I drove home in my Lexus (graduation present) from my job as an understudy at the Second City. It was fun, if
you find sitting backstage, waiting for someone to get sick so you can get your fifteen minutes of fame fun. I drove up the
ramp to the parking garage, showed my ID, and parked in my usual space. I went to the lobby of the apartment building, and
checked our mailbox. We surprisingly have received a lot today. I got on the elevator. It had its usual smell, cigarettes
and McDonald’s, and its usual sound, synthesizer elevator music.
The elevator door finally
opened, releasing the air-conditioned breeze. I unlocked the door at my apartment. I was greeted by a very familiar noise.
Julie was lying on the couch wearing her barmaid uniform: black tank top and matching black skirt. She let out a bawl. Her
mascara was running down her cheeks, and tissues and a carton of chocolate ice cream surrounded her.
“Ryan broke up with
me,” she whimpered.
I was kind of happy. Ryan
was a jackass.
“I’m sorry,”
I swiping the ice cream away from her, “He wasn’t that nice anyway.”
Julie was lucky. I had
no luck with guys whatsoever. Boys would never ask me out in high school. I went on a few dates in college, but they were
just as friends. We never hooked up or anything. Julie was dating guys since high school. Of course I felt lonely. Usually
she could get over a guy quickly, but now, she was worn out. I could never deal with emotions like these.
I backed away slowly into
my room, quietly shut the door, and lay on my bed with the paisley sheets, and gazed at my Beatles poster. They were the only
guys in my life, and they would never let me down, probably because I would never meet them.
I
always dug George. According to Patti, he would always listen. Most of his songs expressed the way I was feeling, and made
me happy. He was my favorite. I loved him so much that I spent seven years working on an accurate impersonation. Speaking
of which, I haven’t even heard if I made it to the semifinals. I probably didn’t make it. It’s not like
I made anything. I can’t even get promoted at Second City.
I
turned on my CD player, playing my favorite solo album, “Living in the Material World”. I could easily relate
to it, I mean, aren’t we all living in the material world?
I went through the mail.
Mostly letters saying we’ve just won a million dollars. Ha, I wish. The ones addressed to me were late graduation presents
from my relatives. A psychedelic print envelope caught my eye. My relatives knew I was a Beatles fanatic, and a sixties fanatic
as well. I opened it, looking for a check.
“Dear Taylor
Logan,
We have reviewed your audition for the Beatles
tribute band, Abbey Road. And we are happy to say congratulations. You have made it to the semifinals. Please arrive at the
Chicago Hilton, June 21st, in costume as your Beatle. Appearance counts. In order to avoid clutter, we will provide
you with a guitar or drum kit. Best wishes and see you there.
Sincerely,
Jimmy Goldman
Manager”
That was not a graduation
present. It was more than a graduation present. It was opportunity coming a knocking. I was elated. Leaped up, and jumped
on my bead, screaming as if I was a fan at Shea Stadium, or as if George had walked into my room.
“What about Julie?”
I thought, as I jumped off the bed. Julie was bawling her eyes out. I didn’t want to share my fortune with her experiencing
her misfortune. I slipped the letter into my copy of the Anthology, some place where Julie would never look.
I needed a costume. Shite!
Sgt. Pepper uniforms were expensive, and 1964 suits were too cliché. What about the denim from Abbey Road? Clichéd as well.
There was one outfit of George’s I always liked. I went through one of my books and found a color picture: perfect!
I cut out the picture and held it up. It was George’s Magical Mystery Tour outfit. Satin pants, a dark blue button-down
shirt, psychedelic tie, light blue jacket, lighter blue coat, thick sunglasses, and of course, a brown hat, which I always
loved. I think this could work.
