Beatlemania

I grew up during the Age of Beatlemania, when that great band, the Beatles, took the world by
storm. That age is also called by other names, like the Age of Peace and Love, The Great Hippie
Uprising, or even the Age of Ruin, but for me the age was defined by the Beatles because of the
impact they had not just on me but on the entire world. A mania is usually considered a kind of
madness and that’s exactly what it was, as though the young people of the world had contracted a
virus that made them scream and spasm at just the sight of the Beatles.

Not that I did any of those things. It was mostly girls who did all the screaming and yelling,
perhaps because the music connected directly with their genital organs, thus giving them an
orgasmic jolt. This didn’t happen in the case of men, who usually need either direct stimulation
of the penis or visual cues to become aroused, so we were content to just tap our foot or perhaps
wiggle our leg a little bit.

Nevertheless, I fell in love with the Beatles from the first moment I heard them. I remember I
was in fifth grade when one of my classmates asked me, “Have you heard of the Beatles?” I said,
“Beetles? What beetles?” I thought he was referring to the little bugs you saw outside in the
garden. But he showed me an article he had put up on the bulletin board about a musical group
that was making waves across the ocean in a land called Britain, or perhaps the United Kingdom,
or England. All I really knew at that time was that we’d had a revolution to get away from that
country but now we liked them again and here they were sending musical sounds our way.

And then I heard the music. The first song I heard was probably that instant classic, “I Want to
Hold Your Hand.” I’m sure everybody knows how it goes, for it is a song that, by now, is
branded in the collective unconscious of the human race or at least the human who grew up in
the 1960’s. Today, the lyrics might seem a little dumb, but that was characteristic of early rock
and roll, which wouldn’t become insufferably pretentious until the psychedelic era, when the
drugs became more powerful and the rock musicians consequently started to confuse themselves
with Druids or Feudal Lords or Creatures of Darkness and Light.

It wasn’t the lyrics we cared about anyway. It was the music. It contained something that we
had never heard before and flowed into our bodies like an electric current, waking us up after
years of being comatose. I immediately started snapping my fingers and shaking my leg. I’d say
to people, “Hey, how about those Beatles?” Usually, though, the question was met with a blank
stare, because most of the people in my hometown of Crapton were not in tune to the blowing
winds of the new zeitgeist as I was.

Then the Beatles arrived in America and the whole country started to wake up to the fact that
something new and momentous was happening. This was, by the way, right after the
assassination of perhaps our greatest and certainly most virile president, John F. Kennedy, who
we believed would be the savior of our nation. But then, on that fateful in Dallas, Texas, he was
shot in the head, crushing our hopes. Soon after, however, the Beatles arrived, while the nation
was practically still in mourning. Could this have been just a coincidence?

The death of John F. Kennedy had thrown us into a the depths of despair, as we thought that now
things would never change but the music of the Beatles lifted us back up, proclaiming that the
new zeitgeist would not be short-circuited so easily.

The Beatles not only captivated the world with their music but also shocked it with their
hairstyles, which might look quaint today but at the time were considered a threat to Western
civilization. For it must be remembered that we were just emerging from the 1950’s, which was
known as the Great Age of Conformity. This was a time when Americans were required to think
and act all the same and assume an appearance as bland as possible as a way of resisting the
communists.

But the Beatles changed all that. They arrived like a force of nature, without any Brylcreem in
their hair. The reason the status quo, also known as “The Establishment”, was so upset about
this was, of course, because hair has always had a mythical and metaphorical importance. For
Samson, it was the source of his power. For the rest of us, it makes a statement about our social
and political and even sexual values. In short, it has a lot to say as it sits there on top of your
head.

I really wanted to be like the Beatles, especially John Lennon, who was nearsighted like me. He
was considered the “smart” Beatles, because he wrote books, even though they were unreadable.
I wanted to have a Beatle hairstyle but my mother kept making me get my hair cut at Nate the
Barber, who didn’t actually know how to cut hair, but I had to go to him because he was cheap.
This was why I looked like I looked semi-retarded throughout much of my childhood. I wanted
to have long hair and wear strange-looking clothes and talk in a foreign accent. I had no idea
why I wanted to do these things but while in the grip of Beatlemania, it seemed perfectly natural.

