Ringo Starr looks like shit

Killing Paul McCartney is Not Funny by Chad Nevett “Ringo Starr looks like shit” is how I begin my story about the fictional feud between the Beatles and the Beach Boys. I don’t know where to go beyond that. I know what I want to write about, just not how to write it. My editor at The New Yorker wants a piece in any style to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the deaths of Tupac Shakur and the Notorious B.I.G. I know that it will be about the murder of Paul McCartney following the release of “The White Album,” but not how to write it. Basically, instead of the casual and good-natured competition that actually existed between the Beatles and the Beach Boys, I want to write about what if they had acted like artists do now. What if they were assholes to one another? You know, Brian Wilson is upset about the Beatles taking the number one spot from the Beach Boys, Sgt. Pepper’s rips off Pet Sounds and then, the ultimate insult: “Back in the USSR,” where McCartney takes the Beach Boys’ sound and shoves it right back in their face. It could be a brilliant piece of satire, but I cannot write it. After our weekly game of squash, fellow writer, and direct competitor for the label of “wittiest satirist in the blue states,” Reed Adams says, “You want to write about Paul McCartney being killed after exiting a performance of A Doll’s House with his thengirlfriend Linda? A gunman appears in a Hawaiian shirt, shoots him, says, ‘I’m picking up good vibrations. It’s giving me excitations’ and then turns the gun on himself? Am I right?” I take a large gulp of water and nod.

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Reed considers the information before saying, “Your central premise is solid, but you’re writing about killing Paul McCartney and want it to be funny. That’s your problem. Killing Paul McCartney is not funny.” I sit down on a bench and wipe some sweat before it can get in my eyes. Reed stands over me, barely sweating. He kills me every week, but I need the exercise. He adds, “Maybe if you killed Ringo. No one cares about the drummer.” I shake my head, “No.” Gasp for air. “No, can’t kill Ringo.” Another gasp. “He didn’t play drums on ‘Back in the USSR’ and ‘Dear Prudence,’ the other guys did.” Take a long gulp of water. “That’s why he survives. He avoided playing on the song because he was afraid of what would happen, not because he felt like no one in the band took him seriously, which is what really happened.” My right side stings. Reed looks off into an imaginary horizon and nods. “Well then . . . your piece is fucked. The Beach Boys killing the Beatles and vice versa just isn’t funny. People are still upset over the death of John Lennon.” “Anything can be funny,” I tell him, standing up. “Maybe that’s why I’m a better writer than you.” He ignores the insult. “Maybe if you did a Bob Dylan/Neil Young thing. They’re rock royalty, but not worshiped like the Beatles. A lot of people think they’re pricks.” “They never had a feud or competition. It would make no sense,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes, “I’m just trying to help. What you’re doing isn’t going to work.” “But,” my voices rises, “I have some great ideas. After Paul is shot, they release an A-side only single called ‘Paul is Dead’ and the cover is the band acting as pallbearers by carrying his casket across Abbey Road.”

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Reed groans at the horrible pun of pallbearers and says, “No. It doesn’t work.” He walks away, heading for the locker room and I follow along, determined to win him over. “How about this: after Sgt. Pepper’s comes out, Brian Wilson makes a statement saying, ‘The Beatles may be bigger than Jesus, but I’m their creator.’ Hmm?” He stops and turns, pointing his racket at me, “One: Lennon said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus, not bigger. Two: it’s an awkward quote. You’re reaching for it too much. Three: try something else. Let the piece die.” He goes into the locker room and I’m left in the hall alone. I can’t help but agree with him. It’s not working. But I’m not letting it go, dammit. It’s such a good idea that I can’t just stick it on a shelf. Sometimes, ideas work perfectly with no effort and sometimes, you need to grab the fucker, tie it up and electroshock its testicles until it works. A week later, the cursor on my computer blinks on and off. On and off. On and off. All I have is a title, “Paul is Dead,” and nothing else except for fragments of story. I can’t write a piece up for The New Yorker based on a title and fragments. I go to the kitchen for some more coffee, hoping that somewhere between my office and the coffee maker a moment of insight will come. It doesn’t and because it doesn’t, I say to my lovely wife, “Why the fuck did you buy skim milk?” She’s sitting at the table, reading the paper and doesn’t even look up when she says, “Because you are a shitty writer, Al.” “And what is that supposed to mean?” I ask. She sighs, but still doesn’t look up. “That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? You’re a shitty writer, you’re a hack, you may have fooled them before, but now you’re

