I love him.

Which means I hate him.

Such is how my fucked up little brain works.

 

You see, if anything has been learned in my twenty something years of being, it’s that those you love will enviably turn on you or, perhaps worse, simply forget that you even exist.

 

 “Why do you push everyone so hard John?”

So my wife quietly asks. She’s annoying like this; asking questions she knows I will never honestly answer just to make a point, trying to be manipulating when she bloody well knows she’s not smart enough to be. I make some nonsense comment about how it keeps the Germans in order, and she leaves and I avoid her for the rest of the day.

 

 But to her credit, it’s a fair question. Why do I push everyone so hard?

And to my credit, it was a fair answer. If you replace Germans with assholes. So I’m not so hard to read after all, despite what the teachers said. But I digress.

 

 The simple truth is that people I have loved, one by one, have left and betrayed me. Me dad left, my mum gave me up and my aunt was the nastiest bitch I have ever come in contact with. I can still remember back when I was a kid; one minute she was as polite and as loving as possible; playing games with me and taking me to the theatre to see some stupid kiddie show, and the next she would blow up at something small and smack me across the room and scream in my face. Maybe I accidentally drug mud around the hall or maybe I ate something I wasn’t supposed to. I was too young and too small to fight back so I just curled up on my bed and cried and still loved her because what else can you do when you’re that small and the person you trust most in the world beats you?

 

  They hit me at school too.

I guess people really just don’t like kids.

This time it was for hitting someone else or failing to do my homework or god knows what.

At any rate I, along with the other trouble makers, started to grow up and learn how to avoid being hit at school by lying and blaming someone else and running away and intimidating the other kids and just not showing up for school. And then the complaints rolled in. Why does John lie, even though we beat him with a paddle when he’s honest? Why is John so violent, even though it’s the only way to keep the other little snots from attacking him? Why doesn’t John do his work, even though it’s completely pointless and no one really cares anyway? Why does John hate his teachers, even though they’re mindless bastards who make fun of all their students and don’t know what the hell they’re talking about because if they did they surely wouldn’t have wound back in shitty old Liverpool?

 

 The only person that really seemed to have any sense in those years was me mum. She understood that I, despite what everyone seemed to think, was different from all those clowns who were going to go on and make a pound a week driving a bus or some stupid thing. That the jobs they were trying to train me to do were not what I was going to be good at. She bought me my first guitar. Taught me banjo in the first place. Let me skip school because really, what was the bloody point? She could relate to me as I could her, a trait unheard of for adults who were suppose to just tell you to shut up and get in line before they smacked your ears off. She was the only one who ever said she loved me, and then didn’t go on to prove otherwise.

 

So it kinda makes sense that she would get hit by a police car.

And oh, Jesus you can’t make me say anything more about that because you can’t make me and I’m fucking tired of being depressed and I’m fucking tired of hurting and I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to fucking cry…

 

That’s better.

So you see pushing people around gives you the dominant stance and when you have the dominant stance, you’re untouchable. And if you’ll notice all those people mentioned earlier were in a state of supreme power. That is, they were older and bigger and had a stick to hit people with.

I won’t say they were smarter, because they bloody well weren’t. Which would help me later.

 

When I got to a certain age, me aunt stopped hitting me. Because I could hit back. And I would hit back. We both knew this.

And when she started screaming, I would start screaming.

And then, sometimes, I’d win an argument. And from that time forward, she had no power.

 

 I grew to realize that no one could make you do anything. No one, if you fought hard enough. I also realized that not everyone understood this, and some of those who didn’t were among those who had tried to control me with harsh words and pain.

So after years of abuse, I took revenge. Those bastards who’d tried to make me learn suddenly had a very big problem on their hands. They found they couldn’t turn around without me making fun of what they said or how they said it or what they looked like. And once I showed the world all their faults, all the other students realized that I was right and those blundering idiots never won back their respect.

 

 I can remember back in high school, I had a math teacher Mr. O’Conner. He was some million year old shit who’d probably never seen the outside of the dingy neighborhood or a decent looking cunt in his life. Anyway, we all thought he must be a bit addled in the head because he would sometimes sigh in the middle of a sentence for no reason. Just ‘huuh’ out of no where. So one day I was talking to a mate of mine and O’Conner snaps at me, “Perhaps you huuh would know the answer to the question, Mr. Lennon. You seem very ready to talk.”

And he really shouldn’t have said that because he acted so damn self righteous and looked so repulsive and I was not having a good day so I answered, “No huuh I don’t huuh know the answer huuh because huuh I can’t huuh understand a huuh fucking huuh word your huuh saying.”

All the other kids had to stifle their laughter and this quivering fag went beet red in the face, lost for words. And then, you won’t fucking believe it, he nanced over to me a whacked my hand with a ruler. Hard too, but it was more annoying than painful. Well, of coarse I was just waiting for him to do something stupid like that so I stood up and pushed him hard so he fell back and toppled over. He just laid there staring at me like I’d raped him up the arse. So I just left the class, having nothing else to do and too fucking fed up with everything to care. As I left, I heard someone cheer.    

 

You can’t imagine how good that felt, to be in power for once. To treat everyone with cold and indifferent disdain. No more pushing Johnny boy around.

Another thing I’d like to point out, I got more attention doing this shit then I ever would have gotten as a straight- A student.

Because again, despite what everyone told us, the good boys and girls were never very well liked. Sure the teachers pretended to like them so everyone would try and be like them, but they only ever did that to try and get everyone to be quiet and obedient so they could hear themselves talk without distraction.

The other kids didn’t like them either. They were no fun and reminded them that they were never going to be good enough.

And where did straight- A students wind up?

Back in Liverpool.

As teachers.

Making a couple pounds a week.

