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It was unlike him — the cloying, rancid depression. He was traditionally good at putting on a face. Beatle Paul: Happy-go-lucky, charming, cute. Beatle Paul was incapable of hurt or fear. Beatle Paul housed the sun in his ribcage, simply born with it, that bright, bursting optimism. But James Paul McCartney — well, that was a different animal altogether.
It had been days. It felt like months. Linda occasionally forced him out of bed, but Paul had no basis for the hours passing by. He had spent each day in a stupor, drunk or high or both, curtains drawn. There was no recourse.
His entire life, gone in the blink of an eye. “I want a divorce.” Skywritten. It wasn’t about him, but it was.
The problem, he realized sometime before Pepper, was that he didn’t know where Beatle Paul ended and Paul began. They weren’t the same person, except they were, and he couldn’t discern between what was part of the act and what actually belonged to him. He had become a caricature of himself.
He knew the others felt the same way, on some level. That was why John had vomited out those words in the first place — high on his own desperation, like a cornered animal. They were all trapped in a prison they’d built with their eight hands, aiding and abetting one another because everything moved too fast for them to know they could do anything else. But Paul was the only one who could see a way out that didn’t involve tearing the walls down completely and starting over from scratch. Dig underneath, lads. Prison break.
And John — it seemed like John was on a different journey entirely.
There was a day in late April when they were all recording together in the studio. Paul and John were rarely alone anymore, but they happened to end up in the toilet at the same time. It was fine, and normal, until John said, “We’ve hit the ceiling.”
“What?” Paul asked distractedly, drying his hands.
“The ceiling. Toppermost. We did the best we can do.” John turned toward him, eyes searching behind his glasses. For the first time in a long time, he seemed present, but skittish. “I’m full. Take the plate away.”
They’d had different versions of this same conversation before. It was happening more often lately. Paul looked down into the sink. “That’s rather limiting, don’t you think?”
“What’s limiting is keepin’ on like this.”
“This is what I’ve been talking about.” Paul risked a glance into John’s face and immediately regretted it. He had never been good at saying no to John. His backbone, so hard-won, turned to jello. “Just need to get back to basics —January — we had fun doing that. It was fun.”
John shook his head. If Paul didn’t know any better, he’d think he looked sad.
“We’ve done all the basics, Paul. We’ve built the basics, practically. Kitchen’s closed.”
Paul brought his pinky to his mouth to chew on his cuticle, anxiety blooming. “Can you stop speaking in bloody cooking metaphors?”
“You need to face facts,” John said, not unkindly, but getting there. “I want us to make this decision together, I’m not gonna be draggin’ you along.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Dragging me along?” Paul dropped his hand, suddenly annoyed. “Deciding things without me? Calling the shots for everyone on everything except what actually matters? You know — like the music?”
“Oh, fuck off,” John spit, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t about the music. This is about your fuckin’ ego.”
“How can you tell me what it’s about, when I’ve been practically begging you to write anything for months? If you weren’t high as a kite all the time, maybe we could actually get something real done instead of whatever shite you come up with on the nod.”
Paul regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. John’s eyes narrowed to slits. He stepped closer, making Paul wonder if he might kiss him or slap him. It would be the first time for one of those things.
“Like it or not,” John said, voice lowered dangerously, “we’re signing that contract. And after this album is done I don’t fuckin’ care what you do. I’m finished caterin’ to the whims of Paul McCartney. You’re a right fuckin’ priss. You can’t see what’s best for us is in front of your face ‘cause you’re a stubborn ass.” Paul opened his mouth to fire an insult back, but John barreled on. “G’wed and throw stones at glass houses the rest of your life, for all I care, but I’m done waitin’ around for you — I’ve been waitin’ for you to catch up since the day we met. There’s four people in this band.” He spun on his heel and left without giving Paul the chance to respond.
“It’s in glass houses!” Paul yelled at the closed door, nausea nesting heavy at the base of his throat.
He should have listened to what John was trying to tell him. But for most of the year they had barely been able to speak to one another without it devolving. It was about Klein, but it was about something else, too. Paul wondered sometimes if they shouldn’t have just hit each other once in a while — maybe terrible bursts of violence could suture whatever was split open between them. He would let John now, if he wanted to. He would let John beat the piss out of him if it would fix all the things they couldn’t say to one another.
That was what he was thinking about, rum bottle dangling from his fingers, when the phone by the bed rang. He had briefly disconnected it when he’d first embarked on his bender, as much to keep himself from calling anyone as to prevent anyone from calling him. But Linda — or someone — had plugged it back in.
He almost ignored it. At the last moment, something (the rum, likely) compelled him to answer.
“‘Lo?”
Silence, and then, “Paul.”
Even under the comfortable fuzz of various substances, he felt the breath whoosh from his lungs. “John. Hi.”
“Hi.” A beat. “I was just calling to…” A beat. “…say hello. See if you’ve been writing anything.”
Paul snorted. “Yeah, you know. Been full of inspiration these days, me.” What day even was it? How long had it been? He took a swig from the bottle.
“…Are you drinking?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I dunno. It’s ten in the morning, so.” Paul could hear a shuffling as John shifted the receiver to his other ear.
“Is it? Huh. Lucky me, wet before noon. Not a personal best for either of us, though.” Paul took another drink.
“No. S’pose not.” John paused, and Paul noticed with a thin satisfaction that he seemed almost nervous. “Been some time, though. For me, anyway.”
“No, he’s into harder stuff now, is our John. No time for day drinking.”
Paul was being cruel, he knew. Really, he was acting like John, with some backwards, perverse fear motivating his serrated edges. He wasn’t even saying things that were true — as far as he was aware, John was still heroin-free, at least a month on. He was trying to goad John into something and he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to. On the surface it was retribution. And he deserved to pursue that, if they wanted to talk eye for an eye, based on the things John had said and done over the years. But it was really self-flagellation. Maybe it was for John, too.
“If you don’t want to talk, just say,” John snipped, annoyance seeping in.
Paul felt traitorous panic flutter in his chest. “No, ‘m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m just-“ He stopped, rum and weed eroding his better judgement. Self-preservation be damned. “I’m mad at you, y’know, and have a right to be.”
“Yeah, well, I’m mad at you,” John replied quietly.
“Then why did you call?”
John sighed. “I don’t know, Paul.”
They were both silent. They never used to be at a loss with one another like this. But it had been a long time now since they could seemingly read one another’s minds.
Paul could hear John mumble something on the other end — not to him, but to Yoko. He could picture them both, her coming into the bedroom to ask John about breakfast, John telling her he would be right there, put the kettle on, toast with marmalade only, please. The picture of domestic bliss.
He felt it again — the desire to let John beat him bloody, if it meant they could stop pushing the same boulder uphill over and over. But maybe this was Paul’s divine punishment for wanting too much.
“What’s going to happen?” Paul said finally, barely above a whisper. He hated himself for it. Was that Paul or Beatle Paul, that interpreted vulnerability as weakness?
“We’ll grow up, I guess. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Paul didn’t respond, unwilling — or unable — to parse through the implications of that question.
“I shouldn’t have called,” John said. “I’m sorry. Drink some water, Paul.”
Paul heard the decisive click of the phone being hung up.
It sometimes felt like John got the last word on Paul’s entire life. Every choice since age 15 had been made with John in mind, every action well-rehearsed for John’s benefit. Everything Paul had done for himself had also been for John. For the first time in more than a decade, he was totally untethered from John Winston Lennon. It felt like a broken bone, an exposed nerve, a gaping wound. The whole of modern medicine didn’t possess a sufficient cure.
Paul left the phone hanging off the hook.