The local Chicago oldies station was thematically playing Norwegian Wood and Got My Mind Set on You back to back. I could relate to Got My Mind Set on You, mainly getting in Abbey Road, which was what I had my mind set on. I was tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, singing the song out loud, forgetting to notice the open window. I heard an obnoxious honk. A giant SUV pulled up next to me at the red light.

            “Eh, buddy,” called out the driver. He was in his late thirties, early forties, and a pinch overweight. I could see his lovely wife and darling children. He honked again. They were tourists, probably New-Yorkers, by his aggressive driving manners, “Would ya shut the hell up?”

            “Why is that, squire?” I said in George’s heavy scouser’s accent.

            “My kids are tryin’ to listen to Jesse McCartney, and they would prefer not to listen to some freak singin’ oldies!”

            “Jesse McCartney, eh?” I said as I quickly slipped in my Let It Be CD, “Have your kids ever heard of Paul McCartney?”

            “GET BACK, GET BACK, GET BACK TO WHERE YOU ONCE BELONGED,” blared my CD player.

            “Ha, ha, very funny. Where are you from anyway, Ireland?”

            “I happen to be from here,” I said in a feminine voice.

            “My fam’ly left New York for the summer to escape confused people like you.”

            “You better stay away from us, ‘cuz ‘confusion’ happens to be very contagious,” I said as the light finally turned green, and I accelerated away, pulling up my window.

            I finally arrived at the Hilton, managing to get a good space at the parking garage at the second level. I turned off the ignition with my shaky hand, giving myself one last check in the mirror. I got out, and locked the door. The parking garage was decorated with mostly vintage Volkswagen vans with license plates that said “BEATFAN” or “SGTPEPPR”. These were my type: die-hard fans.

            I walked down the stairs nervously into the lobby. “ABBY ROAD AUDITIONS IN BANQUET ROOM C” read a sign towards the door. “Great,” I thought, “more stairs.”

            I finally made my way to the banquet room. Before, outside the room, me a number of clones, some even looking like them, stood awaiting the same destiny as me. They were mostly wearing the Ed Sullivan suits or Sgt. Pepper uniforms. I saw a few wearing Abbey Road outfits. I walked up to the check-in, getting looks of either “What the hell are you wearing?” or “Nice originality.”

            “Name sir,” said the woman at the desk as I made my way up.

            Just then, as I opened my mouth, a woman caught my eye, wearing an Ed Sullivan suit, and grasping a wig. A scene was unfolding right in front of my eyes that would change my life.

            “Look, Lisa, this is a Beatles Tribute band. We already said no to you,” said the man in the pink polo, escorting her out.

            “But I was good. My audition tape was good. I even learned how to play the bass left-handed!”

            “As I said before, this is a Beatles tribute band. A woman can’t be a Beatles impersonator.”

            “Why can’t they? I’m just as good as any man here!”

            “It can’t be done.”

             “There have been some in the past. There’s one in Arizona!”

            “Not in this band On behalf of Mr. Goldman’s request, it can’t be done. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

            “That’s not a good enough excuse. I’m outta here,” she stormed out, mumbling, “Sexist pigs…”

            “Sir, your name?” said the woman.

            “Taylor Logan,” I said making my voice deeper, not too deep that they thought I was in drag, but deep. I slowed it down and slurred a little. I sounded like a mix between a stoner and a skater. Kind of like those kids at college with those long beards who sat on the blanket at the courtyard, playing their guitars.

            “Ah, yes,” she said checking a name off the list in front of her, “And you are in group Revolver. This will be the other people you will be auditioning with. Take a seat in the banquet room and the process will start shortly.”

            I walked into the banquet room questioning myself.

            “Great Taylor, now they think you’re a guy. No wonder. Your name is Taylor Now let’s not blow this off, and if we get in…”

            I tripped, trying not to let out a girly yelp. Damn Beatle Boots!

            “Need some help, Hazzah?” asked a familiar voice. He reached out a hand and pulled me up. I took off my glasses. I could barely see anything in the dark room.

            I gazed at the owner of the voice. Brown luscious shaggy hair with matching sideburns. A yellow shirt and jean jacket and jeans, and of course, Lennon glasses. He was beautiful. My heart had the uncomfortable, yet comfortable feeling. The feeling I got in high school when I had worthless crushes. This could not be happening. Not when I was in drag, pretending to be a man.

            “Being the shy Beatle, are ya?”

            “Quit bein’ cheeky, Lennon,” I said automatically as George Harrison.

            “Magical Mystery ensemble. Interesting choice.”

            “White Album. Very interesting, gear.”

            “I’m Eric,” he said in his normal voice, an American accent.

            “I’m Taylor,” I said in my guy voice, only less deep.

            “Nice to meet you,” we shook hands.

