SOAR
Believe in Yourself

"Kid!! You come back with that!!" A plump storekeeper crashed through the double doors of his corner market in a fit of rage. "The police will catch you and you'll wind up in prison where you belong!!"

Like that's gonna happen. Sorry. Got places to be. Kyle thought smugly as he rounded the corner and disappeared down a side street. No one had caught him yet, and he'd been up to this for the past eight years of his fifteen on God's green Earth. At seven he'd been thrown out of his halfway home with an elderly couple. They hadn't been able to have children, and so had taken in an "unfortunate" to "love and care for".

"Right." He scoffed at the memory. "What they really wanted was to put a dependant on their tax form so they wouldn't have to shell out as much to Uncle Sam every month. Old penny pinchers." Kyle wasn't an idiot. He had both street smarts and the smallest semblance of an education. That was due partially to Michael-- an elderly homeless man who was a professor back in the day. Or so he had claimed. Frankly, Kyle thought Mike was too spontaneous and exciting to have ever been some stuffy old teacher. The ones he had known at his elementary school were all the same-- coffee drinking, pocket protector wearing ninnies. Mike had taught him everything he needed to know, including why his guardians had screwed him over so thoroughly. No food unless he had worked his butt off... a bath only if there was "enough water to spare".... Then, one day, Michael died. His body was tossed over the edge of the city bridge by some squatters who wanted his space on Elmer Alley. Kyle hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

He mourned Michael, but after a while, the memory of his one and only friend began to fade. He had gone back to spending most of his time not caring whether he lived or died. Also spent time brooding about his guardians as well. It made him mad just to think of them. Those two fools were the reason he was where he was now. Stealing Cola and crackers for sustainance was thrilling in it's way-- chancing fate with the adrenalin rush of wondering whether or not this was going to be the one time that he slipped up and would be thrown in jail. Still, he'd grown tired of hiding in abandoned buildings by day and slinking around Seven Elevens by night.

He wanted more. But how could that ever happen? So far as the world knew, Kyle Fabian had been dead for eight years. Kyle wanted to go to school again... wanted to listen to the music that all the cool kids did... wanted to wear new clothes and eat out every Friday night. He'd never been much for music. Most he ever listened to was some Grunge group from the 80's, and, frankly... ick. It was noise. That was all. He had no real knowledge of any other groups, consequentially. Just that all the teenage girls went ga-ga for N*SYNC and those Backstreet Boys.

"Waste of time anyways. What would I do with music? Doesn't keep ya fed... doesn't keep you warm at night... doesn't make you feel like any less of a street bum." He slid down to a sitting position

"That so?" A man seemed to appear out of nowhere, ending up right next to him.

Kyle nearly jumped out of his skin. "Who're you?"

"A friend."

"I don't have friends."

"Need 'em?"

"Not really interested, actually." Kyle examined the newcomer carefully. Mainly to see if the older gentleman was carrying any weapons that he should be aware of. There were no obvious bulges in the man's coat... nor hint of sinister intent in his stanse. He had discovered over the years that if someone was going to jump you, they tended to tense up just before springing. Anticipating the motion had kept the crap from being kicked out of him on more than one occasion. "I'm gonna ask ya again who ya are, an' yer gonna give me a straight answer."

"Name's George."

"George." Kyle cocked his head a bit. "Alright, George. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere at 2am?"

The man pushed the rim of his black fisherman's hat back a bit so that his features could be seen a little better in the lamplight. He was on the tall side, with short gray hair and looked rediculously skinny in his oversized puffy coat. "Hard ya just stole somethin' from that store on tha corner."

Aww hell. This guy was with the police. Kyle jumped to his feet and prepared to run, but George's hand descended on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "Hang on. Ah'm not gonna turn ya in."

"So why did you---"

George continued to stare at him. "Ah'll be around if ya feel like talkin', okay?"

Kyle shook his head in a slow 'yes', closing his eyes briefly. Who is this nut job?

Opening his eyes once more, Kyle found that 'George' was gone.

