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In a living room, with a leather couch and a love-seat forming an L in front of the television set, laid sleeping, was Ringo Starr, the drummer of the British rock and roll band, the Beatles. Deep within his slumber, the famous man rested his body comfortably on the small sofa for two. On the long couch spread out, was the lead guitarist of the same group, George Harrison, resting carelessly in mid-day slumber. Unbeknownst to these musicians, magic was in the air, and the power of love and friendship had come to visit. Actually it was just drugs, but love and friendship fit the narrative, so go with it.
“Rich!” Said a slightly high pitch voice, to the sleeping drummer. “Get up Richard!” It persisted.
“Go away!” Uttered Starr, without opening his eyes. Whatever it was, it could wait, as far as he was concerned. Then suddenly the sleeping man felt something strike his face. It didn’t hurt, but it was enough to make him open his eyes. To the waker’s disbelief, the end of his tie was standing straight up looking at him, with two eyes, and a mouth that was only visible when open.
“Now that I have your attention,” Began the talking cloth. “you and your mate over there,” the tie said while it used one of its corners like a finger, to point to George who was still sleeping, “needs to wake up now!” It explained. Ringo laid there, trying to absorb what was being said, which seemed confusing and ridiculous.
“Bugger off!” The tired man immediately brushed aside, and closed his eyes to go back to sleep. This clearly had to be some sort of bizarre dream, and he immediately attempted to banish this oddity from his mind. The sleeping musician thought he ended the dispute, until the reluctant man found he was struggling to breathe. A tight sensation had suddenly seized his throat, in a relative stronghold. Starr was gasping for air, but was still breathing, barely!
Forced to open his eyes, the drummer found himself gazing upwards to the view of the tie standing fully erect. The fancy silk cloth was leaning over it’s wearers head, revealing a devilish smile, while it’s victim struggled for his every breath.
“I can go tighter!” The accessory warned, as it’s eyes grew to an over exaggerated size, while its pupils turned into tiny smokeless flames.
“Okay.” The frightened man submitted, with both of his hands pulling at the noose made up of silk. “What do you want?” The victim cried. It was then the ties demeanor changed, from threatening, to pleasant and even sweet.
“That’s better.” Said a voice that was the opposite of just before. The grip upon the neck loosened and the three cornered side returned to it’s original place, standing up upon the wearers chest. “I want you to wake your friend, now.” It insisted.
“Why?” inquired Starr, still feeling the aftermath of being choked.
“Because you two need to bake a birthday cake for your manager Brian Epstein!” The piece of clothing happily explained. It even smiled, showing off two buck teeth, making it appear goofy, than life threatening.
“George.” Ringo called out to his bandmate still sound asleep on the longer furniture. “We got to git up.” He uttered, hoping the tie wouldn’t hurt him again.
“Fuck sake!” cried the lead guitarist, as he rolled over to his side, with his wrists folded in front of his face. “Leave me alone!” he commanded, with his eyes still closed.
“Get up George!” A raspy voice suddenly ordered, with the force of a military drill instructor. Confused, the sleeping lad reluctantly opened his eyes, viewing the strange man on his cufflink. The gold silhouette of a person, opened its mouth and began to speak. “Its time for you and your friend to get up and bake that cake for your manager!” It demanded, as if talking to some poor soul trapped in military training.
“How can you talk?” asked the Beatle in surprise of the verbal jewelry.
“Don’t ask how I can talk!” The man on the golden disk immediately answered upon his sleeve. It was very aggressive, and cruel in its tone. “And instead ask how I can poke you in the eye if you don’t get up!” the little gold man harshly threatened.
“Wha..?” the waking man began, but he couldn’t even finish a single word before the gold jewelry shot out from his wrist and violated the musician, right in the eye! “Ouch!” Screamed the younger man in the room. Instantly George’s hand was nursing his wound from this unbelievable assault. After realizing his orb of sight was fine, the lad gazed upon the offending jewelry, connecting the collar of his sleeve, right before his hand. Despite the pain the waker felt, he saw that the gold circle was still clasped to his shirt, undisturbed as before. George then sat up and turned and saw Ringo tenderly stroking his own neck, as if he were nearly hanged. The drummer then proceeded to remove his tie and tossed it to the floor. “Is your clothing assaulting you too?” inquired the lead guitarist, as he saw his companion was in the same state of confusion.
