Above Us Only Sky by James Slesinger

"Above Us Only Sky" by James Slesinger

It was getting late and, I’ve got to tell you, I was just so tired. “What if we…” Paul had said, hesitantly, his words drifting slowly out of his mouth and hanging in the hazy, smoke-filled air. “What if we used something like this, like a…” he ventured, leaving another sentence unfinished and starting a slow strum on his guitar. I sighed, rubbing my eyes hard. Paul was a fool, who wrote absolute rubbish on the guitar. And I say that in humour of course – as anyone would while teasing a friend. But he was a fool. “No, no it’s all wrong,” I told the ceiling. “It’s all mixed up, it doesn’t work. Why don’t you give me the guitar, Paul?”

I lifted my head back into the upright position, moving the line of my gaze down until it was parallel with the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet, and stared impatiently into Paul’s eyes. He stared back, letting the sudden silence fill the small room. Finally, he lifted the guitar from its seat on his lap and held it out to me. A soft clattering sound broke the silence as his guitar pick fell clumsily from his hand and hit the floor, dancing around for a moment before settling down, motionless, in a spot just under the couch. As I took the guitar from him he sighed, bent down, picked up the tiny black pick, and held it out to me, annoyed. I dug another pick out of the pocket of my jeans and began playing the guitar, never acknowledging Paul. Everyone in the room nodded knowingly as I continued to play, everyone except Paul. He stared for a long while, indifferent, refusing to show any emotion, positive or negative.
“Sure enough, I think John’s got something again,” Ringo said excitedly, drumming rhythmically on his lap with the palms of his hands. Minutes passed and, as I kept playing, Paul slowly started to nod. As he glanced around the room, noting everyone’s reactions, an understanding expression formed on his own face, as if to say, “Yeah, I know. You’re right.” He stood and fetched another guitar from the corner of the room, began to play along with me. I listened for him as I played, and nodded, content. “There you go, Paul.” I said smugly. “You just needed a little push to get you started in the right direction, hmm?” George, seated in a small wooden chair near the kitchen, laughed hard at this, looking back and forth from my face to Paul’s. “Oh, shut it,” Paul replied, stern at first, but with the subtle hint of a grin beginning to stretch slowly across his face. From the corner of the room, a record executive watched me intently, sipping his beer.

I tried to think of his name, this record executive. I remember just sitting there for a long while trying to think of his name. It wasn’t that I cared really, just that I figured it was polite to remember the fellow’s name, being that I was at his place and all. Record executives were all the same, all forgettable. His name was Frank, or Jack, or Harry; it didn’t matter. Let’s say it was Harry. His hair was cut short, his face cleanly shaven, and he defined himself by his huge and impressive record collection. Any song you wanted to hear, he boasted, he could play for you on the stereo. Any song you liked, he would have on record. It was a nice thing I suppose, but I just don’t understand how types like that don’t play music themselves. His apartment was littered with expensive guitars he never played, probably didn’t know how to play. I guess I just think that someone who claims to love music like that should make it. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I just never understood that.

Thirty minutes later, I was descending onto the street, taking the stairs down from Harry’s flat. “Wait up, John. Wait!” Paul’s voice echoed down the stairwell behind me. “What’s your hurry?” I turned to face him, made no effort to remove the scowl from my face. George was still inside the apartment, talking with Harry’s friend. Everyone else was on the stair, exchanging kind words with Harry’s drunken figure in the doorway. I trudged back up the staircase reluctantly. “All right, all right, are we going to hang around here all night?” I demanded, jokingly, but with a trace of genuine anger. Before anyone could answer, George appeared in the doorway and began shaking Harry’s free hand, thanking him. They turned sideways and George awkwardly shimmied his way through the door, knocking the beer bottle out of Harry’s other hand. The bottle fell, shattered into a hundred pieces. “It’s a good thing it was empty!” Harry joked. “You see that? You gotta drink ‘em fast!” A burst of laughter exploded down the stairwell and out into the New York night. Everyone was grinning, patting Harry on the back, shaking Harry’s hand, shaking Harry’s friend’s hand. I waited impatiently for it all to end.

I remember standing there while they talked for what seemed like an eternity, disconnected from the conversation. I can recall I thought about Julia, my mother, and a story she had told me when I was 16 or 17. She told me that I had been born, back in Liverpool, in the middle of a German air raid. I can’t say that I really remember it; I suppose that wouldn’t make much sense. And yet, when she told me that story, it was as if I had already heard it, had already known what she was going to say. I always remember that story, probably because Julia was killed soon after that and it was one of the last things I remember us talking about. It’s not uncommon for me to think about it, to picture my young mother giving birth to me, clutching my father’s hand tightly and sucking in quick, hard breaths in sync with flashes of white light from the window, rumbling crashes and explosions from the streets outside.

