The photos don't actually go with the story, but I thought they fit in.
|photo by Curt Gunther|
|Photo by Curt Gunter|
|photo by Curt Gunter|
What the police found the in the Beatles’ bedroom
By Rosa Magaro
The woman stared at the two fourteen year old girls. “And what are you two supposed to be?” she asked. “Nineteen!” they both shrilled back. The woman, mother of the young ladies didn’t bother to ask further. She knew the reason behind the would be adult get-ups, the lipstick, the false eyelashes, so think and fulsome that they almost hid the splotches of green eye shadow that lay heavily on the girls’ eyelids. She’d know all that day, in fact – ever since their arrival in Las Vegas for what she‘d foolishly hoped would be a nice and pleasant and rather routine weekend – that the girls had begun to plot something. Specifically, and as one of them had put it, in loud and passionate whispering: the “Crash of the Century!” More specifically, a plan to invade that hairy eyrir up on the eighteenth floor of the Sahara Hotel – the Beatles’ bedroom – where the Liverpudlian lads, also recently arrived, were throwing an invitation only party for a few hundred local and Hollywood VIPs.
For a fleeting moment, the woman remembered back. To New York City. To 1943. The Hotel Astor. Herself, wearing one of her mother’s dresses. Standing outside a room where a Hoboken lad named Sinatra was holding festive court. Standing. For hours. Outside. And never getting in.
“You’ll never get in!” she said now smiling a bit, sadly, reminiscently, as she continued to stare and her young daughter and young friend.
“Oh no??” the two girls said back, in unison, giggling, confidently.
“Well,” said the woman if you do, be sure to let me know somehow. And please don’t make little pests of yourselves. “
“Mother! Really!” came the reactions. Deep throated. Mature. Oh, so mature.
It was ten minutes later. The tower suites room 4718, 4720, 4722 high above what was once dead quiet desert were bouncing, Combos, uncombed (in honor of their hosts), played “A Hard Day’s Night” and “She Loves Me” (sic) unendingly. Waiters by the dozen served hard and soft drinks and assorted hot and cold canapés to the assorted mob which included, to name only a few of the categories present this night of Thursday, August 20: actors, producers, musicians, reporters, oilmen, their oil ladies, Strip impresarios, and the Strip show girls.
Everyone, needless to say, was having a ball. Except for the four young men with the growingly strained smiles named George and Ringo, Paul and John. Who’d arrived in Vegas in the wee hours and had barely gotten any sleep. Who’d already attended a batch of similar receptions during the day. Who, to boot, had given two long and tiring concerts at Convention Center earlier that evening.
And except for the battalion of Sahara security police standing guard now outside the suite doors and shooing away – pushing away, instances – the dozens upon dozens of shrieking fans who tried to squeeze their way past.
For aggravation and tumult that ensued here, most of the hotel cops vowed on the spot that they would hence-forth hate all Beatles and Females forever and ever.
But there was one perhaps compassionate, perhaps just not too bright who at one point found himself listening to two of the girls (about nineteen they appeared). Nodding to them. Turning after asking them to wait. And delivering their message.
“They said what?” asked Paul, laughing heartily, a very moment later.
“That,” answered the security man, “one of them is a best American friend of Mr. Harrison’s friend, Miss Patti Boyd. That the other of them is a cousin of your feean-cee Mr. McCartney – Miss Jane Asher, over in London.”
“George!” Paul called now, to the others, still laughing. He repeated what the security man had just told him. “Now don’t you think, “ he added “that such ingenuity should be rewarded? That we should invite these two girls in for a bit?”
The other nodded. “It should be like a breath of home.” Dead panned Ringo. “I’m verrrrry anxious to hear what the two birds have to say about dear Jane and dear Patti!”
The merriment around them continuing, the four boys waited now for the girls to be ushered in. Which they were. Accompanied part way by the nice cop who needlessly pointed to the Beatles, turned and departed. Leaving the girls feeling vastly alone now. And trembling, uncontrollably all confidence and self-control gone now.
They were, bluntly, and in short, a laughable sight, these two so young fourteen year olds standing there gazing at their idols of idols, face to face trying their hardest to look like Suzanne Pleshette and Connie Stevens trying their hardest to keep from falling out of their unaccustomed high heels.
“Hello!” said Paul finally, approaching them. He cleared his throat, and bowed severely. “My name is Lord Douglas-Home, Prime Minister, you know. So nice to meet you.”