“Yeah,” admitted the drummer, looking away in disbelief from what he had just experienced.
“I guess we ought to go make that cake for Brian, before our clothes kill us.” Harrison suggested. The smaller man nodded in agreement and they got up and made their way to the kitchen. “Do you know how to bake a cake?” George asked turning to Ringo.
“No.” Starr answered honestly, while shrugging.
“What you need is a recipe.” Said a voice coming from the secretary desk in the corner of the room.
“Who said that?” the blue eyed man called out at the invisible voice.
“I did.” The voice responded. It sounded feminine, but older. Like an exaggerated mother figure from the movies. Then without anyone near the furniture, the secretary draw opened and a brown book flew out and landed on the flat service of the desk. The draw promptly closed, as a face appeared on the cover of the novel. “Now boys.” The book said opening, while the two men approached. “What kind of cake do you want to bake?” The motherly voice continued as a few pages from the book flipped over on its own. Then it stopped at a particular cake recipe. “I have coconut.” The text suggested.
“I don’t think we have any coconut.” George remarked, not knowing if this was true or not.
“I can confirm this is true.” Another feminine voice called out, though it sounded almost masculine. Like a man imitating a woman, going as high pitch as possible. To the men’s surprise, it was the pantry door. “I can attest,” It explained with a lisp. “there is no coconut behind my barrier.” It giggled as if it were telling a joke.
“Okay.” The book responded, while flipping the pages to the next recipe. “How about strawberry?” “She” suggested next.
“Not a lot of people like strawberry.” The younger man simply stated, still not very enthusiastic about this venture.
“How about lemon?” the book offered up now, going to another recipe within its pages.
“Naww…” Ringo answered. “Too tart.” He said dismissively.
“Lets keep it simple.” George now suggested. “Lets go with chocolate.”
“Can Brian eat chocolate?” asked the smaller man, looking up at his taller friend.
“Of course he can eat chocolate.” The one with more height replied as he faced his friend. “You’re thinking of pork.” He added.
“Alright.” The female book interrupted. “I have German chocolate, Dutch chocolate, devil’s food…”
“Which is the easiest?” interrupted the brown eyed man, hoping to keep this simple.
“Oh I see.” The book acknowledged George’s request, and even sounded disappointed. “Might I suggest then the butter cake.” The feminine tone sweetly made another suggestion, as she returned to her upbeat self. “It’s the easiest cake I have to make, it requires the least amount of ingredients and you just add a third of a cup of coco to the dry ingredients to make it chocolate.”
“Thank you.” Harrison responded politely. He often found books to be most helpful. Going along with the plan, Ringo walked over to the cabinet to retrieve a bowl. In his search through the enclosed shelves, he found a large green mixing bowl, with a white glaze on the inside. The man then took a metal whisk from the canister, when he heard a high pitch cry.
“Eeeek!” shrilled the bowl in his hand. Bringing the item to his eye level, Starr saw a little face on the outer part of the dish.
“What’s the matter?” The petite man wanted to know.
“I’m ceramic!” the bowl answered.
“So?” Starr replied, not understanding the problem. Then the bowl became enraged. It’s eyes turned to flames, just like the tie before.
“So?” the over sized dish hissed in a demonic voice. “Metal will scratch me and then I’m ruined!” It barked thrusting it’s face towards the person holding it. “Ruined! Ruined!” it’s mouth grew wider and wider as it screamed, revealing sharp pointy teeth. Ringo shrieked and carelessly tossed the bowl on the counter. The ceramic dish remained unscathed, but the drummer was shakened.
“What’s wrong?” George asked, suddenly appearing.
“That bowl was mean to me.” The blue eyed man reported, pointing his finger at the upsidedown container on the counter top.
“Here.” The bandmate replied, as he handed Starr a different bowl. This different dish was red, and made from rubber.
“Do you have a problem with the metal whisk?” Inquired the smaller man to the dish.
“Not at all.” Said a very deep male voice, from the red bowl. “I’ve had whisk before.” Neither Ringo or George understood what that meant, but they matched the pair at the table.
“You need one and a half cups of flour.” Said the book from the other side of the room.