The first time I saw the Beatles perform was on the old Ed Sullivan show. Man, that Ed
Sullivan, he was a tall drink of water with his rounded shoulders, big jaw (which he often
rubbed), and his weird way of talking. It was hard to figure out how Old Ed had become famous
because he wasn’t good looking and he didn’t have any talent but it was the kind of an age when
even untalented people could rise to great heights.

As the Beatles broke into the opening chords of “I Want to Hold Your Hand”, I sat in front of the
TV clutching my stomach and rocking back and forth. This is, apparently, behavior typical of
autistic children but fans of the Beatles also reacted this way. Perhaps there was a sexual
element involved. It was, after all, still a sexually repressed era. Often when you are sexually
repressed, your body will try to find some way to relieve the sexual tension, so you might, for
example, have the urge to grasp your stomach, in lieu of actually grasping your sexual organs,
and rock back and forth, or furiously pull on your fingers, or even, perhaps, rub your crotch
against a tree, which can be construed as a means of sublimated masturbation.

It seems that the sonic vibrations produced by the Beatles somehow stimulated the sexual
response, which is a big reason the adult world was so afraid of them. It doesn’t seem like a
coincidence anyway that the Beatles ushered in the Age of Sexual Liberation, when a tsunami of
unrestrained libido washed across the world.

From the first time I saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
Even though I wasn’t yet twelve at the time, the fog of confusion that had engulfed me up until
then vanished the moment the Beatles threw back their heads and went “Ooooh!”. A path took
shape before my eyes, one that I believed I was destined to follow.

It’s very important that you have a path in life and the sooner you can find it, the better off you
will be because without a path, your life will lack direction. You’ll just be wandering in the
wilderness with no idea where you’re going or what you’re doing. In short, it’s impossible to
make progress in life without a path. This is also called, by the way, “finding yourself,” which
was another big theme of the 1960’s. The young people wanted to find themselves because they
thought that human beings had a phony social self and an authentic self and you could never be
real until you found out what that authentic self was. Otherwise, you’d be just a phony like most
of the adults.

But in order to find yourself, you had to first find your path in life. And my path was to become
a rock and roll star. Unfortunately, just about every other young male who watched the Beatles
on Ed Sullivan seemed to come to the same conclusion. This would give rise to a generation of
baby boomers who all wanted to be rock stars.

I begged my parents to buy me a guitar so I could commence my musical journey, but they
refused, not for any reason, but just on general principle. Often, it seemed to me that they were
trying to block my development rather than foster it. When I asked my mother if I could have a
guitar, she replied: “Why don’t you ask Santa? Maybe he’ll bring you one.”

She was being sarcastic, of course. Santa wasn’t going to bring me a guitar. I was twelve years
old and hadn’t believed in Santa in years. I hadn’t even liked Santa when I was younger. My
mother had forced me to sit in his lap in ill-smelling department stores even though I didn’t want
to. Moreover, I rarely got what I wanted for Christmas, so the idea that my parents might
actually buy me a guitar was out of the question. Why, just the year before, I had asked for a
tennis racquet and I had gotten a sweater and two pairs of pants. What kind of Christmas
presents were those? I was dumbfounded.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any money, so I couldn’t buy a guitar myself. All I could afford
was a cheap harmonica, which was a small consolation, because John Lennon also played the
harmonica. I would go down to the woods and play with all my might, tapping my foot and
shaking my leg, even jumping up and down sometimes. A little booklet came with it and I
learned how to play songs like “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,”
which I played in a rock and roll style.

Then I had a stroke of good luck, as my Aunt Winnie told me that she had an old guitar I could
have. I was ecstatic. I thought that finally my luck was changing. Unfortunately, Winnie’s
guitar turned out to be almost a piece of junk. Two of the strings were broken, the wood was
gouged in places, the neck was warped, and somebody had carved his initials in the back. But it
was a guitar! That was the important point. I had taken my first step in my journey along the
path.

You always have to expect to encounter obstacles in life. It’s in overcoming them that we not
only make progress but also verify that the path we’re on is the right one for us. The obstacles
are like tests of your desire and, as everyone knew, God likes to test you. That’s what I had
learned in church anyway.

So I put new strings on the guitar and tried sanding the body and putting some shellac on it,
although that didn’t really improve the appearance much. Clearly, my woodworking skills left a
lot to be desired, which was no surprise since nobody had ever taught me anything.

