Chapter Text
While innocently traveling down a narrow corridor formed through long rows of bookshelves, Paul McCartney found himself admiring a landscape oil painting of a farm scene. The old artwork hung on a real wall at the end of the passageway the Beatle traveled.
Underneath the framed picture were some attractive crystal dishes, displayed nicely inside the open cabinet. With a wide view of the exposed lower shelf, the patron could see an array of fine china, laid out in a mixture of patterns and styles. The blended items were set up for an empty meal, in their mutual arrangement.
As the wanderer casually glanced at the flat top of the furniture holding the dishes, he noticed a pair of fine white gloves. The silky garments rested like two lifeless hands overlapping one another, partly dangling at the edge of the display.
Normally, the man of wealth and prestige wouldn’t bother, but these little hand coverings were high quality, holding up beautifully despite their age. Upon a closer examination, Paul realized the pair had to be at least from the 1920s—he judged, drawing on his knowledge of his father’s youthful style from that era.
They were in spectacular condition, the Beatle noted, as he observed the intact lining and found not a single loose stitch in sight. If it weren’t for the buttons fastening around the wrists, Paul would have sworn they were brand new. Possibly never worn, as even the fingertips revealed no natural markings.
Curious, the bassist suddenly found the items in his grasp and proceeded to dress himself in the old pair. Upon doing so, Paul could feel a perfect fit! Each one melded to his hands so nicely, it felt like these little articles of clothing were made just for him. The white, silky accessory held each of Paul’s digits so snugly, it resembled an extra layer of padded skin.
After dressing himself, McCartney’s view moved from his hands to its natural posture. When doing so, the musician discovered he was in a completely different room altogether.
Catching his balance on the smooth linoleum floor, Paul could feel his mouth dry. After dropping his jaw at some point in complete shock, he stared into the sudden, wide space, not believing his own eyes. Scattered bright fixtures from the high ceiling lit up this grand room, unlike the dimly lit antique shop the band had scurried into earlier.
As the Beatle looked around, his heartbeat pounded like a drumroll. Absolutely nothing made sense! Despite the laws of physics, Paul found himself surrounded by tables covered in white tablecloths. There were two to five people occupying each of the scattered round furnishings, surrounding a confused McCartney.
Feeling like he must be going mad, the displaced musician tried to grasp the situation.
Where were the rows of bookshelves he’d just traveled down? McCartney silently wondered.
What the hell? The lad then thought, questioning his sanity. Yet he managed to get a hold of himself enough to realize he could hear a live musical performance not too far away. Even with his back to the sound, Paul could tell by the clear and loud rhythm that this couldn’t be a recording.
Being a musician himself, McCartney turned toward the source of the sound. On the opposite side of the large space, Paul found the band.
It was a big musical ensemble—like in the old days—with at least twenty members. McCartney silently noted the talent: a pianist, trumpet players, multiple drummers with different drums, a sax player, and several lads playing the clarinet.
With the saxophone in the middle of its solo, the man of prestige found himself dodging waiters as he stumbled out of place.
Examining the clothing more carefully, Paul realized the style was from about forty years ago. He noted the men wore button-front pants with their tuxedos, and the women adorned dresses dripping with fringe, along with old-style hats that shyly clung to their faces.
How the hell did he end up here? The unwitting time traveler wondered as he watched servers transport champagne to different tables.
This couldn’t be real! The round-faced singer thought, circling in his own sea of confusion. Through blurry glances, the bassist observed people conversing in all directions. The crowd drowned out individual voices amid the multitude and the ever-present music.
Where the hell was he? The 1960s man wondered when he noticed a woman fixated on him.
The attentive lass appeared a little older than Paul—possibly in her late twenties or early thirties.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the beautiful yet invasive woman stood before the Beatle.
From his uninvited, upfront view, Paul saw she was blonde with a wavy bob cut and a gray dress dripping in fringe.
“You’re late!” the lady bitterly scorned, standing tall and aggressively placing her hands on her hips.
Poor Paul was still in shock over the sudden change in scenery and time; he simply stared at her.
“Uh… I’m sorry,” he managed, unsure what to say.
“Oh, don’t give me excuses, Cliff!” she said dismissively.
The band began a new song.
“Dance with me!” the woman ordered. Before the musician could protest, the bold woman led him to the middle of the dance floor.
The music was upbeat, and the dancers were all performing the same moves in unison. Trying to figure out the steps of a dance long out of fashion in his day, Paul struggled to keep up with the pace.
“What is wrong with you?” the lady complained at her partner’s clumsiness. “You got two left feet?”
“Well, I’m left-handed,” Paul managed to reply honestly, which caused the woman to laugh suddenly.
“Figures I’d end up with a bloke who was backwards!” she told him bluntly while crossing her arms over her chest.