“Well, we’ve really got to be going,” Paul announced, silencing the bombs. Everyone admitted that he was right and we said our goodbyes. Paul was always making decisions for us now, and I didn’t like it. As the four of us walked back to our hotel from Harry’s place, I wondered if any of them remembered who had started this band in the first place, who had brought it all together. Far off in the distance, I thought I could hear the dull rumble of bombs going off. Paul spoke, striking up a conversation concerning his excitement about recording for Harry. I listened, but the din of bombs exploding over New York had become deafening, drowning out his voice.

That’s the night that I knew it was over. That’s the one. Sure, I didn’t officially call it quits for a little while but, on that night, I knew it was all over. It just couldn’t work anymore, not with Paul carrying on like he did and running the show to suit his needs and wants. He was selfish and egotistical, I’m sorry to say. Oh, stop here driver. Come on, Yoko.

I’m not really sure how things went so bad, y’know? I mean, I know you’ve heard this story a million times, love, but I really don’t know how it happened. I always pinpoint that night as the turning point, my crossing from happiness into unhappiness with the events occurring regarding the band. That night is the first time I remember being truly unhappy, discontent with things. But, now that I think about it, I’m quite sure I was unhappy before that, long before that. I really wonder when we started to go sour. Probably had a lot to do with Brian’s death. Bands with good managers always seem to go sour when they lose them. Why hello, what’s this guy doing lurking about in the shadows? You’re probably right, Yoko, he’s probably without a home, poor chap. I’m sorry I mentioned it. He almost looks familiar, but I’m probably just imagining it in this dark. After you, dear. Give the door a good tug, you know this one always sticks when it’s chilly. Another lovely feature of the Dakota building, right?

“Mr. Lennon!” the man in the shadows called. A few gunshots rang out, loud in the quiet New York night, roaring even, like the tumultuous crashes of bombs exploding over a small hospital room in Liverpool.

Works Consulted

"John Lennon - Official Website." 8 Oct 2006 <http://www.johnlennon.com/>.

"The story of the Liverpool Lennons: John Lennon." John Winston Lennon.
8 Oct 2006 <http://www.lennon.net/lennons/john_lennon.shtml>.

"John Lennon Portfolio." John Lennon Portfolio. 8 Oct 2006 <http://www.beatlesagain.com/bjohn.html>.

"IK! John Lennon - Bio, Part II: Brian Epstein Brings Respectability To
The Beatles." Brian Epstein Gives The Beatles Their Marching Orders!. 8
Oct 2006 <http://www.instantkarma.com/johnbioepstein.html>.

"BBC - h2g2 - The Lennon-McCartney Songwriting Partnership." The
Lennon-McCartney Songwriting Partnership. 8 Oct 2006 <http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A5950929>.

Above Us Only Sky - Draft 1

It was getting late and, I’ve got to tell you, I was just so tired. “What if we…” Paul said, hesitantly, his words drifting slowly out of his mouth and hanging in the hazy, smoke-filled air. “What if we used something like this, like a…” he ventured, leaving another sentence unfinished and starting a slow strum on his guitar. I sighed, rubbing my eyes hard. Paul was a fool, who wrote absolute rubbish on the guitar. And I say that in humour of course – as anyone would while teasing a friend. But he was a fool. “No, no it’s all wrong,” I told the ceiling. “It’s all mixed up, it doesn’t work. Why don’t you give me the guitar, Paul?”

I lifted my head back into the upright position, moving the line of my gaze down until it was parallel with the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet, and stared impatiently into Paul’s eyes. He stared back for a brief moment, letting the sudden silence fill the small room. Finally, he lifted the guitar from its seat on his lap and held it out to me. A soft clattering sound broke the silence as his guitar pick fell clumsily from his hand and hit the floor, dancing around for a second before settling down in a spot about one inch under the couch. As I took the guitar from him, he sighed, bent down, picked up the tiny black pick, and held it out to me with an air of annoyance. I dug a pick out of the pocket of my jeans and began playing the guitar, never acknowledging Paul. Everyone in the room nodded knowingly as I continued to play, everyone except Paul. He stared for a long while, indifferent, refusing to show any emotion, positive or negative. “Sure enough, I think John’s got something again,” Ringo said excitedly, drumming rhythmically on his lap with the palms of his hands. Minutes passed and, as I kept playing, Paul slowly started to nod. As he glanced around the room, noting everyone’s reactions, an understanding expression formed across his own face, as if to say, “Yeah, I know. You’re right.” He stood and fetched another guitar from the corner of the room, began to play along with me. I listened for him as I played, and nodded, content. “There you go, Paul.” I said smugly. “You just needed a little push to get you started in the right direction, hmm?” George, seated in a small wooden chair near the kitchen, laughed hard at this, looking back and forth from my face to Paul’s. “Oh, shut it,” Paul replied, stern at first, but with the subtle hint of a grin beginning to stretch slowly across his face.

