Songwriter Confessions #2

Any real Beatle fan knows that Stu Sutcliffe was the originalbass player,who died of a brain embolism before the Beatlesbecame famous. But what if it hadn't been Stu with the deadlyweakness, but rather...?

There is very little time left now. The meeting will take placein a matter of hours: an event so significant for futuregenerations that nothing can be allowed to change it in any way.I have found the boy: a cheerful soul with wide eyes thatquestion the world with amusement. He does not yet know the paththat is set for him, or the tiny thing inside his brain thatbrings me here through the oceans of time. We agreed that it isa task that must be done for the peace of souls everywhere. Frommy place of concealment across the square I wait for him toappear on this cloudy day. In the skies I see a vortex thatpromises more storms but the people around me, simple peoplewith low reception levels they do not understand, pass by intheir life patterns. Once the boy is in sight, my timing willallow me to meet him at the shop window where he pauses withoutexception every day to stand and admire. I am programed withevery trace of memory from the projection undertaken by thefinest minds in our universe. There are no randoms not accountedfor: no variations not calculated to the infinite degree. I seehim now. The boy comes around the corner whistling a tune of hisown making, with eyebrows high in delight as the activity in thesquare greets his vision. For a moment he slows as he passes theshop they call the baker, but then resumes his journey acrossthe square directly towards me where I stand close to the shopthat intrigues him so. Every step he takes is more importantthan he can ever know, but his cheerful smile shows none of thisas he reaches the window of the store that sells instruments ofmusic and stops with hands in pockets to stare in familiarroutine. If he were to look at me, he would see only another boyhis own age, but his attention is unwavering and complete on oneof the items in the window. He leans forward until nose touchesglass. Hofner...he says out loud to nobody. Loovely, he says andhis focus is so complete that I take three swift steps towardshim, swirl the cloak of transformation over him and the deed isdone. I turn away from the shop window and resume my journey. Inmy mind are random thoughts of how to get enough money for themusic instrument, with bursts of spontaneous melodies in thebackground. A part of my mind sees images of playing a guitarsitting on a bed in a small but friendly room. I walk on. It is30 minutes later and I have come to an open field which a smallfestival has filled with music, banners and the chatter andlaughter of two hundred people. I have only just reached thefirst stall when someone calls my name and I turn to see myfriend Ivan smiling at me while the activity of the fair flowsaround him. Come over here, he says, I've got someone you shouldmeet. I follow him deeper into the fairground to stop in frontof a small and rickety stage barely three feet off the ground.Sitting at the corner with legs dangling over the edge is askinny youth in a black shirt and jeans with hair combed back inextravagant sculpture and a cigarette dangling from the cornerof his thin-lipped mouth. His left hand is adjusting the tone ofthe strings of the guitar he cradles on his legs while his eyesmeasure me with care. Hey, Johnny...Ivan says with a measure ofcasual excitement to the skinny figure...got someone you shouldmeet... he's a guitar player too... Johnny squints through thesmoke of the cigarette at me. Oh yeah?...he says. Yeah...saysIvan and throws his arm around my shoulders. Johnny...saysIvan...meet Paul McCartney...

Copyright - Bill Dollar 200