Forgetting Ringo
Forgetting Ringo
The sunlight came through the diner’s large plate glass window, casting brilliant, yellow, early afternoon light over half of the table at which the young couple sat.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
“Shoot,” she said. She always said ‘shoot’ when someone wanted to ask her a question.
“You like the Beatles, right?” he said, even though he knew she did.
“Yeah,” she said, extending the word and lifting it at the end, the way one does when asked a stupid question.
“Okay, okay, I know you do,” he said, not apologetically but rather as a precursor to his next, more important question, which is what it was. “Can you name them?” She looked at him as if he wasn’t serious—but he was serious.
“Yeah,” she said again with the same inflection, only more pronounced this time and with the kind of lopsided face that meant she was possibly concerned with his mental health.
“Well?” he said, as if the three seconds that had elapsed were excruciatingly unbearable, or he was on the phone with a radio station, and he needed to answer their trivial contest question right now if he wanted to win.
“Alright,” she said, playing along, now smiling. “John, Paul, George, and…” She paused. “And…” she repeated. Her smile collapsed. She tilted her head a little and looked up and to the left.
“Yeah?” He said the word with the same turned-up ending she had used but with a more anticipatory tone.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “JohnPaulGeorgeand…” she said again, but more swiftly, to get to the sticky point. It didn’t help. “Huh,” she muttered, “I know who he is, I can picture him.” She squeezed her delicate chin. “John… Paul… George…” she said slowly this time, changing tactics quietly to herself. “Dammit!”
The two of them were in the sunny diner, having a burger and fries (him) and a waffle with strawberries and bananas and whipped cream (her) when the discussion turned to the legendary foursome. She plucked a small dollop of whipped cream with a fingertip and inserted it into her mouth. He started to say something.
“No, no, no, no,” she said, “don’t tell me.” Her competitive side was beginning to appear. “John Lennon, okay. Paul McCartney, right. George… um… Harrison, and… and…” She looked across the booth at her boyfriend of eight months, now with her mouth hanging open.
He was not smiling or displaying an I gotcha face. He just simply said, “Why can’t we remember his name?” He scrunched up one side of his bearded face.
She said, “Wait, what? You can’t remember?” Burger and waffle were now forgotten. All four hands were on the table, one of them with fingers lightly drumming.
“I saw a guy walking outside when you went to the restroom; he was wearing a Beatles t-shirt. And I went, you know: John, Paul, George, and...” he explained to her, stopping at the same sticky part. They looked at each other and shared a not-so-amusing chuckle. “Why can’t we both remember? Weird.” He took a bite from his burger and she could tell it was bothering him. The forgotten Beatle, not the burger.
She took her phone out and woke it up. “This is stupid. What is his damn name?” she said, exasperated by this point.
“No, No!” he shouted quietly. (Diner etiquette.)
“Why not?” she said, brows lowered. “You have me curious now.”
“Hold on...” he began. He sipped his Dr Pepper. “We can work it out. You said you can picture him? Big nose, right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He was funny. He was the funny one, I think.”
“Well, they were all kinda funny, but okay,” he said, more to himself than to his girlfriend. They had met at a party nine months prior, but he waited a month before calling. “Yeah, I can picture him, too. He was definitely funny. Wait! He had a funny name! ”
“Ooh,” she said. “I think you’re right. It’s not a normal name. Like a show biz name or something.” Their server came up to the table for the how’s-everything inquiry.
“How’s everything?” he said in a monotonic slur, as if he had uttered this question every fourteen seconds for fourteen years. He was a teenager, tall and lanky, with more pimples than chin whiskers, probably filling in for someone else’s shift. The young couple looked at him, and a ‘fine’ (him) and a ‘good’ (her) were spoken. They looked at each other and through minute facial expressions, an idea was formulated, silently broadcast from one to the other, and bilaterally accepted.