Then I formed my first band – well, it was my only band actually – with Willy Bell, who also
loved the Beatles with all his heart and soul. Willy was an outcast at school, mainly because he
lived near the town dump, so it was guilt by association. It didn’t help matters that his clothes
didn’t fit or that he wore glasses with big black frames and had orange hair that stuck up all over
the place. But, then again, I was no fashion plate myself. I also wore glasses and my clothes
didn’t fit either because my mother insisted on buying them too big for me so I could “grow into
them.”

Besides, I couldn’t find anybody else to be in a band with, so Willy would have to do. He was a
quiet kid and we had never really talked much at school, but we became friends when I happened
to run into him at the dump, where we both had a habit of going in order to search for items of
value. In fact, I was hoping I might come across a guitar there better than the one Winnie had
given me, but I never did.

As we were talking, we discovered that we were both crazy about the Beatles – and not only that
but Willy had found a snare drum at the dump. It was in bad shape, but he had fixed it up with
glue and tape so he could play it. It made a sound like a drum anyway.

Since I had a guitar and he had a drum, it was only natural that we would decide to form a band.
I was going to be the guitarist, lead singer, harmonica player, and song writer, because I was
multi-talented, and Willy was going to play the drums and sing harmony when necessary. In the
meantime we would try to find a bass player and also another guitarist, because the Beatles had
two guitarists.
What we lacked in equipment, we made up for in enthusiasm. I was at an age where I still
believed that if you wanted something bad enough, you would eventually get it. Look at the
Beatles, for instance. It took them years to become famous. Why, they were already in their
twenties before they had their first hit. But they never gave up.

Willy and I would practice on a little bluff at the edge of the woods overlooking the dump. The
smell wasn’t all that great, but we could make as much noise as we wanted because there was no
one around to care. By this time, I had learned a few chords and even written a couple of songs.
We also played songs by the Beatles, of course, but our own versions, because we couldn’t
figure out how to play the original versions.

We went on like that for about six months but, I have to say, we really weren’t making much
progress. As I expected, I didn’t get a guitar for Christmas, because, my mother said, I already
had one. I was saving up the money I got on my birthdays or for doing chores but it wasn’t
much and guitars were expensive. Willy was trying to sell things he found at the dump in order
to raise money for a real drum kit but that wasn’t working out either.

Then we got in a fight one day. I don’t even remember what it was about, but we started
shouting and calling each other names. After that we didn’t see each other for a while. I kept on
trying to learn how to play the guitar. I used to go down in the woods and sit under a tree just
like Johnny B. Goode in the Chuck Berry song. But I didn’t really have much in the way of
talent or ability or even inspiration. Mainly, I just operated on the basis of persistence. Once I
made up my mind about something, I would usually continue, believing I could become good at
something just through force of will. I had decided that music was going to be my way of life
and I wasn’t going to give up.

It was the summer and the days were long and boring, especially since I had no one to play with
now. I stayed out of the house as much as possible, but I really had nowhere to go except the
woods since I was avoiding the dump so I wouldn’t accidentally run into Willy. Nevertheless, I
thought we would end up getting back together. It seemed inevitable. After all, neither one of us
had much of a chance of forming a band with anyone else. So this was our only option. I wasn’t
even sure we could find two more people to play with us so we could have a band like the
Beatles. We might be forced to have Willy take up the guitar and become a folk-singing duo like
Simon and Garfunkel. Either that or I would have to try to make it as a solo artist, but for that I
would probably have to change from rock and roll to folk singing. It certainly was a dilemma.

Then Willy died. Boy, was that ever a kick in the head. This was the first time I became
intimate with death, so to speak. The only person I had known who had died before this had
been my Great Aunt Agnes, who I had only met once. My father took my brother and me to visit
her at the hospital just before the end. She was sitting up in bed looking confused. I was
confused, too. I didn’t know who this person was. Then a few weeks later, my parents had to go
to the funeral. “Your Great Aunt Agnes died,” my mother said.
Of course, John F. Kennedy also died. His death was certainly a blow but I can’t say I was close
to him. In fact, I never met him. So it was more of a communal than a personal shock. But I
was friends with Willy. We didn’t get along that well but, nevertheless, we were walking the
same path together. Well, we had been anyway, before we had our blow up.