The girls tried to smile. They couldn’t. Instead, in fact and suddenly they began to cry, huge and helpless and awestruck tears.
“We lied!” they confessed. “We’re terrible. We lied to get in here!”
As the others approached, Paul smiled and nodded, “A little white lie,” he said and winked. “I don’t think it’s that terrible. Not at all.” Added George, “You’ve given our party a little charm. For that we’re thankful.” Added John, “Stay, why don’t you?” Added Ringo “a while, at least.”
A “while”? Little did they know that was to be the laugh of the evening!
Two hours passed. In that time the mob in rooms 4718-22 doubled, and then almost tripled. For a time, of course, the Beatles had stood talking to their two charming and soon dry-eyed “crashers.
Teasing them at first, a bit about “dear Patti and Jane.” And then listening, and answering, as the girls began to bombard them with questions.
Teasing them at first, a bit about “dear Patti and Jane.” And then listening, and answering, as the girls began to bombard them with questions.
But after a bit, as the crowd grew, as others had to be introduced to the Beatles, a little session bore up. And the boys were whisked away from their two young guests. And the two young guests seemed to get lost in the human swell.
“It was wondering, in a way.” As one of them recalls, “because this gave us a chance to sit and congratulate each other on what we’d accomplished. And to talk about how ga-reattt and super-skoobie the Beatles were. How nice they’d been to us. And how interested they were in all the things we asked them. How they must have been interested because they gave us such interesting answers in reply.
“For instance, when we asked Ringo what his favorite recreation was, he said “TV, especially the commercials!”
“And when we asked George about the rumor that he was going to get married as soon as he got back to England to some mysterious and beautiful blond girl he laughed and said “Roobish!” That’s Liverpudlian for rubbish. But he pronounces it so beautifully “Roobish!”
“and when we asked John if he missed his Cynthia and the baby, but desperately he said, “Yes Yes.” Twice!
And when we asked Paul if he and the others, living and working so close together all the time ever fought, he said very honestly, “sometimes. Of course. But most of the time we get along just fine. And we’re pretty good mates and friends, the four of us. Very good, in fact!”
“Oh, I can’t tell you how we felt at that party. And how eternally grateful we were to the Beatles for inviting us in. We decided, in fact, there on the spot, that from that moment on – no matter what- we would buy every record they ever made! As well as attend every concert of theirs within 1,000 miles! As well as, certainly, every movie they were in! That we would collect their pictures – all we could get our hands out! That we would be their greatest fans and adore them eternally!
“We also decided that, even thought it was starting to get a little late by now, we would celebrate the night of nights by staying until everyone else had gone.”
“and by telling the Beatles – personally and from our hearts – about our decisions concerning them. As well as about our undying devotion…”
As someone else recalls – the aforementioned moth of one of our two little crashers, “It wasn’t until after ten that night that I began to get worried. Worried first that they’d actually gotten into the party and made little pills of themselves. Worried next that if they had gotten in, they were certainly over-extending their stay. I tried to phone the tower suite from time to time. Someone would always answer, but there was so much noise going on up there that it was impossible for me to hear whoever it was on the other end of the line. At about 10:30 I gave up. I thought to myself, “Well, if they got in – they’re certainly out by now. Must have gone to a movie. I mean, where else could they have gone?”
And so did the mother – unknowingly – let the matter rest. For a time. While, a few flights above her, her plotting daughter and friend continued to sit. Watching the other guests, as, slowly now, they began to leave.
Waiting- waiting for hours if necessary to be alone with their Beatles!
“Goodnight! Good night there!” and wearily, the four boys bid their last guests adieu.
It was after 11:00 now. The boys were pooped. Ready for a little quiet poker. Then – and blessedly – for some sleep.
“Good night!” – One last time. The door was closed…locked. Paul began to unloosen his tie, Ringo and the others beginning to follow suit.
And then together they came, the two excited and vaguely familiar voices, “Surprise!”
And with the shout four stunned faces and two innocently smiling ones.
For the next long hour to so, with consummate patience and graciousness and understanding, the groggy Beatles sat around with their two wide-awake little friends. Again answering all the interesting questions that came their way. Even, at one point, treating the girls to some music – a private hearing of a new song by John and Paul – which the girls agreed upon its conclusion was “skoobie – just skoobie!”
