There was no response from inside the room, so Ringo bravely knocked one more time and opened the door.
Through a smoky haze, he saw John reclining on the bed, his long legs crossed at the ankles, one arm pillowing his head while the other held yet another cigarette. He looked at Ringo with no discernable expression on his face. Ringo crossed the room and sat on the bed next to him.
"So," he said.
John took a long drag on his cigarette before replying. "So," he said, cocking an eyebrow at RIngo.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm all right. You?"
"Rather fine at the moment. We've been having a few bevies, you see. Care to join us?"
"A capital idea. I'll drown all this shit out of my head with a few drinks, eh?" John sat up and ground out the last cigarette in a nearly full ashtray on the nightstand. Running his hand through his hair, he couldn't hold back a deep sigh.
Ringo looked into his eyes. "Sorry this had to happen, Johnny."
"It was my big mouth, as usual, getting us all into trouble," John replied. "Let's just hope today was enough to get the buzzards off our backs."
They walked out to rejoin George and Paul, who had switched on the television and poured themselves another drink. John grabbed the bottle of scotch from George and took a large swig. George smiled at him, Paul looked up and lifted his chin in a backwards nod of acknowledgement.
"Aye, good for you, Ring. You got him out and you're still in one piece," he said rather fuzzily.
Ringo put an arm around John's shoulders and squeezed. "Ah, the old softie loves me, you know."
"Leave off," John muttered, sitting down on the couch with the bottle of scotch still clutched in his hand.
A corny western was on, which only Ringo was really interested in. John was intent on getting as pissed as he possibly could. After a half hour, he and Ringo heard a faint raspy snore and looked back to see George lying flat on the floor, sleeping peacefully.
A few minutes later, they heard a thud and looked to see Paul sitting on the floor with his back resting against the couch, arms stretched out to each side. His nearly empty glass had slipped from his limp fingers, spilling ice cubes onto the carpet. His head sank slowly over his chest.
"Another succumbs to the arms of Morpheus," John intoned solomnly.
"Eh?" Ringo looked at him, puzzled.
"Oh, that's...never mind." John took another drink. He was feeling pleasantly numb, the events of the day starting to seem absolutely meaningless in the scheme of life.
Ringo turned back to the western. He had always dreamed of living in the wild west, toting around a six-shooter and riding a horse. Seemed like a decent way to pass the time. Another half hour passed. He was starting to doze off, the alcohol affecting him at last.
John sat and looked at his sleeping mates sprawled in various positions across the room. It had been a difficult day. Unbidden, his thoughts turned back to the press conference, the blinding camera flashes, the squinting, unfriendly eyes of people who didn't even know him and were only interested in crucifying him.
John snorted. Maybe he ought to be quoted as saying that. Wouldn't that start the bloody fires all over again.
He got up from the couch, dropping the empty bottle of scotch, and staggered toward the window. Opening it, he gazed out at the dark buildings surrounding their hotel, wishing suddenly he was anywhere else but in another hotel. Things were always going wrong lately. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was a jinx for the group. John plunged into depressive thoughts. Always a misfit. The open window beckoned. The ground lay twelve stories below.
Ringo heard a squeak and faint shuffling in his half-asleep state. He pried his eyes open to see John unsteadily climbing onto the windowsill, which brought him wide awake.
"John!" he said loudly in alarm.
John stopped and looked drunkenly at him. "A lovely night for flying, Ringo," he said in a strange tone.
That was enough to bring Ringo to his feet. He crossed the distance of the living room and grabbed hold of John's arm. "Stop it, Johnny! Whatever you're thinking, don't!"
They tussled. Ringo, being smaller than John, was fighting a losing battle, trying to keep John off the windowsill. He called out, "Paul, George! Help me!"
Paul woke suddenly, a terrible crick in his neck. Then he heard Ringo's panicked voice, "Wake up! He's trying to jump!"
He looked up in confusion to see two figures engaged in a half dance, half wrestling match. It was John and Ringo, going round and round. Still out of it from the booze, Paul stood up, swaying, only understanding the seriousness of the situation when he saw John finally shake off Ringo and climb back onto the sill. Paul stumbled over to John and yanked him back off the windowsill. The momentum of his pull carried them both down onto the floor, breathing heavily.
Paul, still dazed, looked into John's eyes. They were filled with an eerie manic expression. "What're you doing, John?" he asked, keeping a firm hold on his arms.
"I'm fed up, Paul. I want out," John said flatly. He tried to get up, but Paul quickly rolled on top of him and tightened his grasp on his arms, pinning them.
John stilled and looked up at him. "Don't make me hurt you, Paul," he said almost mournfully. "There's been plenty of times I wanted to knock your fucking head off. But I don't really want to now."
Ringo had shaken George awake and they crouched by the sofa, unsure what to do. "He's gone completely potty," Ringo whispered.
In a temporary stalemate, John and Paul locked eyes, their muscles tensed. Paul's thoughts flew, trying to find a way to distract John from his single-minded mission.
"Go ahead," he said, suddenly calm.
John looked confused. "What?"
"Come on, do your worst. Now's your chance."
John suddenly wilted and looked unsure. "I...I don't want to...it's not your fault..."
Seeing his hesitation, Paul relaxed his grip. Taking advantage of that, John lunged up and pulled away. Standing up, he looked wildly from Paul to the window.
Paul slowly stood up, keeping eye contact with John. "You're a real drag. Too chicken to take me on."
John's eyes narrowed. "You know I could smash your face in and leave you in a bloody heap."
"Fuck you."
John snarled and hurled himself at Paul, who braced himself for it. They collided, both grunting from the impact and fell to the floor. They rolled around, fighting for the upper hand. John balled a fist and aimed it toward Paul's nose. Paul ducked aside and scrambled up. He stood back, arms held out, palms up, in a gesture of surrender.
"I don't want to fight you, John." he said.
"You will!" John roared like one possessed and flung himself at Paul again. They grappled, fairly evenly matched for strength. But John, being heavier than Paul, gained the first hold and threw Paul up against the wall, giving him a jab in the face.
Paul's head flew back after connecting with John's fist. Blood started to flow from his nose. But he wouldn't fight back, which infuriated John even more at this point. He slammed him in the gut, then the face, panting, "C'mon, fight, you bastard. Call me a loser, will you!"
George by now was thoroughly alarmed. "I'm going to get Mal and Neil," he whispered to Ringo and slowly started inching his way to the door.
Paul groaned and doubled over after a particularly well-placed fist in his diaphragm. John yanked his head back up by the hair and punched him one more time in the face. Paul crashed into the wall, then staggered forward and tripped over the coffee table. He grabbed John's shoulder on the way down, carrying him to the floor with him.
Gasping, he said to John, "You're not a loser, John. Snap out of it!"
