Three hours later Paul still lay asleep on the sofa. It was two hours before the concert and they needed to get ready to go to the performance hall. Neil tried the ammonia again, but it seemed to have lost its potency as Paul merely snorted twice and turned his head away. Finally, in desperation, and to keep Brian from getting hysterical, John and Mal carried Paul into the bathroom and laid him out in the tub.
John positioned himself in the bathtub, supporting Paul's head and hugely enjoying this event. "Ok, turn it on!" he said.
George turned the shower on full blast. John yiped as the cold water struck him. Paul jerked and his eyes rolled open. "Ah, I'm all wet," he muttered thickly.
"All right, it worked!" Ringo cheered.
"Shut the bloody tap off before I fucking freeze," John yelled. He climbed out of the tub and pulled Paul into a sitting position, inspecting him critically. "He's still out of it," he announced, "and soggy."
Paul blinked slowly at him, water dripping from his hair, catching in his thick eyelashes. His eyes threatened to close again. "Here, get him up," Neil said, "We'll get some coffee in him."
"Oh dear, should we cancel the concert?" Brian fretted.
John turned to him and patted him on the shoulder, splattering him with water in the process. "Don't worry, Eppy, we'll set him right."
They plied Paul with strong black coffee, cup after cup, practically pouring the stuff down his throat until he revived enough to sip it on his own. Mal and Neil gathered their gear.
"See you at the hall," Mal said as they left.
Still shaky on his feet, Paul wobbled into the elevator with the others.
"Ok, Paul?" John held an arm under Paul's elbow.
"I just want to sleep." Which he did in the limo taking them to the concert. It took a little face slapping to bring him around and into the dressing room. Once safely there, Neil carefully applied extra makeup to hide Paul's now black eye. The coffee finally seemed to be taking effect. In fact, now Paul's eyes nearly bugged from his head.
"This is like a bad trip, man," he said, scratching his hair back from his forehead. "I don't think I can play."
George groaned, "Now what?"
Paul held out his hands, which were shaking wildly.
"Fuck it," John said shortly, "They can't hear us playing anyroad."
They changed into their stage suits and tuned their guitars. Ringo still looked rather dejected and sat smoking in a corner.
"Aye, Ringo, stop pouting," George said.
"What's that?" John shouted from the bathroom.
"Ringo's pouting again," George replied.
"Oh leave off," Ringo said, "I just feel bad about Paul."
"Aye? What about me?" Paul appeared, cigarette in hand.
"I just feel bad about yer eye and all," Ringo muttered.
"Oh come on, laddie," Paul said jovially, "No serious harm done."
"Aye?" Ringo brightened.
"Yeah, I just really have to take a piss--all that coffee you know. Get out of there, Lennon!" he yelled.
"Sod off, McCartney!" came the reply bellow.
"All is well," George commented wryly, turning back to his guitar.
Ringo sat back, tapping his sticks on his knee, and grinned. Ah, but this was a gear time, he thought.