“Hey,” he said to the dirty-aproned server. “You know the Beatles, right?” The server nodded. “Do you know their names?” This was not exactly figuring it out for themselves, but they had a nice day ahead of them and didn’t need any annoying aggravations.
“Uh… yeah,” the kid said, scratching his shoulder aggressively. “Uh… John Lennon, Keith Moon, and Mick Jagger. I think.” The two patrons slumped a little in their green vinyl booth seats.
“Okay, thanks,” they both said in unison.
“Suuuure, glad I could help,” the server said warily, wondering if he was being recorded. “Anything else?” Everyone involved knew he would rather be mopping the kitchen floor than remain standing in this ad hoc game show. They both shook their heads and took bites from their respective meals.
After the server left, she said, “I could see that one coming a mile away—way too young.”
He nodded in disappointed agreement and took a rather longish french fry, dipped the tip of it in mayonnaise, creating a small blob at the end, and looked at it. Something clicked in his twenty-six-year-old brain. He looked over at his girlfriend’s twenty-eight-year-old face. “He’s the drummer!” he proclaimed, a little louder than diner etiquette suggests. It was a small victory, and he was proud to share it with any innocent bystanders.
“I know,” she said unenthusiastically, not looking up, and chewing on waffle and strawberry.
“You already knew?” he said, a little deflated. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew. When the dude said Keith Moon, I thought, yep, we’re looking for the drummer guy’s name.” A banana bit goes in. She ate the waffle with the strawberries but the banana chunks by themselves. He noticed this but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a deal-breaker, by any means; he actually enjoyed watching her eat. There was a sense of purpose there, and organization.
“Okay,” he said, even more dispirited. She was thinking logically; he was staring at french fries. “I think we need to share information as it comes up. This will help us be more productive with the problem at hand.” Her left eyebrow raised. Has he always been so… military? It wasn’t the correct word, but she knew what she was getting at.
“You do know we can just google it,” she said. Waffle/strawberry combo bite.
“No. No googling, no asking other people. We either remember it organically, or the name comes up naturally, like if we see it on TV or something. Agreed?” He didn’t know why he was being so… managerial with her. He simply liked puzzles and challenges, and he knew she did too. And this was puzzling and challenging for him right now.
“Okay, officer,” she joked, but she knew he liked thinking things through and avoided outside help when he got deep into something. Like when they worked on a jigsaw puzzle together and he would refuse to look at the picture on the box.
They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, which is something they could do comfortably now, eight months in. She placed her sandaled left foot on his sneakered right—the rubber sole (hers) resting on the canvas and shoelace (his). She was always more relaxed with some form of contact.
“Let’s talk about something else, and I bet it’ll come to us without even trying,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Another sip of Dr Pepper.
“Where’re we going after this?” she said as an agreement to his plan. Banana bit, with whipped cream. Lunch at the diner was her idea. He had picked her up at her apartment at noon, and they went to the mall for new jeans (him) and socks and leggings (her).
“Lampley Harbor,” he said, “I thought we’d walk around there.”
“Okay, cool,” she said.
“And there’s a place I think you might approve of—a little ol’ ice cream shop only you and I know of.” He smiled sweetly.
“Aww, you remembered,” she said, maybe a bit too loudly. She reached over and laced the four fingers on her right hand with the four on his left. The kid server saw this and immediately changed directions toward an older couple in the rear of the diner. “It was on our first date.” Her face beamed with the memory.
They had made plans to meet at the harbor after several texts and calls over several days. She still remembered him from the party the month before and literally jumped up (and came down because gravity has that effect on people) when he made the initial contact. The date was nothing special at first, even a little awkward at times. But everything changed at the ice cream shop.
“Oh, God,” she said now, breaking their tentacled connection.
“What? What is it?” he said, concerned, but not too concerned—she was right there in front of him. He could see she wasn’t choking, or drowning, or being stabbed.
“The Beatles. They did that octopus song. That was his song!”
