Skywriting -- Apr 09, 1998
Continued from Apr 08, 1998
John, all wounded by thjose streetcars, strat to think. And he thought a lot. Things were getting so out of hand, he'd give anything to be away from troubles. Away from band mates, Harry and all those god-be-damned streetcars. "Is there ANYWHERE in this world where I can hide?", he shouted. But the shout only echoed thru the hills. "hide...hide....hide....hide......"
"there might be a place", some voice said. "But it isn't in England. It isn't in Europe, this you can be sure.". "Then where?', John asked to the voice. "Choba CCCP, hon. Back to the USSR. They've been behind the Iron Curtain for so long, the russians barely know the Beatles. You'd find peace there." John thought it over. Moscow. Hmm...that wasn't such a bad idea. "Besides, there ain't streetcars in Russia", the voice said.
Then the voice got hit by an irate Moscowian streetcar.
"Agh!" the voice screamed, and then it was gone. But this was a good idea, John thought, and he badly needed a vacation. Love was a good thing, yes, but too much at once grew to be painful and irritating. John boarded the next flight out for Ukraine.
As it flew John reclined in his seat and sighed happily. "Aah," he sighed contentedly. "I wonder if I shouldn't just fly everybody else out here so I can stay." He dozed off at some point. When he woke up the plane was landing. He smiled. "Now it begins," he chuckled. "This is gonna be the best vacation of my life." The PA system crackled and sprung to life. "Ladies & gentlemen, welcome to the Ukraine. Streetcar-free since 1972." John laughed out loud. "Can it get any better than this?" he shrieked. He could hardly wait to begin his new life as just another working-class person, no more reknown than the next person.
John stepped off the plane. No fans, what a change from what his life had been in London and New York! He picked up his baggage and headed outside, only to find...
People! Huge crowds of screaming groupies! Russia HAD barely known the Beatles, for the sake of the Iron Curtain. They had been nearly 30 years behind the rest of the world. They were just now getting their first taste of real, free Beatlemania. And they were soaking it up as if they were dehydrated and music was cool water. John ran for the waiting taxi he had called in previously, only to find that the groupies here in Russia were much tougher and much more persistent than America and Britain put together. "I'm getting old!" John screamed at them. As one groupie (Helga) slammed her fist through the taxi window and reached for John, he squawked, "Lay off, please! I can't take much more of this!"
Helga reached for John. She finally darted forward and grabbed John by the nearest handle she could find, which happened to be his tie. Helga yanked the tie toward her. "AACK!" John choked. "You're choking me!" John's face flushed and began to turn a purplish shade. John struggled to get a breath. Finally (and John was eternally grateful for this) a tall, thin, dark-haired girl slapped Helga's hand. "Stop!" she screamed in Russian. "You're choking him, pig!" Helga squawked indignantly. "I am not!" She released John, who fell into the seat, gasping as the others tried to touch him.
As Helga and the other one were having it out in the Ukrainian street, John's taxi was roaring off to the bed and breakfast he was scheduled to spend the night at. In the middle of all this, he changed his mind and went back to the airport, fully intent on going back to New York. At least Beatlemania was already done with there.
"Don't go, John. You will find the death there", someone said to him. John wondered who could ever be that person. A child smiled to him at the front seat. "May God be damned - Luiza, you are alive!" . She smiled. "Sort of. And I know a place where you can stay. Warmer and safer than NYC, I can guarantee you.". She turned to the driver. "Go to the airport, spaciba ( please )." Once there, she handed him a ticket. "This plane goes to Ilha de Noronha. It's a tropical beach, in the coast of my country. you will find something to do there." He looked subdued. "And before you ask me, there ain't streetcars in Brazil. We never had." That was usfficient to John - he entered into the plane, going straight to the sun. Ilha do Noronha. Nice name. Might be a goiod place to be at.
Hmmm...John thought....someplace warm....his toes curled in pleasure at the very though. Think of all the reading he could get done...and swimming....all the swimming...that was the real fun...
Continued on Apr 10, 1998
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