As miserable and useless as everyone else.    

 

  It’s sometimes lonely, being so hard. But it’s safe and it’s fun. And I have a good few friends. And haven’t I proved all of the adults wrong? I’m more important than they’ll ever be. Their superiors come to me for autographs and try to intimidate me to prove to themselves he’s just a kid, just an entertainer, I’m just as good as he is, aren’t I?

Of coarse not.

But let them think what they will.

 

  But it’s not as good as everyone seems to think it is. Being famous is fun for a few weeks and then after the novelty has worn off you just want to crawl in bed and hide for a couple months. I finally got away, I finally did what I’ve been wanting to do my whole life, I’m finally free, but it’s not what I thought it would be.

I realize running away didn’t fix everything like I somehow convinced myself it would. I still miss mum. I’m still feeling sad and exhausted, and to top it off I have no privacy left. I may be safe now with all my defenses, but I’m also trapped. I don’t feel like I can trust anyone. Real happiness is still a hard emotion to come by.

Unless he’s there.

 

 

 I love them all, but he’s different somehow. He’s so happy and optimistic, it drives me insane but I love him for it. After everything that’s happened to him, he still seems okay. He’s still open and he’s still comfortable with who he is and where he’s going. Perhaps he’s not as open as he used to be, but he’s certainly more open than me. He’s untouchable.

 He’s not either false. He knows what he knows and he’s not afraid to tell people the truth, a trait that seems to escape almost everyone. If my song that I’m writing is shit, he’ll say as much.

Most importantly, we seem to… understand each other. I dunno. We’ve gone through a lot together, have a lot of the same experiences, want the same things, etc etc, but it goes even deeper; it’s as if we have similar subconscious minds, as if on a deep and uncontrollable level are the same, even if we seem so different on the outside. I can just look at him and sense what he’s feeling; can tell when he’s really happy or just putting on a show for everyone else. Can tell when he’s bored or irritated or horny or whatever just by looking at him.

But then he can go on and still surprise me.

 

One day we were messing around in the studio for instance, playing and goofing and waiting for lunch, then Paul leaned his bass against the wall and went to get some water. While he was out, George snuck up behind me and literally shoved me off my stool and yelled

“Tag!”

Then he ran off laughing.

Smirking, I got up and tried to chase the bastard but tripped on Paul’s damn bass and fell to the floor. Smacked my face pretty fucking hard and managed to scuff up the bass pretty bad, not to mention bust up two strings.

“Fuck.” I muttered. Paul would rip me to fucking pieces for that, I knew it. From my position on the floor I saw Paul’s shoes walk into the room and stop in front of me. There was a heavy silence.

Embarrassed, afraid and angry with myself I braced myself for the fight and stood up. Glaring defiantly at him I waited for the tirade.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah.” I snapped, waiting for the accusations.

He bent down and calmly picked up the ruined guitar to examine it.

“The guitar doesn’t look so bad; I’ll put on some new strings during lunch.” He looked at me and frowned slightly.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You fell pretty damn hard.”

“… I’m fine.” I muttered, suspicious.

“If you say so.” He said, walking past me to sit down.

“Sorry.” I muttered as he passed, still wary.

“Don’t worry about it; ‘snot your fault.” He said brightly, and sat down.

His breezy attitude shocked me senseless, leaving me dizzy and rooted to the spot.

I wrecked his bass.

He loves that stupid thing.

I’m off the hook.

He didn’t scream.

I’m forgiven.

He asked if I was okay. 

 

I didn’t know why the hell I was so relieved, why I was so shook up. It was just a stupid accident after all, why should it be a big deal?

Because to anyone else in my life it would have been a big deal. I’d been hassled so much for so little over the years human kindness seemed foreign to me. I can’t really describe it; it was like drinking clear water after years of drinking nothing but sludge. I felt stupid just standing there, but it was taking an embarrassingly long time for what had happened to sink in.

“Ey, you going to sit down?” called Paul.

“Yeah.” I said, probably too loud. I strode back to my chair and sat down, trying to concentrate on work.

 

 And so my life as Beatle John! continues. And the reporters ask us when will the bubble burst? When will all this glorious fame end? Aren’t you afraid you’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone?

No.

We mean a lot to our fans, our millions of fans. They won’t let us go that fast, despite what the grown people in the world seem to think. I should have guessed they wouldn’t understand, they’ve never understood anything.

So pray tell, lord of rock and rebeller of all things superior, what, you say, do you fear? What makes John Lennon quiver in terror and search for the nearest corner to cower against?

Honestly, my partner and best friend Paul.

Because I love him.

And every time he glares at me for doing something stupid, every time he ignores me, every time he blows me off to hang out with someone else, it kills me.

Even with all my defenses against people, my snotty attitude, my teasing, my superior demeanor, I’m still back where I started; at the mercy of someone else’s affection.

In fact, now it’s even worse. My own self- induced isolation has left me more starved for unconditional love than ever.   

And some day, I know Paul will leave. Just like everyone else.

And I don’t know how I’ll stand the pain.

And the only way I know how to soften that fall is to push him away as much as I dare.

 

So I hate the way he smiles at me.

And I hate the way he makes me laugh.

I hate it how we can talk and goof off all night.

I hate how well he can sing.

I hate it when we write together.

I hate the way he hides my glasses.

I hate how he laughs whenever I tickle him.

I hate how he looks when he’s sleeping.

I hate it when he teams up with me when I make fun of some wanker who won’t leave us alone.

I hate that feeling I get when he bites his lip and widens his eyes to look innocent.

I hate how much we understand each other.

I hate how everything is more fun when he’s around.

Most of all

I hate how I really don’t hate him.

At all.

 

    

 

    

 

Current Mood: nervous
Current Music: Golden Slumbers