And now that rupture would never be repaired. Our dream was squashed because Willy no
longer existed. This is the strangest aspect of death, that someone who existed, who was real and
live and tangible in the world, is completely gone. You look around for him and he is nowhere
to be found. If a mosquito gets killed, you don’t really care. In fact, you’re happy to squash it
out of existence without a second thought. But a human being was something else. They were
big and often noisy and had possessions and wore clothes so the idea that they could suddenly
completely disappear from the world was disconcerting.

His body still remained, however, or his corpse, as it was now called, but whatever it was that
constituted Willy no longer existed and never would again. Possibly he existed somewhere else,
his essence or his soul, but, to be honest, I had my doubts. Although most people pretended to
believe in God and the afterlife, nobody wanted to die, which seemed strange. Death shouldn’t
matter that much if you were sure you were going someplace better. Of course, if you were
going to go to hell it was a different matter but nobody believes they’re going to hell. And yet
they don’t want to go to heaven and be with God either.

Besides, you don’t see many signs of the after-life in the world around you. I never saw a ghost.
No spirits ever appeared before me. Even Jesus refused to reveal himself. If there was a
spiritual world, it was well hidden from me.

I found out about Willy’s death by accident. It was the summer, so we were on vacation from
school. I happened to be down at Red’s Five and Ten, a moldy variety store run by an ogre
nicknamed Red because of his red hair. Red didn’t like kids. He liked our money, though. He
would take that willingly enough but he didn’t want us hanging around. If you went in the store
and stood there for a moment without doing anything, he would suddenly appear and say, “Are
you here to buy something or are you just taking up space?” Unfortunately, this was about the
only place to buy a comic book or candy bar in downtown Crapton.

As I was leaving the store, I ran into Kenny Drinker. He said, “Hey, did you hear that Willy Bell
died?”

I said, “What?”

He said, a little louder: “I said Willy Bell died last night. You know Willy Bell, the weird kid
with the orange hair? He’s dead.”

“You’re kidding.”
He was taken aback. “Why would I kid about something like that? I didn’t even like Willy Bell.”
Then he shook his head and walked away.

The odd thing was that Kenny was smiling when he told me Willy had died. Or, at least, I
thought he was smiling. In looking back, I can see that I might, conceivably, have misconstrued
the expression on his face, particularly since I had no previous experience with death or death
announcements. But I thought he was making the kind of perverse joke so common among
children, when they try to fool you into believing something stupid so you’ll look stupid too.
After all, it didn’t seem possible that Willy could really be dead. I had just seen him a couple of
weeks ago and he had been an alive and vibrant human being. Well, as vibrant as Willy ever
was. He didn’t really have what you would call a lively personality. But he had been living and
breathing anyway. There was no doubt about that.

And yet, in reality, he was dead. It was the truth. The story I heard was that he had come down
with a fever in the evening that had shot up in the middle of the night. His parents took him to
the local hospital in the next town, but the doctors there didn’t know what do, so they decided to
rush him by ambulance to Children’s Hospital in Boston, but he died on the way.

To be honest, I didn’t really know how to respond to his death. I felt that I should have feelings
that I didn’t seem to have. I felt empty more than sad, or, more accurately, I would say I felt
displaced, as though I was living in some alternative reality. Later on, when I studied the stages
of grief at college, I could see that I might have been in the stage called “denial.” I was, in fact,
often in denial about a lot of things. I certainly can’t say that I was in touch with my feelings
anyway.

But I wanted to be sad. I felt it was necessary. I took my guitar and I went down in the woods
and I wrote a song for Willy. In fact, I called it “Song for Willy.” I still remember it even
though I haven’t played it in decades.
Oh, Willy, you went down in flames, hula hula, hula hula
Burning up with fever ‘til it damaged your brain, hula hula, hula hula
I’m so sorry about the things I said
I never knew you’d end up dead, hula hula, hula hula

Life is never what it seems to be

It twists and turns and ends in tragedy
There’s nothing you can do to change the facts
I can’t understand and I can’t go back, hula hula, hula hula

Now, I’m not saying this was a great song, especially the hula hula part. I don’t know where
that came from. Maybe the hula hoop was in fashion then. But, come on, what do you expect
from a twelve year old. Personally, I think it showed potential. I had a tune to go with it, too,
kind of mournful but also fast-paced with a rock and roll beat.
I decided not to go to the funeral because I didn’t like death. I didn’t like to think about it and I
certainly didn’t want to see it in the flesh. My mother never mentioned Willy’s death. I’m not
sure she even knew who he was. She certainly didn’t know we were friends because I had never
mentioned him or brought him over to the house. In fact, I don’t think I ever introduced any of
my friends to my parents. On the old TV shows like “Leave It to Beaver”, the kids would
always bring their friends home and the mother would serve them milk and cookies. But that’s
not how it really was. In reality we avoided adults as much as possible.

