Songwriter Confessions #2
Any real Beatle fan knows that Stu Sutcliffe was the original bass player,who died of a brain embolism before the Beatles became famous. But what if it hadn?t been Stu with the deadly weakness, but rather??
There is very little time left now. The meeting will take place in a matter of hours: an event so significant for future generations that nothing can be allowed to change it in any way. I have found the boy: a cheerful soul with wide eyes that question the world with amusement. He does not yet know the path that is set for him, or the tiny thing inside his brain that brings me here through the oceans of time. We agreed that it is a task that must be done for the peace of souls everywhere.
From my place of concealment across the square I wait for him to appear on this cloudy day. In the skies I see a vortex that promises more storms but the people around me, simple people with low reception levels they do not understand, pass by in their life patterns. Once the boy is in sight, my timing will allow me to meet him at the shop window where he pauses without exception every day to stand and admire. I am programed with every trace of memory from the projection undertaken by the finest minds in our universe. There are no randoms not accounted for: no variations not calculated to the infinite degree.
I see him now. The boy comes around the corner whistling a tune of his own making, with eyebrows high in delight as the activity in the square greets his vision. For a moment he slows as he passes the shop they call the baker, but then resumes his journey across the square directly towards me where I stand close to the shop that intrigues him so. Every step he takes is more important than he can ever know, but his cheerful smile shows none of this as he reaches the window of the store that sells instruments of music and stops with hands in pockets to stare in familiar routine.
If he were to look at me, he would see only another boy his own age, but his attention is unwavering and complete on one of the items in the window. He leans forward until nose touches glass. Hofner?he says out loud to nobody. Loovely, he says and his focus is so complete that I take three swift steps towards him, swirl the cloak of transformation over him and the deed is done.
I turn away from the shop window and resume my journey. In my mind are random thoughts of how to get enough money for the music instrument, with bursts of spontaneous melodies in the background. A part of my mind sees images of playing a guitar sitting on a bed in a small but friendly room. I walk on.
It is 30 minutes later and I have come to an open field which a small festival has filled with music, banners and the chatter and laughter of two hundred people. I have only just reached the first stall when someone calls my name and I turn to see my friend Ivan smiling at me while the activity of the fair flows around him.
Come over here, he says, I?ve got someone you should meet. I follow him deeper into the fairground to stop in front of a small and rickety stage barely three feet off the ground.
Sitting at the corner with legs dangling over the edge is a skinny youth in a black shirt and jeans with hair combed back in extravagant sculpture and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. His left hand is adjusting the tone of the strings of the guitar he cradles on his legs while his eyes measure me with care.
Hey, Johnny?Ivan says with a measure of casual excitement to the skinny figure?got someone you should meet? he?s a guitar player too?
Johnny squints through the smoke of the cigarette at me.
Oh yeah??he says.
Yeah?says Ivan and throws his arm around my shoulders.
Johnny?says Ivan?meet Paul McCartney?
Copyright ? Bill Dollar 2005
About the Author: Bill Dollar is a survivor of the record company wars. He currently lives on a small farm somewhere in the southern hemisphere, amongst cats,dogs and cobras.He writes songs he likes, because he's not hearing anything worthwhile on the radio. Hear what Bill calls music: http://www.billdollarmusic.com