The Ghosts of Marylebone Station

One night, many years ago, I was out having a couple of beers with my dad, when he blurted out, “When I die, I want my ashes scattered across Abbey Road.”

“Really?” I said. “With my luck, I’d get caught and have to sweep you into a dust pan. Is that where you want to end up? In a dust pan?”

“No,” he said. “My plan is to walk with ghosts. And having my ashes scattered across Abbey road is my best hope.”

“Ghosts?” I said. “Who’s ghosts?”

“The Beatles’ ghosts,” he said.

“You do know that only two of them are dead,” I said. “The other two are very much alive.”

“Oh,” he said,“I don’t expect to be dead for quite some time. But I figure they’ll all be ghosts by the time I’m ready to join them.”

“And just when would that be?” I said.

“In about thirty years,” he said.

“So in thirty years time you want me to fly your ashes from New York to London--”

“No,” he interrupted. “From Florida to London. I don’t expect to be living in New York when I retire. Too expensive. I’ll be down south with all the other senior refugees. Elbowing my way onto the buffet line.”

“OK,” I said. “So I fly you to London. I scatter your ashes across Abbey road. Then what? Your ghost rises from the ashes and joins the fab four as they spend the rest of eternity parading back and forth on that zebra striped cross walk?”

“Splendid idea,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

“And what makes you think they’ll be wanting to hang out at Abbey road?” I said. “I’ve seen the Abbey road web cam. It’s a mecca for potential human road kill. People risking life and limb to have their picture taken on an iconic piece of road tar.”

“Oh, they’ll be there all right,” he said. “All four of them. It’s their altar. As Abbey road studios is their church. They wouldn’t have a choice. They’ll want to be where the action is. It’s a hotbed for hero worshiping. As celebrities, they couldn’t resist. Big egos, don’t you know.”

“Let’s have another beer,” I said. “If it’s what you want. I have no objections. Mom’s another story.”

“Let me worry about your mom,” he said. “You just worry about keeping my wishes.”

That was thirty years ago. Now it’s 2042, and I sit on a British Airways super sonic. Guaranteed to get us to London before my coffee catches cold. Dad’s under the seat in my carry-on bag. I can almost hear him giggling with excitement as the aircraft zooms over the Atlantic at a ridiculous speed. Destination: destiny. That’s what Dad had been calling it.

“Destination: destiny!" he would say to me. “Don’t ever forget it when I’m gone."

He knew it ever since he took a seat in that little movie theater in Keanesburg, New Jersey, on a hot summer day in 1964 when he was ten-years-old. Dad was on a summer vacation with his family and needed to get away from the oppressive heat of that little beach town resort. An air-conditioned movie house seemed like a great idea.

A Hard Day’s Night was the feature film. Dad even remembered at which point in the movie he wanted to jump through the screen and be with them always.

“It was that wild scene before they enter the train station, where the Beatles are racing up a street and hundreds of crazed fans are giving chase. They look deliriously happy, even as George falls down, causing Ringo to tumble and fall over him, and yet, all four still looked joyous beyond belief, and all I knew is I that I wanted to be up there with them. I wanted it so bad. It was such an innocent time. It wouldn’t be until later that the fan craziness got scary.

Now, in 2042, as I stand here, with Dad tucked under my arm, staring down those zebra stripes, I don’t quite know if it’s the right thing to do.

Dad’s ashes were another doubtful issue. Last night when I dared open the jar with his remains, It wasn’t filled with the floury sort of ashes I’d come to expect from watching movies. Where the loved ones take the ashes of the dearly departed to a mountain top or on an ocean cruise and they toss the ashes to a billowing wind and the wind obliges by dancing with the ashes until they are no more. Everyone weeps and a sense of peace for the dead ensues. They’ve done their duty.

But Dad’s ashes are brittle and gray, tiny shards of bone, and they have a little weight to them. About five pounds I would figure. Nothing short of a Wizard of Oz tornado was going to make these ashes dance.

Although I’d been aware of the changes at the Abbey Road crossing since that day seventy three years ago in the summer of 1969 when that photo was taken, the sight of the four dazzling life-sized holograms walking endlessly to and fro across the famed road leave me feeling a bit nervous.

But, as I stand at the curb, my journey almost at an end, nothing prepares me for the shock of seeing the white-suited John Lennon ambling towards me as I make ready to deliver Dad to his new life abroad. And then that mad Liverpudlian walks right through me, as do the other three.

And then each one turns and walks back through me from the rear. Until I’m left looking at the back of George Harrison’s blue denim shirt.

And on and on it went. Fan after fan marching along side or dancing through the brilliant images. The hover crafts, having long replaced the automobile, whizzing overhead. There now being nothing but bicycle traffic and joggers on the Abbey road.

Dad’s last ten years were spent in a nursing home and I’m not sure if he was aware of the changes to his beloved rock n’ roll landmark, or if it’s where he’d still want me to lay his ashes.

Crazed tourists: Americans, Germans, Japanese, you name it, all here to celebrate an iconic photo. Now I wasn't much liking the idea of Dad being trampled on by crazed tourists running amok. I’d have to rethink this for him. Letting him go is harder than I thought.

So I figured it might be fun to go to that railroad station and take Dad for a train ride and dwell on the matter. After all, that’s where his passion for all this Beatles business started.

I tell the cab driver all about Dad’s dilemma, but he's nonplussed. He’d seen and heard it all when it came to nutty fans seeking their idols.

Then he told me of Boston Place.

“It’s the scene in the opening of A Hard Day’s Night,” he says. “When all four are running frantically from the horde of screaming fans on their way to the station. Right there is the street.”

He points down a narrow street that runs along the right side of the train station.

“Right there," he says, "is where they came running, laughing and tripping over one another before they enter Marylebone station. You might want to take your dad for a walk. Or maybe a run?"

“Not a bad idea,” I say, as I pay the fare.

Boston Place is lined with cars, and not a soul in sight. A far cry from that riotous chase in 1964.

‘I wanted to be up there running with them,’ I could hear my dad saying. ‘I wanted it so bad.’

And here we are, seventy eight years later. And it's quiet as a graveyard.

This feels right, though, I thought. Very right.

So I stand here scoping the street for a proper place to bury the ashes. It didn’t look promising. Not a patch of earth anywhere. Concrete and lamp posts stretched along the entire street. Burying five pounds of Dad is not possible. Not here. The best I could do is grab a handful of Dad and let him fly. Which I do.

Somehow I don't think he’d mind.

Then I see them coming. All four of them, running up Boston Place, being chased by an invisible horde of screaming fans. Those touristy celebrity holograms they seem to have all over the place these days.

At least I think they‘re holograms. Because now there appear to be five of them.

A boy, about the age of ten, runs and stumbles along side George. George reaches out for the boy to hold him steady, but only manages to cause them both to fall, which in turn causes Ringo to tumble on top of them both. And the whole time their laughter never falters. They‘re delirious in their joy and youth. Then, as they‘re about to turn the corner on their way to the station, the boy turns and waves in my direction.

“Destination: destiny!" the boy shouts, as all five run into the Marylebone station and out of sight.

I follow in their path and decide to take that train ride anyway. I’ve never felt this close to him before. I only hope we’ll be riding on the same train.

Destination: destiny, indeed.

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