“One and a half cups of flowers?” Harrison thought he correctly repeated and was confused, but he never made a cake before. He saw a basket by the back door, and scooped it up. “I’m going to pick flowers in the garden.” He told his baking companion. “You go on with the other ingredients until I get back.” Ringo simply nodded as he watched George march to the door, with a little wicked basket in hand.
“Hooray!” cried the basket, with a childlike voice in George’s hand. “I get to go outside today.” It said with a little face appearing with those words. Then out the door the young man went, with the basket that seemed to be singing with joy.
“What’s the next ingredient, Miss Book?” The remaining man called across the room.
“One cup of sugar.” The lady novel immediately told him.
“Right.” Ringo replied, excited to know the location of this item. Instinctively Starr went to the pantry to retrieve the ingredient, but accidentally mistook the salt shaker for the sweet substance. “Is there a cup I can measure with?” he addressed the dishes in the room.
“Right here!” Cried another childlike voice, peeping through a top cabinet. The door to the enclosure opened, and a small cup jumped down to the counter. However, it wasn’t a measuring cup, but a tiny teacup, hopping up and down upon the flat surface.
“You’re not the kind of cup I need.” The drummer declared, observing the teacup bouncing in front of him, like a child hyped up on sweets.
“Oh please!” The little teacup begged. “I’m the size of one cup!” he assured. However, Starr was suspicious, and cocked his eye at the little tea dish.
“What is your real agenda lad?” The Beatle wanted to know.
“I really love sugar.” The little piece of china admitted right away, with a sly little smile. Which seemed as good as any reason for the drummer.
“Oh, alright.” Ringo relented, as he began to shake the shaker over the white cup. It took a very long time for the white grainy substance to pour into the eager container, and in the end, it only filled the vessel a quarter of the way. “Shit! We’re out of sugar!” cried the baker.
“You can use a substitute.” The recipe book pointed out, still on the secretary desk, with its page open to the butter cake instructions. “What else do you have that is sweet?” the motherly voice asked. The Beatle thought for a moment. What else did they have that was sweet?
“I have just the thing!” Ringo suddenly declared, as he snapped his fingers. Quickly the smaller man scurried to the living room, and returned with a box of cream filled chocolates. “You know, I think some of these have coconut in them, so there you go.” He announced to the furniture and items in the room. Starr was quite proud of himself as he filled the little cup with the candy. Then he dumped the contents into the red mixing bowl. “What is the next ingredient now?” The baker asked the talking book.
“Two teaspoons of baking powder.” The book spoke, like a sweet and affectionate mother. Starr just heard powder and proceeded to the bathroom where he had a container of talcum powder. “How many teaspoons again?” he inquired .
“Two.” Answered the hardbound text. So the Beatle grabbed a utensil from the draw, and studied the item he grasped.
“Are you a teaspoon” the man asked the metal cooking tool.
“I’m a ladle.” Remarked the feminine voice of the metal scoop in his hand. She sounded like an unimpressed secretary, trying to be patient. “The teaspoons are in the next draw over.” She explained in a disinterested voice.
It was then George came bursting through the door, nearly tripping on his own feet. He tossed the basket, that was filled with field flowers, to his bandmate. Then Harrison slammed the door behind him closed, his body up against the wooden barrier, as if he were trying to keep something out!
“Quick!” said the taller man. “Take what you need.” He added nervously. “Their parents are after me!”
“Who’s parents?” Ringo wanted to know, confused.
“The flowers parents.” Harrison explained, looking through the little window on the door he had just passed through “The bigger flowers kept biting me, so I picked the little ones instead.” He admitted, as if the man did something wrong. Starr just did as instructed, and carelessly dumped whatever was in the basket into the bowl, and began mixing his dry ingredients with the whisk, in the red container.
“Harder!” the bowl begged, and that’s when Ringo began to feel uncomfortable and placed the dish and whisk down on the table.
“What comes next?” Starr asked the book, hoping things wouldn’t become awkward again!
“This is when you should add the coco.” The older female voice informed the bakers.
“Okay.” George answered this time, as he seemed to no longer fear the flowers parents, and walked to the pantry door. “Coco please.” He said to the effeminate barrier.
“I’m sorry.” The pantry door began. “There isn’t anymore cocoa.”
“That’s alright.” Exclaimed the drummer, still at the table. “I have plenty of chocolates.” He said as the man emptied the box of candy into the bowl, wrappers and all!