Somehow, I ended up at the funeral anyway. It was held at the Catholic Church one morning in
August. I had definitely decided not to go but after breakfast I slipped out of the house and
began wandering around. Somehow I ended up outside the church. A priest spotted me and said,
“Hurry up and get inside. It’s already starting.”

Organ music was playing. I sat in the back in the last pew. There were quite a few people there
including most of my classmates, which surprised me, because Willy hadn’t been very popular.
But it was a small town and a death like this was rare, so I suppose people felt obliged to attend.
Most of the men and even some of the children were dressed formally in suits. I was the only
one in play clothes.

His parents sat in the first pew. Naturally, they were dressed in black. I had seen Mr. Bell
around town sometimes but I’d never spoken to him. This was the first time I’d seen Mrs. Bell.
She was crying but his father was sitting with his back straight and his head up.

I don’t remember much about what happened but when it was over and most of the people had
left, I crept up to the casket that had been laid out in front of the alter. Willy was also dressed in
a suit, although he didn’t have any choice in the matter. I hardly recognized him. He looked
like a manikin. Even his hair had been tamed. It must have been slicked down with some kind
of gel and looked pale yellow rather than the usual orange. His face was shiny like wax and his
cheeks were red, the color of apples. Willy’s cheeks had never been red.

I had a desperate urge to lay hands on him and try and raise him from the dead just like Jesus had
done with Lazarus. Only I knew I couldn’t. I wasn’t Jesus. I didn’t have the power to heal
anybody. All I could do was whisper to Willy that I was sorry. I was sorry I had fought with
him, sorry I had said the things I’d said, sorry he was dead. I was just so damn sorry.

After that, I walked around in a daze for a while. Well, I often walked around in a daze but I was
in even more of a daze than usual. Something seemed to have changed in my life, which was
true, of course, because I had lost my best friend. But I had never really thought of Willy as my
best friend, even though we had played together in that stupid band several times a week,
probably because he wasn’t popular and looked funny and had strange habits, like the weird
dance he used to do sometimes for no reason. In other words, we were a lot alike. That was
what I didn’t want to admit. But I missed him like a best friend.
The next year the Beatles came to America for what was to be their last tour, although nobody
knew that at the time. In New England, they were going to play Suffolk Downs, a racetrack.
This seemed like an odd choice but the reason, of course, was money. You could cram more
people into the race track than you could at the Boston Garden, which is where they had played
previously. Evidently, they must have thought that it didn’t matter that the sound would be
terrible since you could hardly hear the music at a Beatle concert anyway over all the screaming.

Yes, the girls were still screaming. It’s remarkable when you think about it. It had been over
two years since the Beatles had first touched down in America. They were now launching their
third tour and had made numerous TV appearances and two movies and yet the screaming had
not yet abated in the least. I remember going to see “A Hard Day’s Night” at the St. George
movie theater. The girls screamed there as well. They were screaming at a movie screen. I got
in a fight with a fat girl sitting next to me who kept hitting me with her elbow. That had nothing
to do with the Beatles but it sticks in my mind anyway.

You have to think that the screaming would have died down somewhat by now but, if anything,
it had intensified, which makes me think that it had become detached from the music. Originally,
the screaming had been an involuntary response to the impact of the sonic vibrations but now the
orgasm had become an end in itself. You went to a Beatles concert to scream. You didn’t
scream because of what the music did to you. That’s my take on it. This would have been
considered a case of possession in the past.

I never had the urge to orgasm or scream but I think I was looking for a religious experience. It
might seem odd that I would associate the Beatles with religion but in my mind they were both
about transformation. And that’s what I was looking for. I wanted to become something
different. I just didn’t know how to do it so I was hoping some external agent would provide the
means.

