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“John.” Paul’s voice was strained, edged with a weariness that went beyond simple annoyance. He stood over the prone figure, arms tightly crossed against his chest.
John Lennon, the legendary songwriter, was currently indistinguishable from an inconsolable child. He continued to cry, a miserable, gasping sound, his face mashed into the carpet, his whole body occasionally convulsing with a kick against the floorboards.
“John, get up. Honestly, lad.”
“Nrfph.” The sound was a watery, indecipherable protest muffled by the carpet.
“You have been lying on the floor for eleven hours, straight. Since Cynthia left, and took Julian.” Paul sighed, rubbing his temples. He nudged John lightly, almost apologetically, with the toe of his boot.
“Divorvbs….” John whined the word into the floor, stretching it into a drawn-out lamentation that sounded like death.
“Yes, I am aware of the divorce. As is the entire world, thanks to the papers.” Paul knelt slightly, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “But this is now exclusively your ex-wife’s house, John. Cynthia’s house. And she told me, explicitly, that you have to leave.”
“Nawf…” John’s only response was to burrow deeper into the shag pile, a human mole of misery.
Paul stood up, running a hand through his hair. He needed a distraction, something, anything. “Do you want a digestive?” Paul offered. “I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday. Come on, a little biscuit?”
“Oofkoop…” John groaned, a sound suggesting a profound physical ailment.
“Get up. Now, John. Get up, and I’ll get you a biscuit. You can’t live on the floor. Think of the splinters. Come on,” Paul held out his hand, palm up. He waited, his jaw set.
John remained horizontal. “Noof… Imma floor maan now… This is me habitat…” He punctuated this declaration by weakly pounding his fists on the floor.
“God.” Paul recoiled, the last sliver of sympathy dissolving. “You’re acting like a toddler who’s been denied a new toy. A very rich, very famous, very twenty-four-year-old toddler.”
“Fumk uff…”
Oh, for- fuck you too, y’know? You selfish git.” Paul yelled, the polite veneer shattering like glass. He snatched a digestive from the tin, a crisp, pale disc, and hurled it. The biscuit struck his bandmate directly on the back of his uncooperative head.
John stood up, weeping. “You’re a horrible bad man, McCartney. You’re mean and evil and I don’t like you. You’re too pretty! I don’t like it! Only girls can be pretty! But you’re pretty! And that isn’t allowed!”
“What on earth are you talking about, John?” Paul stood there, confused.
“Yes! Yes! I’m going to call the coppers and they’re going to get you!” John stumbled over to the telephone and began the clicking rotary dial for the police.
“For… throwing a biscuit at you?”
“No! For being pretty! It’s not allowed!” John cried, holding the phone to his ear. “HELLO?!” John roared into the mouthpiece, heedless of the potential damage to the eardrum of the poor soul on the other end. “POLICE! I HAVE VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO SAY. THINGS OF NATIONAL SECURITY! I HAVE A CRIMINAL IN MY FLAT. A PRETTY CRIMINAL. AND HE NEEDS TO BE LOCKED UP IMMEDIATELY.”
“Sir. Please calm down. Who is this? Can we have a name?”
“IT’S JOHN LENNON. YES, THAT JOHN LENNON. AND YOU NEED TO ARREST PAUL MCCARTNEY RIGHT NOW.”
“Erm. okay. What- what has he done?” The police officer was giggling.
John let out a high-pitched, desperate shriek that could shatter glass. “HE’S TOO DAMN PRETTY! FIX IT! HE MUST BE JAILED FOR IT!”
Paul snatched the phone from John’s grasp and gently replaced the receiver on the hook. "Right. Enough," Paul said. He grabbed John’s sleeve. "You’re coming with me. We are getting out of Cynthia’s house, and we are going to get you a proper meal."
John allowed himself to be hauled up, though he continued to weep dramatically. He was a large, cumbersome dead weight, protesting every inch of the way.
"Don’t wanna go. You’ll make me eat a horrible carrot. I hate carrots. They’re ugly. And they make you see in the dark, which is for spies, and I’m not a spy. I’m a famous genius songwriter."
"You’ll eat a sandwich, John. And you'll drink a cup of tea. And you'll stop crying, or I will put you on the next flight to Hamburg and leave you to be managed by Stu Sutcliffe’s ghost."
The threat seemed to momentarily short-circuit John’s hysteria. He sniffled, wiping his nose messily on his sleeve. "Don’t say that. Stu was lovely. You’re horrid."
"I know, John. Now let’s go. Where’s your coat?"
