The Girl Who Became a Beatle

by Greg Taylor

  That’s how it was with me. When I woke up with that image of the Hollywood Bowl in my head, I just knew I had to go there. And if I did, something important would happen.

  Something else I was pretty certain of when I got out of bed and started to get dressed: My Fairy Godmother had sent me that dream. I hadn’t tried to make contact with her since I’d arrived in L.A., but now I really wanted to. So I turned on my computer and logged on to www.wish-come-true.uni. Turns out all I had to do was click on the wishing well and up came a blank e-mail page, waiting for me to type in a message.

  I typed, “Why do you want me to go to the Hollywood Bowl?”

  I thought that was pretty clever. If she responded, I’d know that she had sent me the dream. If she didn’t write back, I was going anyway.

  There was no immediate reply, so I finished getting dressed, splashed some water on my face, and was putting on my jacket when …

  Bling!

  Fairy Godmother e-mail! It read:

  You figure it out, Regina. I can’t do all the work for you.

  What a sassy F.G.! At least, I knew I was right. Which meant going to the Bowl in the middle of the night wasn’t as crazy an idea as I might have thought. But what was going to happen there?

  Only one way to find out.

  26

  “Abernathy? It’s Regina.”

  Abernathy grunted a hello. I had considered calling a cab, but I didn’t want some anonymous guy driving me to the Bowl. Not at four a.m. But I did feel bad about waking Abernathy. “I’m sorry about the time, but you said I could call whenever I needed you. And I kinda need you.”

  “Be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Abernathy hung up. I couldn’t tell if he was upset or not about me waking him, so I went downstairs right away so he wouldn’t have to wait for me when he got to the hotel.

  I was standing outside the Sheraton, looking up and down the quiet Strip, when the white Hummer appeared. Abernathy pulled up to the curb in front of me. I opened the front passenger door and hopped inside.

  Abernathy’s face was blank. A mask. I couldn’t tell how he was feeling. “Where to, young lady?” Even his voice, normally so expressive, was flat, indecipherable.

  “Are you OK, Abernathy?”

  “Just tired.”

  “Sorry about that. I really appreciate…”

  Abernathy interrupted my sentence by raising his eyebrows, his expression asking the same question he had already asked. Where to, young lady?

  “The Hollywood Bowl.”

  Abernathy responded to that with a deadpan expression. Then he drove through the hotel’s circular driveway and pointed the limo down Sunset toward Highland Avenue. After a few blocks, Abernathy asked, “What’s at the Hollywood Bowl?”

  I thought carefully about my answer. Then I admitted, “I don’t know.” Abernathy pursed his lips. He was perplexed, of course. “I’m sorry, Abernathy. I just know I have to go there.”

  Abernathy didn’t say anything the rest of the way. Neither did I. It felt exciting and dangerous and clandestine, being out so late. Sunset Boulevard was pretty much deserted. I saw a few homeless people on the sidewalks, hunkered down for the night. I felt bad for them, of course. And weird, too. Here I was, in a mile-long Hummer. So I looked at them out of the corner of my eye, feeling embarrassed about traveling in such luxury.

  But then we were heading up Highland, and my stomach started to jump and squirm the closer we got to the Bowl. When Abernathy approached the Bowl driveway, he put on his turn signal. That must have been a habit, putting on that signal, because there was absolutely no traffic.

  After turning into the driveway, Abernathy drove a little ways before he was stopped by a security guard who sat next to a chain stretched across the driveway. It seemed kind of odd to me, a security guard at the Bowl in the middle of the night, especially considering that it was off-season. There weren’t any concerts scheduled for at least a couple of months.

  “She wants to do what?” the guard said after Abernathy had explained why we had come to the Bowl. The guard, whose head looked too big for his rather smallish body, stared at me with a comically quizzical expression on his rubbery face.

  “Just sit in the stands for a while,” I replied, in what I hoped was an innocent-enough tone.