            I touched his hand. No Taylor, guys are idiots! They will interfere with your goal!

            “Break a leg, man.”

            “You too.”

            I walked to the area in the room marked Revolver. “A+!” said a girl behind me. She walked up to me. She was blonde, smiling. She wore a spaghetti strapped pink floral sundress.

            “What?” I asked.

            “A+ for originality. And what’s your name?”

            “Taylor Logan,” I said, taking off the light blue jacket.

            “Taylor Logan. A+ for originality for his costume,” she said as she wrote it on her clipboard. “I’m Ali. My dad’s the manager.”

            “Gear,” I said as George. I have to stop saying that, it’s starting to sound like an exaggeration.

            “Oooooooo…. Authenticity… good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Good morning,” said a voice, with a slight nasally Midwestern accent. My fellow impersonators and I sat down.

“Congratulations on making the semifinals, boys. My name is Jimmy Goldman and I will be the manager of Abbey Road. Abbey Road will be different than most Beatles tribute bands. We will have young men around The Beatles’ age playing the Beatles, which is a rarity in most tribute bands, because you have guys my age playing.”

            The room burst in nervous laughter.

            “We also will have five or six costume changes instead of the usual three.”

            “Woot!” yelled a single voice from the back, followed by an awkward pause.

            “Today you will audition for us in your groups, with the instruments provided by us. You will be judged by me, Marty Scott from the critically acclaimed tribute band Liverpool Legends, and my daughter, Ali, an Apple Scruff since birth. You have a lunch break around noon and then will be judged after the lunch break. So good luck, and start practicing!”

            I did a quick glance at my group. The John and Paul both wore black suits. The Ringo wore a pink Sgt. Pepper uniform and fake mustache.

            “Let’s go,” mumbled the Paul, disappointed with his band mates.

            A half of the banquet room was divided into cubicles.

            “I think this is ours,” I said with a faint smile. They rolled their eyes, causing my spine to chill, giving me an uncomfortable vibe, if I wasn’t uncomfortable already.

            We didn’t communicate much, we just played. I didn’t know them or anything. The guitar they equipped me with was crappy (great, now I’m starting to sound like George) and so out of key that I couldn’t even tune it to get it right. We each had to do one song, testing out which ones we were the best at. The Paul and John kept rolling their eyes when I attempted to sing Something

            “Is there something wrong?” I asked. I could tell they didn’t like me or my appearance. It was both.

            “You are one of those people who think just because they had a make-up job they can walk all over the place and win the competition,” snorted the Paul.

            “It isn’t a competition,” I mumbled.

            “It is.”

            “I bet that nose isn’t real,” sneered the Ringo, or how he insisted everyone should refer to him to, Rich Starkey, “or the teeth.”

            “It is,” I lied, “Some of this stuff is real, and some of it is fake, but should matter is presence and talent.”

            If I ever made it, I would have to use it for a disguise, a more male appearance. The nose, teeth, eyebrows, and sideburns suited me for a more masculine disguise. I could do without the wig, and definitely without the mustache, even though I was becoming used to having unnatural hair above my lip.

            “Yeah,” retorted the John, “which you have none of.”

            “Are you kidding me? I made it this far!”

            “That was a recorded CD, not a video. If they saw you...”

            “I’m confident. I think I’m good.”

            “You’re overconfident,” hypocritically remarked “Rich Starkey”, “You have too much enthusiasm and stamina, which scares people.”

            Was that the truth, or were they trying to psych me out? What happened next proved they were trying to psych me out.

            I didn’t speak throughout the Paul’s hammy performance of Yesterday, which he insisted he do himself, or the John’s beefy performance of Strawberry Fields, at which he mumbled a comment about my guitar-playing.

            I decided to test out Old Brown Shoe, my voice very anxious and shaky, still, none the less, reflecting George’s unique singing style. Throughout Ringo’s rendition of Yellow Submarine, it was just me and the crappy, out-of-tune guitar. I remained quiet.

            “Method acting,” mumbled one of them at my silence, and sudden reluctance and shyness.

            “What was that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “Method acting, you think you’ll get in by being the stereotypical quiet Beatle.”

            My eyebrows started to furrow.

            “Look, he’s even doing the eyebrow thing. Did you spend all last week practicing that in the mirror?”

            “No, I spent all last week practicing my performance.”

            “Nope, I’m pretty sure you didn’t. Your rendition of Old Brown Shoe showed us that.”

            That’s when I lost it.

            “Sod it, man! That was the bloody song that got me here!” I aggressed in pure Harrison rage, my eyes fiery, my eyebrows furrowing. They looked up at me. I hardly spoke since the make-up comment.

            The call was made for the lunch break. “I’m off,” I said, nervously in character, grabbing my jacket before they said another word.