"EIGHT ARMS TO HOLD YOU: THE BEATLES AS THEY NEVER WERE"

by John Poole is a collection of eight stories about the Beatles' living lives in Histories than our own. This is a selection from the story "Fear and Loathing in Liverpool". I hope you enjoy it.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LIVERPOOL

When thinking about George Harrison, it was his spiritual nature that appealed to me the most. But whenever I tried to tell a story about George being a guru, or opening an ashram, it became preachy and boring. So I ‘hired’ Hunter S. Thompson to write the story for me. This is written in the style of the great Gonzo journalist as if he was sent to find George Harrison, who in this Altered Timeline, disappeared in 1970. All Harrison facts quoted by Hunter are from real History, with the exception of the disappearance. All Hunter facts are also from real History, with the exception of the Samba.

Sure I have demons. Great big grown-up demons too. The adult kind that don’t run from the simple cures of holy water or pure thoughts of Mom and Apple pie. Also, I have met other demons on earth and in the Hell’s Angels and lived to profit by the mealy words I squeezed from the experience with a thousand patient editors and chemical freaks one pill less freaked than I.

Yeah, I have known some evil and have been the evil some people have known, and being both these things, I have gained a spine of reinforced concrete and the gumption of a Greek God drunk on Tequila.

And all my solid knowledge and sureness was blown away like atomic bomb stock footage when George fucking Harrison was forced upon my conscious mind.

It was one of those 18 year old hash freak junior editor interns from the Rolling stone that threw the first rock . George Harrison had quit the Beatles soon after that sabbatical to the Mahareeshi’s palatial little ashram, ‘ashram’ being Hindi for ‘tax shelter’. The Beatles tried to Pete Best it along and George cut one solo album to universal acclaim and then disappeared off the face of the Earth. It was a great story in ’69. But by ’74 it was old hat, sad old hat, just another news blurb once a year to remind us how nothing good lasts and the bests lasts the least. See orgasms versus dental visits for reference. Over the years, interest had waned and George had stayed completely out of the public eye. A difficult task, as Salinger and Jesus had discovered. I had banked on that very fact to my great profit and merriment. Hell, I had over-drafted. My last book on the ’72 election had left me drained of all vital processes. Much ammunition was used in the attempt to awaken the need to prove my utility to the vast plebiscite; and to my bank account.

“God damn it son of a bitch!” I screamed, reading the bill accrued from the bullets and booze. “Only one thing will pay the piper this time around!”, I said to the horns on the wall. “A Beatle!” I called Rolling Stone and told them to send the necessary supplies to whatever New York Hotel would take me. I was going to search for George Harrison.

Three days or two weeks later I was speeding on Tijuana Blue Mescaline and two quarts of whiskey. Around me were about 500 photographs of George Harrison, pre-Beatle, Beatle, and post-Beatle. All three forms of Beatle matter. The Hotel staff had finally stopped complaining about the noise, I was almost sure there were no girls in the room and the grapefruit supply was steadily maintained. I was completely prepared to get absolutely nowhere! And that was my intent.

Searching for someone who does not want to be found is an art, an art of careless deliberation. Getting lost had been a serious study of mine, and I had achieved a bit of excellence in this field. Psychology would be useless. This iconic scene of the detective surrounded by evidence, facts, clues, pieces of the puzzle are all the stuff of cheap plots and lazy mythbuilders. In 1975 there were no detectives in slouch hats anymore, no dames in trouble and no shadows to hide in or watch out for. By now, we knew everything. The President had lied, God was dead and Jim Hoffa’s teamster ring will wind up in your hot dog one day. Harrison would agree with me on that point, these images of him told me. And, anybody who quits The Beatles at high tide has bullshit proof glasses and a mind clear of the distractions of Stepmother Madison Avenue. I had to go through the motions, however, I had to see the pieces I was to ignore. And I had to find the first place to go, the beginning of my long red line across the black and white globe of adventure from the silver screen, back when there will still some shadows to be glad of.

Liverpool.

Seemed obvious. Liverpool. How could it not be Liverpool?

Because it isn’t. It couldn’t be. I didn’t want to go there for one thing.

For another, it was too much of The Path, of The Road, of the ‘trail’ that Nancy Drew always found so easily. Harrison wasn’t going to leave a trail. He hadn’t. Some very sober, very sane and very motivated people had failed to find him. But my lack of sobriety was my motivation, and sane people fail all the time. But the insane never fail. It’s either success or more crazy. It’s the best Catch-22 on the shelf, why else go crazy?