  The guard looked at Abernathy, his expression asking, Is this girl nuts? Abernathy returned the silent communication, raising his eyebrows in a way that said, What could it hurt?

  The guard thought about my unusual request for quite a while. He looked me up and down. Gave Abernathy another quizzical look. Finally, he said, “You owe me, Abe,” and removed the chain.

  Abernathy, who I figured knew the guard from all of the times he’d driven people to the Bowl, saluted his friend and drove the limo slowly up a wide, concrete area that bordered one side of the Bowl.

  Suddenly, there it was. I got a tingling sensation right down my spine when I saw the famous half dome rising up in the dark. It looked like some kind of ancient monument. A Stonehenge of the musical universe.

  Abernathy parked the limo next to a hill covered by evergreen trees. He pointed to an area just to the right of the Bowl dome. “Hop over those turnstiles, walk up that ramp, take a left, and you’re there.”

  “Thanks, Abernathy.” I felt a sudden urge to kiss him before getting out, so I gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Go, will you,” he said, but his annoyed dismissal couldn’t hide the fact that he seemed pleased with my show of affection.

  I approached a turnstile and jumped over it. A sudden breeze blew through the trees, creating a mysterious whispering sound, a fitting sound track for my nocturnal visit. I walked toward the steep concrete ramp Abernathy had pointed out. To my right, a hill rose sharply. To my left was a high hedge that blocked any view of the Bowl. I walked up the ramp until I arrived at the first of several entrances to the amphitheater.

  I stopped before going in. Why was I here, again? What did I think was going to happen? I felt silly all of a sudden. You’re at the Hollywood Bowl in the middle of the night, Regina! What is wrong with you?!

  I reminded myself that my F.G. had sent me here. Have faith, girl. So I took a deep breath, walked on through the break in the high hedge, and …

  There it was. The Bowl.

  Maybe it was because it was the middle of the night and no one was there. Maybe the musical ghosts of all the performers who had played there hung around at this hour. Or maybe it was the almost-full moon, hanging up there in a cloudless sky, illuminating everything with its gorgeous, soft light. Whatever it was, the sight of the Bowl actually took my breath away.

  The place looked beautiful in its simplicity. The seats, curved wooden bleachers for the most part, rose steeply in a slowly widening V shape. The silhouettes of pine trees, at the top and on one side of the amphitheater, defined and emphasized its shape. That shape naturally pointed to the stage, with its extremely cool-looking, distinctive half-circle shell.

  I smiled at the sight in front of me. Even if nothing else happened, even if I was wrong about coming to the Bowl, just being at the place and absorbing the wonderful vibes would have made the trip worthwhile.

  After imprinting the sights and sounds and smells of the place on my brain for a few minutes, I walked slowly along a wide aisle that separated one section of the Bowl from another, higher-up section. I turned at the first set of concrete stairs and climbed up the steep incline until I was about halfway up the amphitheater. I chose a wooden bleacher seat and sat down. I couldn’t help but grin as I gazed at the stage.

  The Beatles had been here! It wasn’t difficult to picture them playing on those two warm August evenings almost fifty years ago.

  For one thing, I had read about the two concerts in a book called Ticket to Ride, written by a reporter who was there. This reporter recalled how much the Beatles enjoyed those concerts (something they were beginning not to do) largely because they could actually hear themselves play. Usually, the
y couldn’t hear themselves because the sound systems were pretty bad back then (the Bowl’s was very good, apparently) and their fans screamed too loud. So they gave spirited performances those two nights, which you can tell from their Live at the Hollywood Bowl album.

  So, yeah, between that book and the album and the tons of pictures and film footage of Beatlemania I’d seen, it was real easy to imagine what it must have been like, on those nights, being right in the thick of things.

  But then, something incredible happened. I still can’t believe it, even now as I write this. But it did. It totally did. So hold on tight. ’Cause you know what?

  It’s time for …

  27

  “JOHHHHNNN!!!!”

  “PAAUULLLLLL!!!!!!!”

  “GEORRRRRGE!!!!!!”

