The Authorized Biography Of The Greatest Singer Alive

(PART 1)

Hendlin: Well, there was something unseen that made their air different from our air. Something from another world happened across the road all of those years ago. Four dudes from Liverpool came to Hamburg as nobody and left as The Beatles. What the fuck went on over there? What was it? And how can we recreate it? Something colossal took place a mere two hundred yards from where we are sitting. (looking back at me) Doesn’t that spin you out?

She puts the chopstick down next to its partner.

The Critic: I’ve never really thought about it like that before.

Hendlin: Back then, they burped (letting out a not-so-feminine belch) just like I did, but then with the next breath they wrote ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. Crazy, right? (waving away burp stink) Doesn’t that just defy everything we’ve been taught to accept that is possible with our lives? There’s obviously something going on around us, something amazing, but we’re led to believe in the smaller, more everyday things as being more real than the potential for wonderful things in the air around us.

The Critic: That’s a surprisingly interesting insight.

Hendlin: I think so, too. Hey, what do you mean by ‘surprisingly’?

The Critic: That could be the ‘overwhelming understanding’ you’ve just mentioned.

Hendlin: Sorta. Maybe. How?

We’re now entering rare air. A journalist gets one of these interviews, with a subject like this, maybe every fifth or sixth lifetime. There’s more to this woman than we’ve been allowed to see. Not only was that an outrageously large question, but one, quite truthfully, that no one can totally answer. I do have my own take on it, however. I’ll throw it out there and see what she makes of it.

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Mick takes a sip of beer and leans against the counter. “I already offered, but they’ve got their hearts set on this song for some reason.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“Take one of mine then,” Hendlin offers. “Steal a verse and put it in. I don’t care.”

He shakes his head.

“Then, let me help more.”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s not to know?”

“I don’t feel right about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, growing irritated. “You said we needed this.”

“We do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Mick shrugs and takes another sip of beer. As he puts it back on the counter, he mutters. “I don’t know.”

Hendlin’s eyes widen. Her nostrils flare. “Grow up, Mick,” she growls.

Mick grabs the underside of the counter’s edge and chokes back his next thought. Her simple request bounces around the inside of his stomach and lungs, somehow finding his tender points, the pockets of darkness not reached by this afternoon’s sun. The familiar inner monologue, his well-rehearsed story quickly surfaces, and focuses its displeasure at Hendlin’s words, and their audacity by challenging the carefully constructed world within which they are flawless. What started as a mutter, is now at a volume loud enough attract attention in a crowded room. He looks up, focusing on a spot on the ceiling, seeing the fan rotating at a gentle cadence. He shifts his focus to the swinging blades. It slices through his darkness. Then again. Then again. A morsel of light enters. “Okay,” he eventually mutters. “Sure.”

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