John pointed vaguely toward a pile of discarded clothes by the door. Paul rummaged through it, retrieving a stained military jacket. He helped John put it on, maneuvering his bandmate’s arms into the sleeves like dressing a very large, very unhappy doll.
Once they were on the street, Paul flagged down a black cab. John tumbled into the back seat, collapsing against the plush upholstery. He immediately started staring out the window, his lower lip still trembling.
"Where to, mate?" the cabbie asked, turning back to look at them.
"Kenwood," Paul supplied, then, seeing the driver’s confused expression at his tearful passenger, added, "Just been a bit of a rough day, hasn’t he, John?"
The cabbie nodded, shifting the car into gear. "Divorce is a killer, ain’t it, Mr. Lennon. My cousin went through one. Kept his telly, though, so fair play to him."
John looked back at Paul, his eyes wide and panicked. "He said the D-word! Did you hear that, McCartney? The D-word! It’s following me! It’s everywhere!" He slumped back in his seat, the picture of despair.
Paul leaned forward and tapped the glass divider. "Just drive, mate. Quickly."
“Paul.”
“Yes, John?”
“...I want to eat a carrot.”
Paul stared at him, speechless for a moment. "I beg your pardon?"
John sat up straight, his misery momentarily forgotten, replaced by the earnest intensity of a child requesting an exotic treat. "A carrot. I want to eat a horrible, ugly, spy-making carrot. Right now. I’ve changed my mind. I need one."
"You literally just said you hate them," Paul pointed out. "You said they were ugly, and that they’d turn you into a spy."
"Well, maybe I want to be a spy now," John declared, pulling his jacket collar up around his ears dramatically. "A secret agent of despair. I’ll hide in the dark and weep silently.”
The taxi pulled up to the large house that was Paul’s home. Paul paid the cabbie, tossing him a generous tip, and hustled John out of the car.
John fumbled with the key in the lock, finally pushing the heavy door open. "I hate this house, Paul," John said, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness. "It’s too big and too quiet. It smells of money and responsibility."
"It’s fine, John. It’s just a house," Paul said, closing the door again, this time firmly but gently, trying to contain the noise. He flicked on a light switch, illuminating the staircase.
“No.” John shook his head stubbornly, dropping his guitar case onto the floor with a mournful clang. “No, no, no. I want to live in a hole. In the ground. A loud one. I want to live in the kaiserkeller.”
"You hate the kaiserkeller," Paul pointed out, his voice flat. "You said it smelled of sweat and beer and that the ceiling was so low you felt like a mole being crushed."
“I want my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife. Cynthia divorced you.” Paul sighed.
“I want a new wife. A carrot wife. A secret small carrot wife in a hole in the ground. A loud spy wife. Secretly. In a hole. And I want her to smell bad.”
Paul took a deep breath, setting up the kettle. “Alright, then. Tell me. What’s the name of your carrot-wife?”
“Paul. her name will be paul.”
Paul blinked. “Alright. What kind of tea do you want?”
“Blueberry Pineapple.”
“That… is not a flavour that exists. We have chamomile, cinnamon, lemon, black, and earl grey.”
“Lemon. I like lemons.” John declared. “Also, I think I would. Shag a boy, I mean. If I really had to.”
Paul nearly dropped the glass. “What?”
“Yes. but only if they play the bass. And they have to be really pretty.”
“Like… Stuart Sutcliffe?"
“NO! They have to be from Liverpool!”
Paul stared at him, holding a mug and a lemon tea bag, his jaw slightly agape. The steam from the boiling kettle was starting to fog the kitchen window.
"John," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "You… just asked me to make you lemon tea, and in the same breath, you declared your intention to ‘shag a boy’ from Liverpool who plays bass and is pretty."
"Yes," John confirmed, nodding earnestly, oblivious to Paul’s bewildered state. "It’s called processing my feelings. Very modern. I read about it. Anyway, where is the biscuit?"
Paul dropped the tea bag into the mug and poured the water. "I threw it at your head, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. That was mean. You’re a terrible friend, Paul McCartney," John sniffed, taking the offered mug. He wrapped both hands around it, staring intently into the swirling amber liquid as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"I am trying my best to prevent you from becoming a permanent resident of your ex-wife’s carpet. I think that qualifies me as a decent friend, all things considered," Paul retorted, making his own cup of black tea.
John took a large, noisy gulp, winced at the heat, and then set the mug down with a clatter. "I’m not inde... indecent. I’m just sad. And hungry. And I still want a carrot."
Paul finished pouring his own tea, the dark liquid a stark contrast to John’s pale lemon brew. He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down opposite him, bracing his forearms on the table. He looked John over—the rumpled shirt, the slightly wild hair, the intensity of the tea-stare. "Right. So, to recap: emotional crisis, shagging, bass player, lemon tea, and vegetable fixation. I've got it."