  “RINGOOOOOO!!!!!”

  Sitting shock-still, I stared in stunned surprise at the wall of girls who had appeared from out of nowhere and now surrounded me, a crying, screaming, leaping, grabbing-their-hair-and-reaching-out-toward-the-stage mass of human frenzy.

  I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. One moment I had been all alone in the Hollywood Bowl, the next … here I was.

  At a Beatles Hollywood Bowl concert!

  I was so blown away by my instantaneous trip through space and time that I hardly moved for what must have been several minutes. I remember reaching out at one point and touching the girl who stood in front of me. (Everyone was standing but me.) My hand didn’t go right through her, like I kind of expected. The girl was real.

  The wild tribal energy that throbbed around me eventually pulled me out of my stupefied state. That and the music.

  The music.

  It was unlike anything I had ever heard. I’ve spent tons of hours listening to music. I’ve been to a lot of concerts. But nothing prepared me for this.

  The music was so … immediate. So raw. So primal. It was like getting hit right in the gut. In a good way.

  “Well, she looked at me / And I, I could see / That before too long, I’d fall in love with her…”

  “I Saw Her Standing There.”

  Paul was singing “I Saw Her Standing There”! And all I had to do was stand on my seat, and I’d be able to see him.

  So that’s what I did.

  Carefully, slowly, I stood up. And let me tell you, when I stood on my seat and saw the Beatles on the stage of the Hollywood Bowl, I almost keeled over. Seriously. I had to grab on to the girl in front of me to prevent myself from falling.

  I mean, there they were!

  There was John, rooted to the stage in that cool, slightly bowlegged stance of his.

  There was Paul, more animated than his writing partner, smiling and flirting with the crowd as though we were all one big, beautiful woman.

  There was George, standing between Paul and John, looking somewhat amused by all the frenzy as he played his guitar and sang harmony with Paul.

  There was Ringo, high up on a platform behind his bandmates, moving his head back and forth in that cute way of his as he smiled at the sea of people who rose up in front of him.

  So, OK. Now I’m standing on my seat. Staring at the Beatles. But I still can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. I’m just a spectator, staring openmouthed like an idiot at the sight in front of me. I was part of the scene, but not in it, if you know what I mean.

  Until the girl next to me whacked me in the head when she lost her footing, tumbled off her seat, and sprawled on the concrete at my feet.

  I’ll be forever grateful to that girl, whoever she was. That sharp slap to my skull was like a cattle-prod-crack to my brain.

  Snap out of it, Regina! the blow announced. You’re here. Don’t think about it. Just enjoy!

  Before I knew what I was doing, my head started to bob in time to the music. My body started moving. I began to feel very, very warm. Then hot.

  It was a totally weird sensation, let me tell you. I felt like I was suddenly possessed. Not quite in control of myself.

  What on earth is going on here? I wondered.

  Well, that was obvious. One simple word described what I was feeling.

  BEATLEMANIA!!!

  But hold on. There was one last thing I had to do to join the club. And I did it.

  I screamed!

  I’d never screamed at a concert before. But after that first primal blast, I never let up. I shrieked nonstop, along with the rest of my Beatle soul mates.

  My god, how I loved those gals! (With their surprisingly long skirts—I thought everyone wore miniskirts back then—and their little rounded collars and their I LOVE THE BEATLES! buttons)

  We were all in this together, and for the next incredible half hour (that’s all the time the Beatles played for!), we jumped and yelled and reached out for the stage and hit each other and were in a totally blissed-out state.

  At one point, a girl two rows in front of me gave in to the hysteria, crumpled like a rag doll, and disappeared below the bobbing heads and waving arms.

  The girl behind me clutched my shoulders throughout the concert, probably to prevent herself from falling down in a Beatles-induced swoon.

  I didn’t faint myself, but by the end of the concert I had tears, real tears, in my eyes. How could I not? I had just heard the Beatles play “If I Fell” and “All My Loving” and “She Loves You” and about nine other songs. And man, were they good. Truly.

