I followed the instructions on the Sgt. Peppers’ Lonely Hearts Club Band cover and arrived at the Greek island of Leso as the sun rose over the misty beach. The ghost of Paul McCartney, the real Paul McCartney, was signing autographs. When it was my turn, dumbfounded in his cherubic glow, I blurted, “you’re barefoot!” “Sand’s good, yeah,” murmured Paul. “Like on the Abbey Road cover! The clue?” He shrugged. I cleared my throat and said, “?eulc ehT !revoc daoR yebbA eht no ekiL.” Paul smiled, winked and said, “Very good. Right. Want me to sign something now?” I didn’t know where to start— fake Paul’s black rose from the ‘Your Mother Should Know’ video, fake Paul’s walrus mask from Magical Mystery Tour, the White Album insert poster of fake Paul in a bathtub with his hands around his head, representing the decapitation of real Paul. He massaged his neck, staring at the picture of his impersonator. I saw his eternal sadness. This journey had been in vain. I took Paul by his weightless waist and, with him over my shoulder, bolted to rescue him from the island of Leso, but he pointed out that he couldn’t leave without his remains, and that was a whole ‘nother mystery I had to go get high about.
Julián Martinez loves Chicago so much, he's marrying her. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com
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