“I guess.” Says one of the Beatles managers, who re-entered the bedroom during the hour, “that the boys let the two birds hang around because they didn’t want to hurt their feelings and tell them to shove because the girls, in a way, represented the True Fan, the sort the boys rarely had a chance to spend any time with because, mostly because, they liked them. But it was clear to me after a while that like them or not, these chaps were exhausted and these girls had to go. I, in fact, initiated the abortive move. “All right, okay!” I called out after enough of this, “it’s getting close to midnight! Time for all Cinderella’s to get to their coaches!” Ringo, Paul and George were in complete yawning agreement. They rose, said goodnight and scooted for their rooms. John – since this was his room – of course, remained. And when I repeated my Cinderella remark the girls looked and Johnny and said, “We’re not tired if you’re not, John!” And Johnny simply shrugged and began to say, “Well...” And as if this were an invitation to make camp there, for years, for however long they wanted, the girls jumped in their chairs and said, “Oh good! We’ll stay then!”
And stay they did.
And did and did and did.
Talking, gabbing, chatting, giggling until John, try as he might – just couldn’t keep his eyes open a minute longer. In seconds, he was fast asleep.
For a moment after John’s as it were departure, one girl pointed Beatlewards and whispered to the still wide-awake member of the Beatles entourage, “You know, he’s asleep. Doesn’t he sleep gorgeous?”
“Girls,” said the exhausted Beatleman, “it’s terribly late. Don’t you think you’d best be getting along? Won’t your mothers be worried?”
“Oh no, never,” answered the one, “my mother knows we are here. You see we told her that we were coming here. Oh no, she won’t be worried.”
“Shortly before midnight, “ recalls the mother, ‘I began to get panicky. The words, “lost” “kidnapped” “hurt” “Accident” suddenly began to fill my brain. The Beatles – their room – their party – none of this entered my mind when I phoned the police. But when they arrived, two cops, a little while later, and they asked me to remember everything the girls had said earlier that evening and when I told them about the girls’ silly pan, to try to crash upstairs the cops both nodded and said, “Why don’t we start up there.” I began to laugh at girl. “You don’t think” I started to say “Why not?” said one of the cops. “Lots of little girls around here like to crash entertainers parties and some entertainers, ma’am, they end up liking to entertain little girls!” “Oh noooooo!” I moaned. “Don’t get nervous” said the cop. I could be wrong. My partner and I, we’ll just go up for a look-see.
They left, I waited. I asked myself over and over “Where did I go wrong?” Then I thought of the terrible scene upstairs when the two policemen barged into that room. I nearly fainted from the shame of it all!
The knock on the door was soft but definite. The girls looked at each other but they did not budge, not a single inch. “Who do you think it is?” asked one whispering.
“Probably some other girls “whispered back the other.
“Fooey on them” said the first. “double fooey” agreed the other, as the Beatles’ man hurried to open the door. And there stood the police. They looked into the room and saw the girls.
The cops asked their names.
The girls identified themselves.
“What’s been going on in here?” one of the cops asked.
“Nothing,” answered one of the girl. “We’ve just been with the Beatles.”
“Hmmmmmm.” Said the cop. “Well, tell the Beatles you’ve got to be going now. That it’s getting late.”
“We can’t!” said one of the girls.
“No. They’re all so tired out by now. They’re all fast asleep. Only this gentleman is awake.”
The two cops looked at one another. Then, walking past the two girls and the Beatles employee they entered the room. Grimly, very grimly, they walked to John’s chair. “Wake up!” came the martial command.
And for the next five minutes or so shocked pandemonium filled the air as John and his employee explained what ha d happened as the girls, tearful once again, corroborated the story.
When it was over and the cops agreed among themselves that they’d been hearing the truth, they turned to the girls sternly and asked, “What are you two trying to do? Get these boys booked in jail?”
“Oh noooooo” came the answer, “we were just…”
But before the girls could go on, John, obviously fearful of an all-night session groaned, “That’s all right. It’s all perfectly all right!”
And, nicely, but firmly, he escorted the entire troop to the door. Saw them all out . Then locked and re=locked the door and went to bed.
It was an hour or so later. The girls had been properly scolded and were in their beds, asleep by now.
In the next room the scolder sat, relieved and thinking back. She thought back to a night in New York City. To 1943. The Hotel Astor. Wearing one of her mother’s dresses. Standing outside a room where a Hoboken boy named Sinatra was having a party. Standing. For hours. Outside. And never getting in.
She smiled a bit.
“Tomorrow,” she thought, “I’ve got to scold them again. And then – I’ve got to ask them how the did it. And did they have a wonderful time?”