  Those guys could play. In the prime of their early rock ’n’ roll days—which is where they were when I saw them at the Bowl—they were an absolutely great live band.

  The whole experience was beyond wild. It was like being on another planet. Actually, it was more like being in …

  Heaven

  28

  As soon as that thought occurred to me—and it did, right in the middle of the Beatles’ final song, “Twist and Shout”—it was gone. All of it.

  The crowd.

  The Beatles.

  The music.

  As quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared, and I found myself standing on my bleacher seat in the middle of an empty amphitheater. I looked around in shock. I felt like a little girl who’d been deserted after an especially wild and wonderful party.

  Suddenly, I collapsed into a slumped sitting position on my wooden bleacher seat. I’d never screamed nonstop for half an hour before. It takes a lot out of you, let me tell you. I was drained. The muscles in my face hurt.

  Spaced and numbed out, I sat in the middle of all that silence, going over and over in my head what I’d just seen and heard and felt.

  “For my money, there has never been a better band.”

  I hadn’t seen Abernathy approach. But there he was, as if appearing out of nowhere, standing in the wide aisle that separated my seating section from the one below and staring at the now-empty stage.

  “Abernathy,” I said in a surprised tone. He just stood there, his back to me. Then it hit me. What he said. “Did you just say, ‘For my money, there has never been a better band’?”

  It took Abernathy a while, but he finally turned, walked up to where I was sitting, and plopped down next to me.

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  I let his reply sink in, then asked, “So you’re telling me you saw the Beatles just now?” Abernathy nodded. I studied Abernathy with a frown. He had the same shape. Same face. But he looked different somehow. Felt different. “What’s going on here?” I finally asked. “Who are you, Abernathy?” I was kinda scared at that point, to be honest.

  Abernathy didn’t answer at first. But then, with a reassuring smile, he said, “I’m your Fairy Godmother, Regina. Well, obviously I’m your Fairy Godfather. But girls tend to prefer Fairy Godmothers, so that’s usually what I e-mail them.”

  Can you believe that? I was totally blindsided by Abernathy’s revelation.

  “I didn’t tell you earlier because you needed to take this journey on your own. Figure things out on your own. Otherwise, none of this would have any meaning.”

>   I very quickly accepted that Abernathy was telling me the truth. And why not? Why would he lie about something like that? Besides, Abernathy now had this vibe about him. It felt … otherworldly, sitting next to him.

  So we just sat, silent, for a bit. The wind had stopped blowing through the trees and it was just so, so quiet. I was running a lot of things through my head. Things I wanted to ask Abernathy. I think Abernathy wanted me to ask those things, whatever they were. That’s the impression I got from him as he sat, silent as a Buddha, the warmth from his body reaching out and enveloping me, like an embrace.

  Then something occurred to me. It was like playing Rubik’s Cube, that kind of game, when all of a sudden, when you least expect it, bam. There you are, staring at six solid colors. This thought of mine was like that. Bam. All of a sudden. A six-solid-color revelation.

  “Wait a second, Abernathy.” He looked at me, slow and easy. “I know why you brought me here tonight.” Abernathy didn’t say a word. Just looked at me. “You want me to go back to Twin Oaks. You wanted me to see the Beatles, see how great they were.”

  “This journey isn’t about what I want, Regina. It’s about what you want. Rory from the Instigators is still here, isn’t he? And Trey? On the other hand, the new Bono decided to go home. They made up their own minds. I didn’t tell them what to do, one way or the other. As for tonight, I just wanted to treat you to a very special concert the night before you decide what you’re going to do.”

  “I already know what I’m going to do.”

  “Do you?”

  I knew I was in for it when Abernathy said that. I looked into his warm, wise, loving eyes and could tell that Abernathy … was all knowing. I could just feel that. And if that were the case, he knew everything I’d been thinking about and going through on my journey and he knew I had recently had some doubts about my decision to accept those Grammys and stay in L.A. They were just little hints of doubts, but they were there.