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going to get caught. You were lucky all of those others times, you’ve never had any talent. It was all stolen ideas strung together with some half-decent writing that anyone with a high school diploma could do. And don’t forget how much influence your personal connections with editors have helped. All of your success is really based on your ability to schmooze and drink large quantities of booze in social settings without seeming like you’ve drunk large quantities of booze. Am I forgetting anything?” I grab my mug and say, “I’m going back to my office to write.” “Good call,” she says. “Love you.” The cursor keeps blinking. I’ve typed out “Ringo Starr looks like shit.” and it keeps blinking. Blink. Blink. Blink, fucking blink, blink, blink! I hate that cursor and if I could, I would kill it with a surplus Soviet nuke. Reed is still right, you can’t kill Paul McCartney. People love Paul McCartney. Hell, I love Paul McCartney. He’s also right, people don’t love Ringo. Well, they love him, but in that way they love all of the Beatles. I hate Ringo. I hate “Yellow Submarine.” What a stupid song. I should kill Ringo. I should kill Ringo! Ideas connect. Ringo didn’t drum on “Back in the USSR,” so he’s found one morning with a sickle in his back and his head smashed in with a hammer. There’s a note that reads, “You don’t know how lucky you are, boy. Back in the US—back in the US— back in the USSR.” Lennon makes a bad joke at the funeral by saying Ringo wasn’t even the best drummer in the Beatles. The final single is called “Ringo is Dead.” It all becomes clear within a matter of seconds and . . . And.

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And. And I still don’t know how to write it. Fuck. Fuck. I could structure it as an interview with . . . Paul? Paul as the only surviving Beatle? But then how do Lennon and Harrison die? What about the Beach Boys? Does one of them die in retaliation? Or maybe arrests? Is there even enough on the Beach Boys side of the story? How do I work in the story of Brian Wilson hearing “Strawberry Fields Forever” in his car and then abandoning his Smile project? Is that where the murder plot begins? Even if Ringo dies, I’m not sure it will work. The next day, my therapist chews the lid on her pen, lazily dangling a black pump on her right foot while I tell her my problem. She doesn’t take any notes or even look at me, preferring to chew the pen lid and stare at the new Brice Marden print she got last week at his exhibit. When finished, I ask, “Are you listening?” She doesn’t respond immediately, simply keeps staring at the Marden print. She always does this. She can never just answer a question, she has to stew over it. I’m two days away from my deadline and she keeps on chewing on that pen lid. In my head, I hum and quietly sing a little of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” which I had planned to make the basis for “Paul is Dead.” Instead of going “I want you, I want you so bad, I want you, I want you so bad it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad,” I would have had it go “Paul’s dead, Paul’s dead and I’m sad, Paul’s dead, Paul’s dead and I’m sad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad.” Okay, so it’s not quite as good as Lennon would have done, but he’s not here now, is he? It’s just me and I don’t know what I’m doing.

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At some point, I’ve lapsed into humming/singing aloud and my therapist is giving me a strange look. I smile and laugh nervously. She says, “I think you should stop this project, Al. It’s not healthy. You’re displaying obsessive tendencies again, undoing all of the work we’ve accomplished these past four years. Are you taking your medications, Al? Have you tried those exercises I told you about last week? You need to let go of this Beatles/Beach Boys idea for your mental health.” I snap, “Then what the fuck should I write for The New fucking Yorker?” She responds, “I don’t know. I’m not a writer.” I smile, “Exactly, so don’t tell me how to write.” She sighs, “I’m not telling you how to write. I’m simply suggesting that you explore other avenues for this assignment as your current one is obviously not working and is having detrimental effects on your psyche.” With anger, I say, “Just because I haven’t written it yet doesn’t mean it’s not working. I can write it. I have a thousand ideas. I could write it as an interview or a ‘this day in music history’ piece or even a haiku. Listen: Ringo is shot dead. Wilson brothers arrested. Great bands end in shame. There. It’s done. One perfectly good haiku about the feud between the Beatles and the Beach Boys. Are you happy?” And suddenly, I know I’m not going to do any better and frantically grab my therapist’s pen and notepad before I forget what I just said.

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