I love asking people how their parents met. You always get an interesting reply. My best friend’s parents met on the relatively new internet in 1999. My other friend’s parents met at Burger King when one was the manager and the other was a regular customer. My parents met at the beach because they were neighbors in their rental houses, mom was on a church trip and dad was getting blackout drunk every night with his friends next door.
george really was the it girl of beatles the prettiest member dating the prettiest girl wrote the most popular songs got bob dylan whipped for him etc etc. love u george
when he’d successfully (and aggressively) shaken the half-cig out onto his palm, harrison turned his moppet nose toward her once more, only to find that the bird had stepped closer.
“nah. liverpool.” his tone was dry, eyebrows raised, and his eyes half-lidded. “n’whur’re you from, then?” he turned his shoulders toward her, one leaning casually on the brick wall beside him as he lit the cigarette he’d wedged between his lips. in the dim light of the alleyway, he could see now that the girl was a little comely, and if she’d come to flirt— he’d have his best chances facing her straight on. after a generous pull on the little nub, harrison removed it, pinching the filter between his first and second finger and resting his arm at his side.
“don’t tell me tha’s th’queen’s German.”
“Well, Liverpool is in the UK,” Cheryl laughed, delighted by the young man’s cheek. He’d turned to face her now, and she could study his features more carefully in the dim light. She squinted, frowning slightly as she could swear she recognized him from somewhere.
“I’m…from the United States….” she murmured idly, tilting her head as she racked her brain trying to think who he could be. “But you look so familiar to me, it’s so strange. Have you been to America? I’ve never been to Hamburg or Liverpool….” @forthriight
“oh, an american,” harrison grinned at that, figuring from her laughter that they must be getting along somewhat. “s’pose we’re both a little lost.” he chuckled and took another drag then, eyeing the girl with an amused sort of curiosity as she squinted at him in the faint light coming off the strip. tried to think of how he could be familiar to a bird all the way from the states. for all he knew, she was making it up.
“i’ve never been to america, no. although i do like y’er records.” the guitarist said warmly. he dropped his ciggie, snuffing it out with the heel of his boot, and crossed his arms over his chest. now it was his turn to do the squinting.
“are all americans this forward? i mean... most people start by asking y’er name, y’know.” he said with a wry grin.
George’s nasal bark does a great job of making it through the thin wood of the door Klaus is currently standing in front of. The German lad’s brows bend in bemusement as he stands out in the hall waiting for the Dark Horse himself to appear in the doorway. When he finally does, Harrison looks disheveled and far too awake behind the eyes. Klaus remembers when the boys discovered marijuana-- each of their puppy-dog eyes became impossibly sleepier.
Whatever George is now is not that. Blue hues can’t help but scope around in an attempt to find the aforementioned ‘stuff’ as he lingers in the hall, and he has the decency to look shy about it though he’s chomping at the bit. Harrison’s been on a bit of a nonstop bender. They’re all a little worried about him. At the very least, he’s is smiling like he hasn’t done in weeks... so there’s that.
“What’re ye standin’ about for ‘ey? Come in!” The guitarist laughs, clapping his companion on the shoulder to usher him into the apartment. There are about twelve other people in the tiny living room he shares with Lennon and McCartney (and sometimes their partners), and although Klaus knows that George dislikes parties, he seems to have found himself in the middle of one. Upon further inspection, perched on the last cushion of the couch with his legs crossed sits Bob Dylan, another musician about town who went to the same school as George.
‘Of course he’d be here,’ Voormann thinks and tries not to be too bothered by it. George’s arm is still around his shoulders after all.
“You look well today,” He says quietly, privately to the younger lad as he smiles. Harrison stares back with a muted grin on his face, like he’s just been given instructions in French. A beat passes as they stare at each other wordlessly, George’s dark eyes shifting just slightly as his attention wanders from freckle to freckle on the opposing mug. Just as Voorman moves to repeat himself, George interjects.
“We’ve just been playin’ some tunes,” He offers eagerly, breaking off to reattach himself to the acoustic leaning beside Dylan, smiling all the while. “Ye ought to let us play somethin’ for ye.”
“Okay,” Klaus titters, apprehensive in the face of all the excitement. This isn’t his George... not the George he’d come to see or the George he’d come to...
Harrison looks up at Dylan then and they share a secret smile that Klaus is almost pained to have caught. They begin the tune in tandem and Voormann feels his chest tighten as the lyrics pour out of two souls moving as one. The song is called ‘If Not For You’, and after the first appearance of the chorus, Klaus’ mind wanders to less painful things like where that “stuff” might be hiding.
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