John leaned forward, his expression shifting from melancholy to one of baffling, wide-eyed curiosity. "Paul. H-How did you become so pretty? How did this happen? It seems sudden. Like a secret development."
Paul blinked, the non sequitur catching him completely off guard. He took a hesitant sip of his tea. "I don’t know. That’s a very strange question, even for you, which is saying something. I’m just… like this, I suppose. I don't recall filling out an application to be 'pretty.'"
"How do you spell that?" John asked.
"What?"
"Suppose. The word you just used. S-o-p-o-p-o-p-o-s-e. Is that right?" John tapped his fingers restlessly on the mug.
Paul set his own tea down with a soft clink. He closed his eyes briefly, gathering his composure. "W-what on earth are you talking about? I just used it in a sentence. It’s a perfectly normal word."
"It’s a confusing word," John insisted, nodding decisively, as if suppose was the true root of all his emotional problems. "S-o-p-u-p-o-s-e. It feels slippery. Like it should have more letters, or maybe fewer." John stood up, threw his coat on the floor, and walked over to get a notepad and pen. Where he wrote; in very fancy script:
Soopoose
Paul watched him, completely bewildered by the sudden, bizarre turn in the conversation. John was now hunched over the kitchen table, meticulously crossing out and underlining his misspelled word.
"John, what are you doing?" Paul finally asked, leaning back in his chair.
"I am figuring out the essence of ‘Soopoose,’" John declared gravely, without looking up. "It is a key component of your pretty-ness, I think. You say ‘Soopoose’ and then you look all innocent and lovely, and that is how you get away with being a handsome criminal."
"I think the key component of my ‘pretty-ness’ is that I’m not lying face-down on a carpet crying about my divorce, but alright," Paul muttered under his breath, before raising his voice. "Look, it’s S-U-P-P-O-S-E. Two P’s, not four O’s. And it has nothing to do with being pretty, it’s a verb."
John froze, pen hovering mid-air. He slowly turned to face Paul, his expression a mixture of profound betrayal and dawning realization. "S-U-P-P-O-S-E? That’s rubbish. That’s a weak word. It doesn’t capture the sheer volume of uncertainty required by the concept. I prefer ‘Soopoose.’"
"I don’t care what you prefer. That’s how it’s spelled. Put the pen down, John. You’re spiraling."
"I am not spiraling! I am processing! I am a genius in the throes of a creative linguistic epiphany! And you, Paul McCartney, are attempting to stifle my genius with your boring, technically correct grammar!" John slapped the notepad down on the table, scattering the tea bags Paul had left next to the kettle. "If I write a song about ‘Soopoose,’ it will be the most honest song ever written! But if I write a song about ‘Suppose,’ it will be a chart flop! A failure! A travesty!"
Paul sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "John, you’re not writing a song about either of those words. You’re having a breakdown."
"It’s not a breakdown, it’s an awakening," John insisted, grabbing his mug and taking a large, sloshing sip of the now slightly cooled lemon tea. He winced again. "It’s still too hot. And not pineapple-y enough."
Paul just stared at him. "Just drink the tea, John. And then we’ll find you that carrot."
"No. I don’t want a carrot anymore. I want a celery stick."
"Celery?"
"Yes. Celery. It’s quiet. It’s pale. It is George. I need quiet vegetables now, Paul. My emotions are too loud." John slumped back into his chair, the drama of the last two minutes seemingly having exhausted him
"Alright, John," Paul said, pushing himself up. He walked over to the refrigerator. "I think I might actually have some celery. I bought it for Jane."
"YOUR GIRLFRIEND??" John asked, his voice suddenly sharp with renewed suspicion.
"Yes. She likes to keep healthy."
John pointed an accusatory finger at Paul. "Ah-HA! So you are making her pretty! You are actively involved in the pretty-conspiracy! It’s all coming together!"
Paul pulled a bunch of pale green celery from the vegetable crisper. He held it up. "It’s a vegetable, John. It’s not a conspiracy."
"That’s what they want you to think," John mumbled, but the protest lacked conviction.
Paul placed the cold, crisp stalk in John’s hand. John examined it as if it were a strange artifact from an alien planet, then slowly, deliberately, took a large, loud bite. He chewed, eyes fixed on Paul.
"So?" Paul prompted.
John swallowed. "It’s… watery."
"Yes, John. That’s what celery is."
"It’s very quiet."
"Good. Now, are you going to stop crying and yelling at me?"
John took another bite. "...I ‘Soopoose’ so."