The Beatles were a powerful force, so it was easy to confuse that with the power of
transformation. Therefore, I thought if I could only get close to them that it would change my
life in some way.

Thus, I saw this as a pilgrimage. As it happened, the Beatles were going to perform on the one-
year anniversary of Willy Bell’s death. So I could do this for Willy as well, as a way of
remembering him, even though, frankly, I didn’t really think about Willy that much anymore.
We tended to think that kids get over things quickly. We called it “resilience.” I thought I was
resilient. Now, I’m not so sure.

I didn’t bother ask my parents if I could go to see the Beatles, because I knew that they would
say no. I was thirteen years old. It was not going to be easy getting to Suffolk Downs. The
town of Crapton didn’t have any buses, for one thing. That’s the way American suburbia was a
the time. There was almost no public transportation, which was a way of supporting the car
industry. I didn’t have a car, however. I had a bicycle but it was obvious that I couldn’t bicycle
all the way to Suffolk Downs.

I didn’t have a ticket either but I still had a stubborn faith in God or some higher power anyway,
so I thought that if I managed to make it all the way to the concert, I’d find some way to get
inside. God would help me. I was sure of it. He hadn’t given me much help up to this point in
my life but maybe He was just waiting for the right moment so the impact would be all the
greater.

I almost lost my nerve at the last minute. It was like I was heading off into the uncharted
wilderness, only without adequate supplies and with no companions. I had no idea what I was
going to find out there. Perhaps I’d never return. There was no telling. I didn’t really see the
world as a friendly place. The idea of throwing myself on the kindness of strangers never
occurred to me.

But I felt that I had a point to prove, even if I didn’t know what it was, so I left right after supper,
slipping quietly out of the house. Nobody noticed. I was probably going to get in a lot of trouble
when they found out I was gone but that was the least of my concerns. If I could only catch a
glimpse of the Beatles, it would be worth whatever punishment I was forced to suffer.

First, I rode my bike to the bus station over in the next town. That took a lot longer than I
expected. Then I had to wait for the bus, which took me to Boston. From the bus station, which
was in a pretty seedy part of town, I next had to find my way to the subway. Then I had to make
a transfer and finally I ended up at the station for Suffolk Downs. But my journey still wasn’t
over. Now, I had to take a shuttle bus.

The concert was supposed to start at 8 or 8:30 or so but I got lost a couple of times and arrived an
hour late. However, it didn’t matter because the Beatles hadn’t gone on yet. I was elated that I
had arrived at all. I felt a real sense of accomplishment. I could hear music filtering out from
inside the race track. Well, I could hear noise anyway. I couldn’t really tell what was being
played.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get in. There were police and security guards all over the place
and this hadn’t yet became the Age of Rebellion, so although there were quite a few other
teenagers hanging around who didn’t have tickets, we didn’t know how to organize or crash the
gates effectively. I walked all around looking for a way in but I couldn’t find one. I begged a
ticket taker to let me in but he told me to get lost. I thought if I could jump the gate I might be
able to outrun the guards but there were so many of them I didn’t want to chance it.

So I wasn’t able to bask in the presence of the Beatles and my life wasn’t transformed. The
radiance of their magnificent power didn’t reach me out there in the parking lot. I heard them
playing but it was mainly just noise and screaming. Then I latched on to a group of kids who
decided to head over the hotel where the Beatles were staying. One of them was a girl named
Cindy. She was Chinese or Asian-looking anyway, thin with long black hair and glasses. She
was a couple of years older than I was and had breasts and everything – not big breasts, but
Asian-sized breasts. Actually, I had never met an Asian before, because there weren’t any living
in Crapton and I was immediately enchanted.

I remember she said, “If only I could meet the Beatles, I’m sure my life would change.” Wow,
those were my sentiments exactly! Clearly, the two of us thought alike and so fate must have
brought us together. Naturally, I thought I was in love, mainly because she was female and
talked to me as though I was a human being. I wasn’t used to that kind of treatment.

We arrived at the hotel, which had a huge crowd of kids in front. It was obvious there was no
way we were going to get in. Nevertheless, some of the kids tried every avenue possible. One
even carried a potted plant and claimed he was making a delivery but that didn’t work. Others
searched for secret entrances, unprotected windows, any nook or cranny that might you might be
able to squeeze through.

