention he was able to really get into it along with the audience.

Glancing briefly into the wings, he saw the guitarist he had relieved from duty counting a fistful of bills. Never underestimate the power of bribery. He smiled. Or a starstruck middle-aged man who's probably quite certain at this moment that 'e saw a ghost. And that "counting" was probably equal parts greed and verifying that he wasn't dreaming. Real cash. Real man. Real desire to find something solid to settle down on before he fell down.

Eh, whatever keeps 'im busy. John turned back to the audience. They were in awe. Not of him-- thanks to the scarf wrapped about the lower part of his face and low-brimmed baseball cap-- but of Paul. All those people beyond the footlights were oh so thrilled to see a legend playing right before their very eyes.

It made him want to laugh out loud. Make that legends. If they only knew.

Mirth was cut short, however, when the song ended and George came rushing out onstage. He'd figured it out.

Paul's eyes went wide. "George?" Then, realizing his words were audible, he slipped into 'Host-Mode'. "Ladies and Gentlemen, as a special treat this evening---"

George's eyes went wide with a look of panic.

"An old mate of mine, George Harrison!"

The crowd erupted.

"We've got a problem." George hissed under his breath.

"Just grab a guitar an' start playin'." Paul muttered in return.

John made a teasing face at George behind Paul's back. He was onstage, and for the time being, he was going to stay there.

* * * * *


The curtain slid shut for the last time that evening.

As everyone else filed off the stage, John settled himself down on the edge of the drum platform, pulling the scarf and hat off with a smile. It was funny, really. He could remember wishing for this, even when he was in the "Great Beyond". In a place where he had everything he could ever want, all he found he really desired was to stand up on a stage, grab a guitar, and entertain for a few hours. John wanted to live out every little kid's dream again. He remembered wanting to do so since he was just a lad at Dovedale Primary. He'd wanted it all. The lights, the noise, the girls, the cheering----- Which he was destined to have years later. In Liverpool. In Hamburg. Before---- Before----

He sighed. Before we were, "THE BEATLES". It. The Fab Four. The be all and end all of Rock 'n Roll for scores of teenagers. Becoming a phenomena had sucked away the fun.

Frankly, it wasn't the touring itself that had scared him off. It was the media circus. No one cared about the music anymore. Were it not for the growing feeling of being a caged animal on a runaway train, he might have continued touring for many years to come.

Tonight was to test that theory. And he found he was right. All he needed was that anonymity again and all the raw energy came rushing back in waves. It made him tremble with anticipation of the next show.

"JOHN!"

And that also made him shudder. He felt a hand descend on his shoulder. "'Ello, Geo."

When he glanced over his shoulder, he was met with a furious glare. "Ah could kill ya for pullin' that stunt on me."

"Been there, done that." John couldn't resist quipping.

Paul approached at that moment, cutting off further arguments.

"You two wanna cut it out? Yer attractin' attention 'ere."

"Did ya see what 'e did to me t'night?!" George spluttered.

Paul sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Ah know. An' we can talk about that later. Right now we gotta get movin'. Get on the bus an' start drivin'. We 'aveta be in Oakland tomorrow night."

"That's right." John felt bitterness build in his chest. "Lock me away again."

George scoffed. "After what you pulled, ya should be lucky Ah'm not packin' ya in a trunk with the rest of the band's equipment."

"Excuse me a minute, but when did you become my warden?!" John fired back.

"Guys---" Paul pleaded.

"Don't think yer free of this either, Macca. Both of ya 'ave been keepin' me chained up like a pet dog since Ah came out on the road with ya!"

"What other choice do we 'ave?" George replied.

"Really, John." Paul added with a frown. "Try ta understand---"

He was so worked up by this point, there was no keeping John Lennon silent anymore. "LET ME OUT! THAT'S YER BLOODY CHOICE!!" He stopped only to inhale sharply. "Yer controllin' me. Ya know who ya both remind me of?"

"Don't bring 'im inta this---"

"Eppy! That's who! Who we talked to... what we said... WHAT WE ATE FOR DINNER! He controlled it all, like a damned father taking care of his little boys! Sure, we needed it sometimes, but mostly, we all hated it." John growled. "An' because of that, yer both hypocrites if ya keep this up."

"Low shot." Paul muttered.

"Yeah. Ah know. But ya wouldn't listen any other way, now would ya?"

Ringo seemed to appear out of nowhere at that moment, stepping out from behind the drum kit that was rapidly being dismantled to be placed on the tour bus. "'E's right."

"Just like ya ta take Paul's side an'----" John stopped. "Yer agreein' with me?"

"Let 'im play." He sat down beside John, face to face with Paul and George. "No one caught 'im t'night."

"It doesn't mean they won't in the future." George muttered.

"Oh will ya stop with the mother hen bit?" Ringo's words exploded with such force that even he was surprised at them. "Over-worryin' is makin' us all miserable. Now if ya let John play-- say, just the encore--- will the world come ta an end?"

"A tabloid caught 'im once already." Paul reminded the drummer. "We were lucky Heather was the only one ta really say anythin' about it. Should they get another shot, we might not be so lucky."

"If it's gonna 'appen, it will." John turned to George. "Haven't ya said that before? Ya can't change events if they're destined ta 'appen? No matter what ya do, it'll come out one way or another?"

"Yes, but this isn't destiny---"

"Ya don't know that."

George groaned. "Usin' my own logic against me is---"

"--- perfectly fair." John finished. As he spoke, he wrapped the scarf around his face once more, pulling the baseball cap back in place. "See? No worries, mate. All covered."

Holding his hands up in the air, George turned to his old friend. "Not my choice, anyroad. It's Paul's."

A long silence followed. Finally letting out an exasperated sigh, Paul shrugged. "A'right. But just the encore. An' if things start gettin' "busy"..."

"Ah know. Back in the bus." John held his hand over his chest, then with the other one, drew an 'X'. "Cross me 'eart."