I was going home with my fellows. That was not odd. We used to go out together and, as we lived on the same street, we moved home togehter too. Riding in front was Austin Powers (real name: Austin O'Higgins), driving, and Lily (real name: Margaret Thompson). I was on the back with Mop Top (real name: Charles Harrison) and Reg (real name: Reginald Berenstein). The impossible quintet from Menlove Avenue. We were what was called a tough go. Studing at the same school - the School of Performing Arts of Liverpool, also known as LIPA, also known as Shrine (for reasons nobody knew very well), we've been together since the grammar school. I guess I knew all thier secrets, as they knew mine. There couldn't be a closest group.
Lily turned on the radio. We weren't in a lucky day - it was hazy, and cold, and Reg was with a broken arm and Mop Top was moody was it could be. So she tunred on the radio and the music played on: The long and winding road that leads to your door...It wasnt'welcome.
"Lily, turn this off!", pleaded Mop Top. "This strings make me sick!"
"Now you are exxagerating!", I said. "It's a lovely song"
"Certainly - but Phil Spector could die for the production he did on it. Beatles in 101 strings. That is awful", said Austin, looking behind.
"Powers, look to the road!", we shouted when we saw a shadow moving in front of the car. A thump could be heard. Damn out, we hit someone!, I thought.
"Jesus Mary and Joseph, what was that?", asked Reg.
"I ran over someone!", shouted Austin, in despair.
"Stop the car, stop the car!", shouted Lily. Austin stopped and we alll left it. He had ran over a man. We came to help him - that was the least thing we shoud do!
It has a guy in the middle twenties, not very good-looking (he had a nose that could come before him when entering a room), moaning with his eyes wide shut.
"Sir? Are you alright, sir?", asked Powers.
"I don't...really think so!", the man gasped, in a voice that had more accent than any of ours. He opened up his eyes and then I was the one hit there at the road. Blue eyes looking to me, asking for help. Helpless blue eyes. Like mine. I felt like looking to a mirror, and seeing a image of my eyes in pain.
"What's yer name, sir?", asked Austin, kneeling near the guy ( and seeing that his leg was terribly hurt. )
"It's Richard. But nobody calls me like that.", was his answer. When I saw the hands of the man was when I had the first idea of who he was.
So many rings in so few fingers! Looks like Ringo Starr!, I thought. But there couldn't really be him - as far as we were concerned, the drummer of the Beatles was 57, and he wasn't living at the island anymore.
"Ritchie, are you alright?", shouted a voice behind us. Richard managed to shout: "No I am not! Someone ran over me!"
The owner of the voice came after us. I took a look and almost fainted. If that one laid on the road wasn't really Richard Strakey, MBE, then I was having a Beatle-hallucination. 'Cause in front of us, much to everyone's surprise, was George Harold Harrison, looking not a day over 25! Lily - an all-time fan of that guy - look stoned. Who wouldn't be?
"Oh, what have you done to him?"
"He crossed the street as a mad chap, that's all he has done!", gasped Austin. "Alright, my fault too. I wans't even paying attention to the road."
"Oh, God, what a mess.", Reg sighed. "C'mon, we can't leave him in the middle of this mess. Is there anyone else with you, sir?", he turned to George.
"There is. Our car is broken and he ( he pointed to Ringo ) was searching for help."
"You'll really need it now. Wait here, and call whoelse is waiting. I'll bring up my car here. Reg! Gimme a lift, fella!"
When Mop Top and Reg left away, I dared to look to Ringo once again. And once again that starnge feeling of seeing my own eyes in someone else's face hit me. It was scary.
A pound for the one who guesses who was he.
"Blue Eyes, are you seeing what I am seeing?", asked Reg, as we enetered the car.
"Yes I am, boy. Paul, Ringo and George! The Beatles, if I am not mistaken."
"Well, couldn't be the Rolling Stones!", he said. It was his all-time motto when anyone said anything about the Fab Four - in this case, Fab Three.
"John's not with you?"
"No.", was George's answer. As simple as that. As all the times when I remember of Lennon, a date corssed my head: 8/12/80. Amen. Your queen is dead, your king is thru, he's not coming back to you. My childhood memory. I don't recall where did I listen to that, but time in time it returns to me.
I don't recall who turned on the radio, but someone didi it. Another song, another band: Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste, I've been around for a long, long year, Stole many a man's soul and faith...
I felt something strange. It was like the singer was inside the car.
And talking about the car... I could hear the noise of it breaking down for sure - gladly, in front of my house.
"Well, that does it", said Mop Top "This thing won't move a inch further We'd better hop off."
And so we did. Austin's car stopped just before us. "We better move inside, or we will freeze.", someone said.
That's when all the thing started. A voice could be heard very loud, over all our heads.
"Moppie, the radio is off!"
"Then what the hell?"