“Oh, right,” he said, “Octopus’s Garden.” They both started singing: I’d like to be, under the sea. Other people started looking in their direction. The song trailed off, and they concentrated on their plates on the table. (Diner embarrassment.) There was a smile (him) and a snicker (her), and he whispered, “Nice one.” She flicked some whipped cream at him. But they still didn’t remember the drummer’s name.
They finished their meals, paid, and walked out. It was a good day; sunshine was abundant. They strolled lazily through the parking lot, taking in the sweet air and the summer warmth. He had a plan. But it wasn’t quite the right time, yet. They got in his car and headed toward the harbor. Idle chit-chat about her sister’s new job and his brother’s new truck. At the first red light, he craned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and booped his nose. It was time.
“Who’s the drummer for the Beatles? ” He screamed the words in a rapid-fire syllabic attack, hoping to bypass the executive function of her brain and get a more natural, reflexive response.
“I…, um… uh, I… I... I don’t know,” she wailed, pretending to be emotionally shattered, pounding her fists on her thighs.
“Okay, sorry, babe,” he said tenderly. “I had to try; sorry if I startled you. It was for the best.” He rubbed the back of her neck in mock commiseration. She stuck her tongue out at him.
“What goes on in that head of yours?” she said with sarcastic seriousness, but she couldn’t manage it with a straight face.
The harbor wasn’t as crowded as he had feared, despite the lovely weather. There were still joggers, dog-walkers, stroller pushers, and all sorts of pedestrians, but unfortunately, no Beatles cover bands with their musician’s girlfriends handing out flyers stating the name of the band members and revealing who they’re supposed to be imitating.
They walked—hands clasped, swinging lazily between them—enjoying the nice weather, not speaking but somewhat deep in thought. Him: Would I be happy with a boat? Not a large one, a small thing to putter around the harbor; maybe go up the coast a bit. Maybe I should rent one first. Can you rent boats? Her: Ice cream.
“Whatcha thinking about?” she said.
“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Thinking maybe you could stay over at my place tonight. Just you and me, babe.” This last line he said with a groan-inducing Humphrey Bogart voice. She let it slide because she was charmed by the idea. She has spent the night at his place a total of nine times—all Fridays or Saturdays—and they all were pretty enjoyable, even though he didn’t have any ice cream in the freezer. He has spent the night at her place a total of four times—all Saturdays—and he enjoyed them even though he wasn’t enamored with her cat. “What are you thinking about?”
“Same,” she said and squeezed his hand. She would need for him to drive her home so she could feed the cat, take a shower, pack an overnight bag, and he would then drive them both the eight miles to his place—a nice townhouse in the next town over. They might stop on the way and pick up a bottle of red.
They spent the next hour of the sunny Saturday at the harbor doing what new couples do and saying what new couples say. The forgotten drummer was forgotten again—a frivolous conundrum passing as conversation during a weekend brunch.
When they met that first time after the party, it was in the same parking lot. They strolled but didn’t hold hands. They talked of work, and family, and ambitions. There was mention of an ill grandmother (his) and a bride-to-be friend (hers). He liked the way she used her feminine hands when talking. She liked the way he paused a moment before answering a question.
When they got to the ice cream shop, they both smiled. “Remember last time?” he said.
“I do,” she said. “We’re not doing that again.”
Eight months prior, going through the first date drudgery, they happened upon the shop.
He had said, “Would you care for a treat?”
She had said, “Of course. If you don’t know me by now…” They laughed.
“What’s your favorite?” he had asked.
“Pistachio.” Which was his favorite, as well. They attempted a high-five, but her fingers only grazed the bottom of his palm. Awkward, but cute. He saw the pistachio container through the glass counter. It was only a quarter to a third full. At first, he was going to order two cups of it, but he asked the counter guy if he could have the whole thing—and two spoons. He put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
She was dumbfounded but as excited as a four-year-old. She sat cross-legged at the small outdoor café table, chair-dancing to the music in her head as he brought the tub and two spoons. When he sat down, the clerk, who was also the owner, generously brought them two large bowls, a scoop, a can of whipped cream, a container of chocolate sprinkles, two cherries in a tester cup, and extra napkins. He could spot a first date a mile away.
