I Buried Paul by Bruce Ferber

Author:Bruce Ferber
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fiction Studio Books
Published: 2022-01-17T21:29:51+00:00

ONWARD

Prem’s meticulous effects work for the Help! debut of “Strawberry Fields Forever” is locked and loaded for the Carmine’s gig, right down to Gene’s garbled “I buried Paul” gibberish at the end. The only hitch is that Marcia Klein has turned out to be a no-show for her own surprise. There’s obviously a new wrinkle to her story, but a muted and evasive Gene offers up nothing regarding his mother’s status. He also looks ten years older than he did last week at JP Murphy’s, and the facial tic has kicked into overdrive.

Nobody is surprised by the announcement that our premiere of “Strawberry Fields” will be postponed until Marcia’s return, but we are taken aback when Jasmine arrives for Yoko duty, only to be sent home without pay. Gene’s rationale is that he’s in an early-Beatles mood tonight so, realistically, Yoko would have no reason to be there. Never mind that Jasmine had to spring for a round-trip Uber to receive this news.

The rowdy Carmine’s crowd doesn’t notice (or care) what kind of mood Gene Klein is in. As long as there’s watery Bud and “Roll Over Beethoven,” the man could have a massive heart attack and be impaled on his Rickenbacker. My focus is on the front entrance in anticipation of Christina’s arrival, with or without Hubby. A peripheral glance over at the bar has also alerted me to the presence of Amy, the Paul groupie who previously toyed with the idea of adding me to her McCartney collection. Tonight, she’s ditched the Chardonnay in favor of Jägerbombs, and is knocking them back with Sean McNeil, the front man for the Wings Tribute Band, “Feathers,” and, coincidentally, manager of a Buffalo Wild Wings franchise in Massapequa.

For reasons unknown, Amy starts giving me dirty looks the moment I begin harmonizing with Gene on “You Really Got a Hold on Me.” Maybe she senses that I’m thinking about another woman, and it pisses her off. The Paul that got away. I’m picturing what kind of outfit Christina will be wearing when she walks in the door, as well as the body language between her and Hubby should he wind up tagging along.

After we finish the first set, take our break, and move on to the next group of songs, I make peace with the likelihood that my Jones Beach buddy has opted out of the evening’s festivities. The noteworthy takeaway from tonight will be that Gene, for the first time since I joined the band, has managed to commandeer a tight, professional performance devoid of Liverpudlian patter, criticism of his fellow band members, and post-game noodging regarding the next rehearsal date.

As thrilled as the other guys are to have dodged the pointless drama and fake-nose talk, I’m not sold on what has gone down. I don’t enjoy Gene’s dysfunctional calisthenics any more than the next person, but somehow their absence is even more troubling. To me, this new cool professionalism is a form of surrender—the first step toward soullessness. Once the

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