"Weird." He reached into his pocket and found his old billfold bulging a bit. Unfolding the black leather wallet, he found 50 dollars-- three tens, two fives, and ten ones.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Kyle would see George several times over the next few months, which stretched into years. Each encounter was a little different from the last. With every visit George made came a set pattern: he and the youth would talk for a bit, sounding each other out. Kyle came to trust the older guy, but still wondered in the back of his mind what exactly made this guy care about him so much. Kyle wasn't anyone special-- there were thousands of runaway kids across the United States to choose from.

And yet, George was starting to rub off on him, like a mentor or an older brother, or favorite Uncle or something. The day that George showed up with a guitar was probably the strangest of all though. Kyle had never even considered touching an instrument before. His attitude about such a thing was well known. And making it? Well, his thoughts on that weren't any different.

"I told you. I don't like music."

"That's just because ya've never given it a chance." George smiled, never forcing, but obviously hoping that Kyle would give it a try. "Who knows? Maybe yer real good at it."

Giving him a 'you've got to be kidding me' look, Kyle shrugged and started randomly placing his fingers on the strings, making, what he thought, was a lot of noise. "See? Nothing."

But George wasn't going to let him give up like that. They worked solidly for the next several hours, Kyle getting frustrated, but urged on until he got it right. By the time they'd completed the lesson, Kyle was surprised-- it actually sounded a bit like music.

Guitar lessons continued much in that fashion for a month, then two, then three.... until Kyle couldn't remember a time when he didn't play music. It wasn't so bad after all. George had influenced him in yet another way, to his immense surprise.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


"Something in the way she moves.. attracts me like no other lover.." A now 18 year old Kyle sat in his hotel room, staring down at the sheet music before him. This was a big step for a kid who, for so many years, was barely aquainted with the world outside of his secluded alleyway. George had suggested he use this song for his audition-- not a big gig, actually. Just some band that needed a guitarist. He wasn't great, by any stretch. In fact, George had been the one who put him up in this hotel room, and even the guitar was a loaner.

A knock drew Kyle away from his bed and the papers spread out upon it. He knew who it would be before he even reached the door.

"George!"

"Hey kid. How's it goin'?"

"Pretty well.... I'm a little nervous, even if this is just a small time thing."

"The first audition is always like that." George nodded, something clearly on his mind. His thoughts had drifted off--- to his past? George hadn't actually mentioned what he used to do before wandering around and picking a random street kid to teach guitar to. Kyle had always assumed his friend had been "in the business" as it were. He was too good on that simple accoustic to have it just be a hobby of his.

Kyle decided not to verbalize his questions though. Merely tuck them away for later. "So, how long do I have?"

"An hour or so."

"Coming with me?"

George looked away.

"Something wrong?"

"No... Ah can't, mate."

What??!! "But you worked me up to this! What's come up that's so important?"

"It doesn't mattah. Just trust yahself. Things are about ta happen for ya if you're willin' ta go with the flow.... an' let your talent carry you."

"Talent that you gave me!"

"No." George shot back emphatically. "It was there all along. Ah saw it in ya the day ya ran from the corner market with that loaf of bread under yer arm. All Ah did was prove to ya that it was in there somewhere. Now... go in there and knock 'em dead."

Pissed off beyond the telling of it, Kyle stormed from the room and headed for the elevator.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


"Congratulations. You're in the band." Jacob, the group bass guitarist smiled and shook Kyle's hand. "Where'd you ever learn to play like that?"

"A friend." Kyle swallowed hard to keep from sounding bitter about George's ditching him.

Practicing the drum beat for their new song on his theigh, Mark asked, "Maybe your friend would like to jam with us some time too."

"No. I don't think so." Kyle sighed. "I'm probably not gonna see him again for a very long time."

Jacob shrugged. "If you say so, pal."

The fourth member of their newly formed quartet- Matt- hadn't said much of anything. He was content to sit, head back, listening to something on his walkman. "Sitting on a cornflake... waiting for the van to come... corporation teashirt, stupid bloody Tuesday... man you've been a naughty boy... you let your face grow long..."

"What?" Kyle cocked his head. "What's that?"

Matt threw him an 'are you stupid or something' look and hit pause on his CD. "The Beatles. Ever heard of them?"

"No, actually."

Now it was everyone's turn to stare. "You don't know who the Beatles are? Where did you grow up anyway? Under a rock?"