“You’re going to need a cup of melted butter.” The woman’s voice from the book instructed. George went to the refrigerator and pulled out the pound of butter, in a brick shape, cover in wax paper. It had been previously used slightly, with remains of toasted bread on its edge. Harrison opened the smooth paper and allowed the milk rectangular block to drop into the bowl.
“It will melt in the oven.” George concluded, as the lump of milk fat took up most of the mixing container.
“Since it’s a chocolate cake, you should add a dash of cinnamon to pop out the chocolate flavor.” The book instructor told them. So Ringo went to the tea station on the counter, and pulled out a cinnamon stick from the bag. He then tossed the tiny red log in the bowl.
“That should be a dash worth.” He said proud of himself.
“Three eggs.” The book continued the recipe. Harrison returned to the refrigerator and retrieved the eggs in a sturdy paper carton. Loyally George handed the carton to Ringo, who was trying to mix the ingredients in the bowl, with the large hunk of butter in the way. Eager to soften the mix, the drummer open the lid of the egg container, and to his surprise, the eggs all had little black eyes, staring back at the two bakers. All the oval ovaries were all gazing up at both Ringo and George, with anxious looks. Bedazzled by such a strange find, Starr lifted an egg out of its cardboard home, with the eggs eyes never blinking.
“What is it like to be broken?” asked the little egg in a tiny voice, that resembled a child. Ringo winced at the very thought, but he answered the thin shelled creature.
“Its quite painful.” Starr replied, feeling a crack in his heart. “I’ve been broken many times.” He further added.
“Will I heal back together?” inquired a child’s voice from the little egg.
“I don’t think you will.” The drummer admitted, and suddenly, he began to cry.
“Then could you just place me in whole?” The little shelled creature then pleaded. The blue eyes looked into the simply crude drawn eyes, that appeared to have been drawn with black marker.
“I don’t see why not.” Ringo agreed, as he carefully nestled the little egg into the red mixing bowl. Then he and George did this for another two eggs, placing it next to it’s brother or sister, without disrupting it’s delicate shell.
“Now place the cake in the oven.” The book further instructed. George quickly put on an oven mitt on each hand, then carried the bowl to the inferno in which it would bake. Meanwhile Ringo open the metal lid below the stove. Now Harrison carefully placed the bowl on the oven rack, avoided the whisk that was still in the rubber bowl, from getting caught in the top rack. Afterwards, the smaller man closed the oven door.
“How long do we bake it for?” Inquired George.
“What the hell are you two doing?” said a voice from behind them, which startled the pair. The two men turned together and there in the front entrance of the kitchen stood their other two bandmates, John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
“Baking a cake for Brian’s birthday!” Ringo immediately explained, as excited as a small child.
“I hope he likes it.” Harrison chimed in. “The book told us how to bake it.” The confused man further declared. Now the two sober Beatles looked at one another, then at their two friends. George and Ringo seemed so happy with themselves. “When is Brian coming over?” George asked innocently.
“Yeah! I haven’t seen Epi for so long.” Starr backed up. John and Paul just gawked at the pair, but suddenly got a hold of themselves, to deal with the situation at hand.
“I think you lads have done enough.” Paul said sweetly, giving his friends a warm smile. “Why don’t you lads go in the living room and John and I will clean up in here.” His soft voice added.
“We’ll be in with tea, when we’re done.“ John promised in a gentle tone. The two other men simply nodded in response, and returned to the living room where this entire adventure began. As soon as the hallucinating pair were out of ears shot, Paul opened the oven and tossed the entire contraption into the garbage.
“You shouldn’t have left them unsupervised.” John stated, watching his other two bandmates have a conversation with their perspective cigarettes, which they lit once they were in the living room.
“Of all the crazy things.” Paul uttered, scanning the mess they left. Dishes were scattered about, along with the food the lead guitarist and drummer were playing with.
“They miss him.” John stated somberly, as the man in glasses glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Today would have been Brian’s thirty-fourth birthday. He’s been dead a little over a year and this isn’t even his first birthday gone.” He sighed heavily, as Paul wrapped his arms around Lennon’s thin frame from behind.
“I miss him too.” Paul agreed. John was now staring at George and Ringo in the other room. The two had a disagreement with their cigarettes and were crushing them heavily in the ashtray.
“We’re not okay.” John observed. “None of us are.”