Above Us Only Sky - Draft 2

I lifted my head back into the upright position, moving the line of my gaze down until it was parallel with the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet, and stared impatiently into Paul’s eyes. He stared back, letting the sudden silence fill the small room. Finally, he lifted the guitar from its seat on his lap and held it out to me. A soft clattering sound broke the silence as his guitar pick fell clumsily from his hand and hit the floor, dancing around for a second before settling down in a spot about one inch under the couch. As I took the guitar from him, he sighed, bent down, picked up the tiny black pick, and held it out to me with an air of annoyance. I dug another pick out of the pocket of my jeans and began playing the guitar, never acknowledging Paul. Everyone in the room nodded knowingly as I continued to play, everyone except Paul. He stared for a long while, indifferent, refusing to show any emotion, positive or negative. “Sure enough, I think John’s got something again,” Ringo said excitedly, drumming rhythmically on his lap with the palms of his hands. Minutes passed and, as I kept playing, Paul slowly started to nod. As he glanced around the room, noting everyone’s reactions, an understanding expression formed across his own face, as if to say, “Yeah, I know. You’re right.” He stood and fetched another guitar from the corner of the room, began to play along with me. I listened for him as I played, and nodded, content. “There you go, Paul.” I said smugly. “You just needed a little push to get you started in the right direction, hmm?” George, seated in a small wooden chair near the kitchen, laughed hard at this, looking back and forth from my face to Paul’s. “Oh, shut it,” Paul replied, stern at first, but with the subtle hint of a grin beginning to stretch slowly across his face. From the corner of the room, a record executive watched me intently, sipping his beer.

I tried to think of his name, this record executive. I remember just sitting there for a long while trying to think of his name. It wasn’t that I cared really, just that I figured it was polite to remember the fellow’s name, being that I was at his place and all. Record executives were all the same, all forgettable. His name was Frank, or Jack, or Harry; it didn’t matter. His hair was cut short, his face cleanly shaven, and he defined himself by his huge and impressive record collection. Any song you wanted, he boasted, he could play for you on the stereo. Any song you liked, he would have on record. It was a nice thing I suppose, but I just don’t understand how types like that don’t play music themselves. His apartment was littered with expensive guitars he never played, probably didn’t know how to play. I guess I just think that someone who claims to love music like that should make it. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I just never understood that.

Thirty minutes later, I was descending onto the street, taking the stairs down from Harry’s flat. “Wait up, John. Wait!” Paul’s voice echoed down the stairwell behind me. “What’s your hurry?” I turned to face him, made no effort to remove the scowl from my face. George was still inside the apartment, talking with Harry’s friend. Everyone else was on the stair, exchanging kind words with Harry’s drunken figure in the doorway. I walked back toward the foot of the staircase reluctantly. “All right, all right, are we going to hang around here all night?” I demanded, jokingly but with a trace of genuine anger. Before anyone could answer, George appeared in the doorway and began shaking Harry’s free hand, thanking him. They turned sideways and George awkwardly shimmied his way through the door, knocking the beer bottle out of Harry’s other hand. The bottle fell, shattered into a hundred pieces. “It’s a good thing it was empty!” Harry joked. “You see that? You gotta drink ‘em fast!” A burst of laughter exploded down the stairwell and out into the New York night. Everyone was grinning, patting Harry on the back, shaking Harry’s hand, shaking Harry’s friend’s hand. I waited impatiently for it all to end.

Above Us Only Sky - Draft 3

I lifted my head back into the upright position, moving the line of my gaze down until it was parallel with the hardwood floor beneath my bare feet, and stared impatiently into Paul’s eyes. He stared back, letting the sudden silence fill the small room. Finally, he lifted the guitar from its seat on his lap and held it out to me. A soft clattering sound broke the silence as his guitar pick fell clumsily from his hand and hit the floor, dancing around for a second before settling down in a spot about one inch under the couch. As I took the guitar from him, he sighed, bent down, picked up the tiny black pick, and held it out to me with an air of annoyance. I dug another pick out of the pocket of my jeans and began playing the guitar, never acknowledging Paul. Everyone in the room nodded knowingly as I continued to play, everyone except Paul. He stared for a long while, indifferent, refusing to show any emotion, positive or negative. “Sure enough, I think John’s got something again,” Ringo said excitedly, drumming rhythmically on his lap with the palms of his hands. Minutes passed and, as I kept playing, Paul slowly started to nod. As he glanced around the room, noting everyone’s reactions, an understanding expression formed across his own face, as if to say, “Yeah, I know. You’re right.” He stood and fetched another guitar from the corner of the room, began to play along with me. I listened for him as I played, and nodded, content. “There you go, Paul.” I said smugly. “You just needed a little push to get you started in the right direction, hmm?” George, seated in a small wooden chair near the kitchen, laughed hard at this, looking back and forth from my face to Paul’s. “Oh, shut it,” Paul replied, stern at first, but with the subtle hint of a grin beginning to stretch slowly across his face. From the corner of the room, a record executive watched me intently, sipping his beer.