Kyle bit his lip. Pretty much. Well, might as well lay all the cards on the table now, if we're going to be bandmates. "We didn't have a lot of music where I grew up. Both of my parents died when I was little... mom during childbirth, and dad a few years later from a car wreck....."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


"So this guy you met on the streets one day--"

"Changed my life around. Pretty much. Wild, huh? Like the plot of some book." Kyle shrugged. "No happy ending though. George walked out before I came here. Said I had to take care of myself now."

Matt's eyes bugged a bit as Kyle finished his story. "What did you say his name was again?"

"George."

"Describe what he looked like once more."

"Well, he looked like an older guy-- gray hair and kinda wrinkly skin. Probably why I thought of him in my head as Uncle George. Coming around and showing me how to play his guitar."

On a sudden inspiration, Matt dug through his duffel bag in search of something.

"What's that?"

Jacob chuckled. "It's Matt's catch-all bag. We call it his 'body bag'." It wasn't hard for Kyle to see why. The thing was black, and overstuffed with papers, pens, walkman with batteries, and CDs.

Matt pulled out one of his CDs, along with a magazine, and handed the things to Kyle. "That him?"

"Holy---" Kyle gaped.

"George Harrison, buddy." Matt couldn't believe what he was saying either. "Your friend was a member of the most famous band in rock and roll history."

The other two leaned over Kyle's shoulder now as well. They, too, couldn't believe what they were hearing. "How can that be? Isn't George---" Mark struggled to speak.

Kyle flipped through the pages of Matt's Rolling Stone, shocked by what he was reading---

"... faced death as he did life: with unfailing dignity and humor..."

"I'm blessed to have known him."

"He was the sage of the Beatles. He found something worth more than fame."

"But I just saw him no more than three hours ago."

More stares.

"What's the date on this thing?"

"George died in November of 2001---" Matt said with emphasis. It was now 2004. There was no way that Kyle's teacher had been--- unless--- "Oh man. This is too much."

"Too much for you?" Jacob queried. "What about Kyle? He's the one who---"

Kyle walked out the door without a word, numb from head to toe. Everything was mixed up and impossible. Things were changing so fast and it seemed that everything he'd held on to for the past few years was a joke. He'd been taught by a dead guy? Maybe he was crazy.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


REHEARSAL TOMORROW MORNING. BRING SHEET MUSIC.

Kyle scrawled the note in big, gawdy letters on the memo pad next to his hotel room bed. He still felt like a wanderer, unsure of what his next move should be. If George was dead, how----?

"'Ello."

Swallowing hard, Kyle turned and glanced over his shoulder to the oval-shaped table pushed against one wall. "George."

"Ah didn't mean ta decieve ya."

"No. But you did." Getting up, Kyle crossed over to the floor length mirror. "What are you, anyway?"

"Just a guy who wanted ta make a difference one last time."

Turning slowly, Kyle was confused as he spoke. "Me? What's important about me?"

"Ya 'ave a full life ahead of ya now. Ya 'ave the chance at a career, a family... everythin' ya were denied as a child." George's smile was warm and full of hope.

Everything was making sense now. Knowing what he did about George while he was alive, he knew that George didn't just throw his support behind anybody. Maybe there was something grand and important in the years ahead. And if some Angel thinks I can make a run at life, I might as well give it my all. "Thank you." The words seemed so plain and simple, but they spoke volumes. It wasn't every day that a guy was handed a bright future from the depths of poverty and homelessness.

George began to fade from view, like the fog at dawn, when Kyle held up a hand to signal for the great man to wait a moment. "Where will you go?"

"Ah'll always be around, mate. Just look up."

Kyle glanced down to stop the tears. This was goodbye, then. "George---" He looked up again, and he was once more alone in the room. "You've given me so much." He mumbled. "But most of all, you gave me hope."

He walked over and threw open the hotel room window, glancing up into the clear starry night. "Smooth sailing. Rest in peace, old friend."

Months down the road, Kyle's band had, not only a record deal, but a #1 on the Pop Charts and a highly successful tour. Every time someone would ask him who his greatest inspiration was, he wouldn't give that person by name, but simply look up to the sky and wink. The public figured he was thinking of his long dead parents, but Matt, Jacob and Mark knew better. Somewhere up there, George Harrison was smiling down on them.

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