Beatlemania: Part two

This is the second part of a two-part story. To read the first part, click here.

“We used to date,” she replied matter-of-factly. My jaw dropped. He was easily 200 pounds heavier than my five-foot blonde friend. He also looked about twenty years older, but Sheryl always did have a different taste in men.

“I’m going to stay here with him,” Sheryl continued. “You don’t need me around anyway. Burt said to go straight through that door and you’ll walk down a long hallway to the green room. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them he sent you.”

I nodded nervously. It was up to me now.

Surprisingly, I faced very little opposition as I attempted to gain access to the green room. A few security guards gave me a once-over, but no one asked who I was or where I was going. Before I had a chance to process what was happening, I had turned a doorknob, opened a door, and found myself in the Beatles green room. And, it appeared that the Beatles had already arrived.

I couldn’t find Ringo, but Paul and John were telling a group of girls a story. There were about fifteen of them, and they were – of course – giggling uncontrollably. A number of other girls milled around the room, obviously waiting for their turn to attempt to capture the band members’ attention. Their presence didn’t matter to me, however, because sitting across the room, on a chair by himself, was George.

It was game time. I only had one chance to make a fantastic first impression, and it was imperative that George find me beautiful, charming and impossible to ignore immediately. If I made one wrong move, my chance could be lost and my entire life would be ruined.

Smoothing my hair, I slowly floated across the room. Butterflies were flying around in my stomach, and my legs felt like rubber. If I stopped walking, I knew I’d abandon my task. Despite the wave of fear slowly rising through my body, I forced myself to keep moving.

George had a beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He was slouched carelessly on the armchair. His head was back, his eyes closed. He looked relaxed. And gorgeous. There was another chair directly across from him, and I slowly lowered myself onto it.

He didn’t say anything or open his eyes as I arranged myself carefully on the chair. He also didn’t move when I gently said his name. It took three tries, two sighs and one throat clearing for him to finally look at me. His hazel eyes were slightly cloudy and unfocussed, and I realized immediately that George Harrison was quite drunk.

He squinted at me, took a sip of his beer and a drag of his cigarette. “Who are you luv?” he said with a slight slur. His Liverpool accent was heavy and almost impossible to understand. “I don’t know you.”

“Hello George,” I replied promptly. I had been rehearsing exactly what I would say for the last three days, and I had the script completely memorized in my mind.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time,” I continued, careful that I didn’t sound overly needy or obsessed. “You’re my favourite Beatle, and I absolutely love your music. You’re great. You’re better than great! You’re fantastic. Really. I wish I could play the guitar.”

“U huh. Thanks luv. ” George smiled politely at me and casually looked around the room. He took another sip of his beer and flicked ashes from his cigarette onto the floor.

I smiled brightly – just as I had practiced in the mirror at home – and leaned forward, giving him a perfect view down the front of my dress. I also crossed my legs, but ensured I lifted my skirt slightly in the process, exposing my legs. George raised his eyebrow, but said nothing.

“So…” I began slowly. “Do you want to go somewhere and… talk?”

George laughed. “We’re talking now.”

“I know, I know.” I giggled, a high-pitched, practiced giggle. “But I mean… really talk. You know?”

“I’m good here luv. Thanks though.”

“Are you sure? We could… go somewhere…. Now.”

“I don’t think so. Not today.”

Silence. Oh crap. What should I say next? I hadn’t thought this far ahead, so I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“I love you.”

George forced a smile. “Thank you. I love my fans.”

I sensed that I might be losing control of the conversation. Both my common sense and my female intuition were telling me to stop talking, but I simply couldn’t force my lips to stop moving. This was my chance. My one chance. I had to convince him to love me.

“I’m not just a fan. I really, really love you. I came here for you, George.”

“That’s great luv. I’m glad to meet you. Excuse me.” Without warning, George stood up and started to walk away. I jumped up frantically.

“Wait!” I shouted shrilly. George stopped, and turned to look at me. “Don’t leave! Let’s go somewhere, talk more, something… But you can’t just leave! I’ve been waiting for months to meet you.”

George sighed impatiently. “Well, we’ve met now. I’ll see you around.”

“Stop!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Stop!” A number of people in the room were looking at me, and I could see two security guards walking in my direction. I didn’t care.

“Stop, George.” I was pleading now. My dignity was gone. The security guards reached me, and one grabbed my arm. Gently, yet forcefully, they started to lead me towards the door. George was watching me, a look of disappointment on his face. I couldn’t understand it. Why didn’t he love me?

“Geoooorrrgggeeee……” I bellowed. We reached the door. It was opened, I was unceremoniously thrown out, and it was closed loudly behind me. I was left in the hallway, humiliated and alone.

I couldn’t stop the tears that began to form in my eyes and fall down my cheeks. A part of me half expected George to rush out of the green room and console me. He didn’t. Blindly, I started to run down the hallway. I needed to get away, and anywhere was better than where I was.

Pushing open a heavy, metal door, I found myself in the parking lot. I sat down on the pavement. My heart was broken. It had only taken a moment, but my life was over. There was no way I would ever recover.


About Amanda Hope

Communications professional. Book lover. History nerd. Runner. Tea drinker. Musician. Proud 'Pegger.
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