I tried to think of his name, this record executive. I remember just sitting there for a long while trying to think of his name. It wasn’t that I cared really, just that I figured it was polite to remember the fellow’s name, being that I was at his place and all. Record executives were all the same, all forgettable. His name was Frank, or Jack, or Harry; it didn’t matter. His hair was cut short, his face cleanly shaven, and he defined himself by his huge and impressive record collection. Any song you wanted, he boasted, he could play for you on the stereo. Any song you liked, he would have on record. It was a nice thing I suppose, but I just don’t understand how types like that don’t play music themselves. His apartment was littered with expensive guitars he never played, probably didn’t know how to play. I guess I just think that someone who claims to love music like that should make it. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I just never understood that.

Thirty minutes later, I was descending onto the street, taking the stairs down from Harry’s flat. “Wait up, John. Wait!” Paul’s voice echoed down the stairwell behind me. “What’s your hurry?” I turned to face him, made no effort to remove the scowl from my face. George was still inside the apartment, talking with Harry’s friend. Everyone else was on the stair, exchanging kind words with Harry’s drunken figure in the doorway. I walked back toward the foot of the staircase reluctantly. “All right, all right, are we going to hang around here all night?” I demanded, jokingly but with a trace of genuine anger. Before anyone could answer, George appeared in the doorway and began shaking Harry’s free hand, thanking him. They turned sideways and George awkwardly shimmied his way through the door, knocking the beer bottle out of Harry’s other hand. The bottle fell, shattered into a hundred pieces. “It’s a good thing it was empty!” Harry joked. “You see that? You gotta drink ‘em fast!” A burst of laughter exploded down the stairwell and out into the New York night. Everyone was grinning, patting Harry on the back, shaking Harry’s hand, shaking Harry’s friend’s hand. I waited impatiently for it all to end.

I remember standing there while they talked for what seemed like an eternity, disconnected from the conversation. I can recall I thought about Julia, my mother, and a story she had told me when I was 16 or 17. She told me that when I was born, back in Liverpool, it had been in the middle of a German air raid. I couldn’t say that I really remembered it; I suppose that wouldn’t make much sense. And yet, when she told me that story, it was as if I had already heard it, had already known what she was going to say. I always remember that story, probably because Julia was killed soon after that and it was one of the last things I remember us talking about. It’s not uncommon for me to think about it, to picture my young mother giving birth to me, clutching my father’s hand tightly and sucking in quick, hard breaths in sync with flashes of white light from the window, rumbling crashes and explosions from the streets outside.

“Well, we’ve really got to be going,” Paul announced, silencing the bombs. Everyone admitted that he was right and said their goodbyes. Paul was always making decisions for us now, and I didn’t like it. As the four of us walked back to our hotel from Harry’s place, I wondered if any of them remembered who had started this band in the first place, who had brought it all together. Far off in the distance, I thought I could hear the dull rumble of bombs going off. Paul spoke first, striking up a conversation about his excitement about recording for Harry. I listened, but the din of bombs exploding over New York had become deafening, drowning out his voice.

John tipped the taxi driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk with Yoko. It was almost 11 p.m. and they were both tired. As they approached the entrance to the Dakota building, they passed a man standing in the shadows beneath the front entryway arch. Yoko opened the door and stepped into the Dakota. John reached for the handle of the door as it swung closed. The man in the shadows called out, “Mr. Lennon!”

Above Us Only Sky - Process Memo

The paper assigned was a persona adoption paper; we were to select an individual in history, born before 1960, and write about a major event in his or her life, through that individual’s eyes. I selected John Lennon, a rather obvious choice in a freshman writing class, but for a reason quite contrary, I think, to what most would expect. I, unlike seemingly all of my peers, really didn’t know much about John Lennon at all before writing this paper. I was not familiar with his personal history or that of The Beatles, nor was I entirely familiar with the array of songs written and recorded by him, with The Beatles or otherwise. Before writing this paper, I really tried to become as familiar with him as I could. I wanted to know things about John Lennon and The Beatles that had apparently, somewhere along the line, become required knowledge for someone my age. Before writing a single word of this paper, I spent a great deal of time just listening to his music and reading various sources about him. I also found a short video clip of a John Lennon interview on the Internet and watched it many times, focusing on his voice and attitude throughout. Once I began actually writing the paper, it became clear to me what direction I would go with it and what event I would write about. I only hope that, in writing this paper, I managed to capture at least some of the essence of a man who captured the hearts of so many, and that I was able to depict a major historical event with some lasting validity.