But all to no avail. Security was too tight. There were police on horses, men in blazers with
walkie-talkies, and even fake cab drivers spying on the crowd. We stood outside in the
dampness. It wasn’t raining but it felt like it was going to. We sang the songs of the Beatles
while looking at the endless rows of windows above us, hoping that of these newly arisen gods
might suddenly appear and favor us with his presence. We didn’t care which one. We even
would have settled for George or Ringo.

And we prayed. We formed a circle, clasping our hands together, and turning our eyes towards
the heavens while one of the members of the group led the prayer. We thought we could use the
power of group prayer to compel the Beatles to appear. Meanwhile, it kept getting later and the
trains had stopped running, so there was no way I could get home even if I wanted to. It looked
like this was going to be an all-night vigil.

Then a man came out of the hotel. He was kind of short and stocky and wearing a suit and
sunglasses even though it was practically the middle of the night. He pointed at Cindy and a
couple of other girls and when they approached him, he said something while gesturing and
smiling. The girls nodded and then they all started back to the hotel. I tried to go with them but
the man stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder and said, “This isn’t your night, kid.
Sorry.” I didn’t say anything. I just watched them go with a horrible feeling of abandonment.

They were swallowed up by the entrance of the hotel. I waved to Cindy but she didn’t turn
around. I could only imagine what would happen when she met the Beatles, how this experience
was going to change her. I was sure that when she finally emerged from that hotel, she would be
a different person.

I spent the whole night outside that stupid hotel and I never even caught a glimpse of the Beatles.
Boy, did I feel betrayed. And not just by the Beatles either, who, after all, were not even aware
of my existence, but by God. What was the use of all that praying? Was I really asking for so
much? All I wanted to do was meet the Beatles, after all.

I finally became fed up and left for home early the next morning once the trains had begun
running again. I got back home mid-morning and of course I was in trouble. This transgression
was so bad, however, that my mother didn’t even bother to become hysterical. She just sent me
up to my room and told me she’d deal with me later.

In the end, I was grounded for a month but the punishment gradually petered out after a couple
of weeks because my mother got tired of me being around the house all the time. At the time, I
didn’t feel that this experience had changed me in the least. I hadn’t met the Beatles and I hadn’t
been transformed.

Now, however, I wonder if this actually didn’t mark the start of the transformation that would
occur just a few years later. Gradually, my tastes would change as I became more interested in
the visionary artists of the Golden Age of Rock and Roll, as it came to be known. Then once the
psychedelic era arrived, I was all ready to start taking drugs and go out of my mind.

Moreover, I became unnaturally interested in Asian culture, from the Red Guards of China to the
Zen monks of Japan, the Tibetan Buddhists, the mystical Tao, all that stuff. I didn’t really
distinguish between the political and the cultural phenomena. I was attracted to anything with a
pseudo-mystical aura that originated in the Far East. For me, even the Red Guards and Maoism
weren’t so much a political phenomenon as an eruption in the field of the Zeitgeist bringing the
social chaos I yearned for.

Well, I had dreams, let’s put it that way. I just didn’t know what they were. As I lumbered into
my teenage years, I became sullen and defiant and my musical tastes changed accordingly as I
became a devotee of the Great Bob Dylan, the prophet of the New Age. I still liked the Beatles
but they certainly weren’t prophets. No matter how their music improved, they never really had
much to say for themselves. They were more like the musical accompaniment of the New Age.
But Dylan was the voice, the poet.

Well, we called him a poet anyway. I didn’t really know what he was saying in his songs but
they had an emotional resonance, especially when I was high. Moreover, the fact that he
couldn’t sing very well gave people like me hope because if he could become a major rock and
roll star, then why couldn’t I?

In short, it was an age when, for a brief period, anything seemed possible. But that was soon
replaced by an age when nothing seemed possible at all. It’s different from the modern age,
when so many things now seem possible, but nothing that will make you happy.

Ah, well. I’d like to be able to say that I look back on those days with nostalgia but that
wouldn’t be true. Mainly, I looked back on them with bewilderment. But that’s just me. Other
people probably have other ideas. However, I never lost my love for the Beatles, even though
they stole Candy from me and later became drug-addled and rich and obnoxious. They will
always hold a special place in my heart, even though I don’t really listen to them much anymore,
because they were with me, playing those songs, throughout my childhood.