Junk and Other Stories

Two of Us

Paul sat down at his piano, cracked his knuckles and positioned his hands on the keys. He began to play a sweet little melancholy tune, his fingers flying over the black and white keys with such ease and leisure. He bobbed his head in time to the music.

"I'm four, five seconds from wilding, and we got three more days til Friday," Paul sang softly.

With each note played on the piano, Paul grew more and more confident. His voice became louder and rose up above the music. He was just a voice, all alone in his melodic little world. His fingers still flew over the keys and his mind was set on singing the lyrics... but something else was playing on his thoughts.

"I'm trying to make it back home by Monday morning," Paul crooned. "I swear, I wish someone would tell me. Ooh, that's all I want."

Paul concluded his number and let his hands fall limply to his sides. He took several breaths before turning to face the man who had been watching him perform. This man looked utterly amazed by what he had just heard and was speechless for several seconds. He snapped out of his trance and applauded loudly.

"That was great, Paul!" he cried.

"You think so?" Paul said shyly.

"I know so," came the reply. "Man, we're gonna give you a whole new career with this track!"

"I see."

"I'm gonna call Ri-Ri right away and tell her this recording session is happening!"

Paul smiled wanly. "You do that, and thanks for coming over, Kanye."

Kanye grinned and hurried off to make his phone call. Paul watched him leave, then he placed his head in his hands and groaned. He couldn't believe what was happening to him.

"A collaboration with Kanye West," he muttered. "What on earth possessed me to agree to such a thing?"

Paul stayed hunched over for a few minutes, contemplating what he had gotten himself into. He had been asked to compose a song for this collaboration, only to discover he wouldn't be singing at all. It was outrageous, sure, but he couldn't do anything about it.

"Either I'm getting old and feeble," Paul murmured, "or really soft."

"I'd say you're just a bloody great pushover," said a voice from behind him.

Paul whipped around and gasped. There, right in front of him, was a middle-aged looking man dressed in a white suit and little round glasses. He was perched on top of Paul's piano, sitting with his legs grossed. What shocked Paul more wasn't the uninvited visitor; it was the fact that this visitor appeared to be the proud owner of a pair of fluffy, white angel's wings!

"What the -" Paul stammered.

"That's a fine welcome!" said the angel, sounding exasperated. "I've come to see you after all these years and you can't even give me a proper hello! Have you no manners at all, Paulie?"

Paul blinked rapidly. He peered at this angel's face. "Oh, my Lord."

The angel grinned. "Recognize me?"

"John?"

"In the flesh."

Paul let out a cry of delight. "John! You came back! I'm so happy to see you!"

He tried to reach out and pull his friend in for a hug, but John quickly backed away. Paul stared up at him with a wounded expression.

"Sorry, Macca," John said, shaking his head. "No hugs."

"Why not?" Paul asked indignantly.

"It's not possible."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "You what?"