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Paul McCartney’s policy in life had always been to “look out for number one.”
This philosophy had been instilled in him by his father, Ab McCartney, who had learned it from his grandfather, Orson McCartney, who had learned it from his great-grandfather, Ainsworth McCartney.
“Son,” his father had told him, “you may care about one woman, as the bearer of your child, and about your child, who is an extension of yourself. Really, you shouldn’t even care about me. I only care about your mother, Addie, because she produced you, an extension of myself. I care about you because, in a manner of speaking, you are me. Do you understand?”
“Right-o, Dad, I’m just a regular extension of our many illustrious forefathers, a grandiloquent celebration of the McCartney greatness—” Paul began, only for his father to cut him off.
“You’re not getting paid by the word, Paul. And remember, always respect and obey your superiors, and bully and punish your inferiors.” And his father left the house for work.
It had made sense, then, that Paul should respect and obey John, since that was the best way to go about serving one’s own interests. And he did try to bully and punish George and especially Ringo, but he didn’t feel like he was a natural bully like his father, and, truth be told, he had grown rather fond of the lads. (Were they lads? Was Ringo actually the youngest? Paul had never asked.)
What sort of failure of a man failed to live by his own policy? Was it his own policy? Or had he only thought it was his policy because it was one of the few things his father had directly given him?
“Fellas,” he said one day, a rare occasion when they weren’t performing, practicing, or being chased by female fans, “I seem to have a problem.”
“A problem?” John repeated. “Why, what sort of problem could you possibly have? We’re the blinkin’ Beatles! We’ve got more money than God, more fame than Jesus! At least in England,” he added quickly.
“This problem has nothing to do with the Beatles,” Paul insisted, “other than the fact that I am one. It’s causing me quite a bit of distress, you know! I seem to…to care about the three of you!”
John, George, and Ringo all looked at one another, appearing as baffled as Paul felt.
Then, they burst into their characteristically loud and obnoxious laughter. (He didn’t sound like that, did he?)
“What kind of problem is that?” John wiped a tear from his eye. “Of course you care, Paul. If I thought you didn’t care about people, I wouldn’t’ve picked you to be our bassist. Remember that time an artist was sad because the critics didn’t like her painting of a pussycat, and you said, ‘I like pussycats!’ and praised her art?”
“But that was just the truth,” Paul insisted. “I do like pussycats!”
Ringo offered, “And what about that time I was depressed about being a jinx, and you sang ‘Good Day Sunshine’ to cheer me up? If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have done that.”
“Well,” Paul said, embarrassed, “I’d just written that one, and I was looking for an excuse to try it out.”
“Besides,” George said, “what about those little dance-offs we always have when we play together? You know how much I love to dance, and how happy I am to dance with you.”
Paul threw up his hands in exasperation. “But dancing is fun! It’s not like I was doing something I don’t like for you.”
“You have fun now. Don’t you remember what a pain you thought it was at first?”
“But…but…” Paul stammered. “Surely there’s some other reason I had for doing it. Because the other option is that I, Paul McCartney, care about people other than myself—and that’s just not possible!”
“What about the time you set that ‘bird’ free when I had her in a cage?” Ringo suggested, while the other three stared at him.
“Well, I was worried about her,” Paul insisted. “Besides, I didn’t want you to go to jail, Ringo.”
“Sounds a lot like you do care,” John declared. “Not just about us, but about people you don’t even know. You were worried about a complete stranger. What’s more, I bet you would have worried about her even if she was ugly, or a man, or an ugly man.”
“But sometimes I’m mean to Ringo!”
“Sometimes we’re all mean to Ringo,” said George, patting Ringo on the shoulder while John nodded.
“Sometimes,” Ringo continued, “I’m even mean to meself. Besides, I kind of like being picked on,” he added, while the other three stared at him.
“It is kind of fun to be teased,” Paul agreed. “I mean, wait, no! That’s not what we’re discussing right now!” He sighed. “All right, I might as well say it. I…I’m not really attracted to women. I’m attracted to men! And I’m attracted to all three of you! Especially John!”
The jaws of the other three dropped.
“That’s…that’s why I was so afraid of caring,” he admitted. “If I care…then I have to be honest about my feelings. And being…what do they call it now? Gay? Is that even allowed? In a universe such as this one?” This was as close as Paul could legally come to breaking the fourth wall.
None of the other three could stand it any longer.
“But Paul,” said John, “I’m gay, too! And attracted to all three of the rest of us! Especially you, Paul! But like you, I was afraid to say it! I even pretended to be attracted to women to throw everyone off!”
“Me, too!” Ringo said. “But I love all of you, too! Romantically, as well as platonically.”
“And I love you all, too,” said George. “And now that it’s out in the open, we should all be a foursome! In more ways than one.”
And so, all four of the Beatles started dating.
“Isn’t it funny?” John said. “All you need is love, and things just magically work out on their own.”
“It’s also funny,” said Ringo, “that the four of us were gay all along.”
“Actually,” said George, “I’m bisexual.”
THE END