After the owner left the complimentary accoutrements that evening months ago, a three-gallon container of pistachio ice cream with probably one gallon left in it sat sweating between them on the small table. He scooped out two huge servings.
“Yum, but whoa,” she said. “How am I going to maintain my girlish figure?”
“Stop hanging around me,” he said with a smile and plopped a cherry on her dessert.
“I bet you’d like that,” she said. She said, “Fine, do you have a brother?”
“He wouldn’t be interested in you. He’s not into pretty girls. But, this boy is,” he said, directing a thumb at his chest.
And it went on with the same playful banter, obnoxiously sweet—just like the ice cream. The date turned from slightly cringey to fun. They laughed and told each other stories of bad first dates, the weird people at work, and family dramas. As they ate their ice cream, they crafted a nice, little friendship and, by the end of the evening, had made plans for the next weekend. Of course, they couldn’t finish the entire container.
Funnily enough, this time they ordered Rocky Road (him) and Coconut Fudge (her) in sugar cones. The same man was behind the counter, but he didn’t seem to recognize them. They ate their cold treats at the same metal café table as on the first date, this time her ankles resting on his thighs. He rubbed her shins with his free hand. They were unspeakably smooth.
The day wore on lazily, and at one point, they decided to pack it in and head to her apartment. Back in his car, the puzzle of the forgotten fourth Beatle came up again, but by the time they arrived at her home, it was no closer to being solved.
“Do you remember…” / “No, do you?” / “No.” / “Ah, well.”
He followed her up the stairs, not only because he liked following her up the stairs, but because he also needed to use her bathroom. So they hung out for a while in her apartment: he used the bathroom, she took a shower (not at the same time), they watched some television, they made out while watching some television, and she packed a bag.
On the way over to his place, they decided to eat at his favorite Chinese restaurant and had crispy beef (him) and lemon chicken (her). They did end up buying a bottle of wine for later at his house, and they may or may not have opened it. It’s not necessary to further report on the intimate details of a young couple at such a fervent point in their developing relationship.
As one would expect, the next morning found them cheerful and refreshed. There was the contented sound of good morning, good morning as they traded places in his bathroom and bedroom. A bit later, he made blueberry pancakes; she made the coffee and bacon. They spent the morning reading the paper, followed by a bike ride. She had to use a ‘boys’ bike, but she managed without too much humiliation. After more casual recreation—[redacted]—it was late afternoon, six o’clock to be exact, before they finally got back to her apartment.
Upon opening her door, they were greeted by an extremely dissatisfied cat, who had not been fed the previous day. There were high-pitched apologies and scrambling for cat food as she went to feed the petulant pet. There was meowing and caterwauling at the male human in the room, now relaxing on the sofa, obviously the cause of the irritating interruption in the food schedule.
“Is this new?” he said, pointing at a framed photograph on an end table. It showed her snuggling her cat, obviously in happier times. The cat was smoky gray and white with a distinctive silver band on its tail, two inches from the tip.
She poked her head out from the kitchen doorway. “Nope,” she said. “Anna from next door took it months ago. She had it framed for my birthday.”
She went back to tending her famished feline. “Honey, don’t be mad at me,” she said with a remorseful voice because the impatient (and still hungry) cat was still reprimanding her in clamorous catspeak.
Later, when things settled down and the cat was replenished, she held the furry thing in her arms next to the mean man on the sofa. More soothing words and more apologies for her neglect.
“How could I have forgotten to feed my sweet little baby, huh?” she crooned in that weird, overly articulated mommy voice people use with infants and animals. “How could I have forgotten about you, Ringo?”
There was a sudden inhalation of breath (him), and a corresponding gasp (her), and a decidedly indifferent meow (Ringo). The young, forgetful couple looked at each other with incredulity. Their resounding laughter could be heard a mile away.
