July

Seven

July 9th

            The chippy had been too crowded and the air stifling, prompting the two of them to leave the second they’d finished their fish, in search of somewhere else to loiter and be rebellious youths in.

            There was the record shop, a favorite of the pair, where they always had the newest records and you could even listen to them in the store on the record player the manager, Epstein, had. Paul was fascinated by the place; he’d spend hours there listening to Elvis, though those weren’t the newest records everyone was anxious to hear. He’d listen to the slight lilt and waver of his voice, to the melody of the songs and the lyrics, trying to understand how all of this came together to make the end product, and secretly hoping that this knowledge would be transferred to him if he could listen enough times.

            Neither Paul nor George had nearly enough money on them to even consider buying anything, and they came in at a leisurely pace, Paul still in the middle of relating his encounter with Judy in the morning.

            “…I mean, you’ve got all of Liverpool, why would you go and take a walk there of all places?”

            “Maybe she was trying to go see you,” George suggested.

            “Oh,” Paul said, thinking this over. “I left sort of quickly…”

            George sucked in a breath and Paul looked over at him. He seemed to be deciding something. “Do you… like her?”

            “I dunno,” Paul said, before realizing how lame that sounded, considering they’d already gone on a date, possibly.

            Paul looked at George again, but the younger boy was looking through the Little Richard section.

            Paul turned to the other side of the store, where the record player was. It was strategically placed on a table next to the cash register, where Mr. Epstein could watch it inconspicuously. Paul had never tried to lift it from the table, but he assumed there was something in place to stop young people like he from stealing it.

            “Hello,” Paul said, nodding at Epstein.

            The man nodded back, a slightly wary look on his eyes. Paul was there often, listening to records; the same ones over and over, and his persistent interest in the Elvis records would be enough to make any manager suspicious, but the lad bought records often enough that Epstein let him be.

            Paul flipped through the crate of records there to try. He supposed they’d once been in nice condition, but now they were scratched and flawed from all the times they’d been manhandled by the various customers. Paul picked up Heartbreak Hotel and placed the needle on the record.

            He looked up to see Mr. Epstein staring at him intently. Paul felt himself reddening, and he turned, busying himself with another stack of records. There were…rumors about Brian Epstein. Mothers whispered about him, and fathers harrumphed when he was mentioned. Paul preferred not to think about it, as the thought of Mr. Epstein being dragged off to prison by the police made him queasy.

            George came up to Paul. “Found anything?”

            Paul shook his head. “Haven’t got enough,” he whispered, but George noticed his friend’s eyes trained on the spinning disc that was Heartbreak Hotel.

            George shoved the few quid he’d kept in his pocket into Paul’s hand. “Get that one,” George said.

            Paul stared at George. “You don’t have to pay for my record,” he said seriously.

            George shrugged him off. “We’ll share, one week each.”

            Paul was about to open his mouth to reply when the door jangled open and a few boys streamed in. Paul turned to see who it was, and saw, among others, the unmistakable blond head of Pete Shotton.

            “Pete!” Paul said, grinning widely.

            He saw a few conflicting expressions flit across his face, but Pete didn’t return his greeting. The other boys gathered around him, muttering. “Who are those little boys?”

            Paul felt George tense beside him and felt the confrontation coming.

            “Oi, Harrison! Are you sure you’re old enough to be out by yourself this far from home?” one of Pete’s friends shouted. The whole group echoed a laugh, except Pete, who was frozen, apparently still deciding what to do.

            None of the others Paul knew; they weren’t in the Quarrymen but doubtless they went to the same high school and John and the others. Paul glanced at George but he was staring resolutely, almost defiantly forward.

            “Have you even got enough money to buy these records, Harrison? Did yer mum have to sell herself on the street for this?” another boy asked.

            “Let’s just go,” Paul whispered. He left Heartbreak Hotel on the table behind him and pushed past the group of boys, who sniggered wildly. Once outside he looked George full on the face. He was pale, something like intense anger or pain papered all over his face.

            “This is what your precious friends from the band really are,” George said, his voice harsh and clipped.

            “No, Pete is the only one I know, I swear! And he wasn’t even saying anything…” Paul said, but he knew he was defending a lost cause. He didn’t even know why.

            “I’d best get home,” George muttered darkly. He left Paul standing in front of the NEMS record store, feeling like he’d just been slapped.