Free 9 1/2 Narrow by Patricia Morrisroe

had a sex-change operation and had actually become Ringo. “So you’re the Ugly One?” she said. “You’re the incredible sad sack with the big nose?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œYou should quit the band,” she advised. “They clearly don’t appreciate you.”
    Yoko Ono hadn’t even appeared on the scene and my mother was all ready to break up the Beatles before we’d made our first appearance. “Ringo,” she repeated, shaking her head. “You’d better be careful not to sit on any damp stoops or you could get pleurisy.”
    For the next two weeks, we practiced lip-synching to “She Loves You,” shaking our heads in unison as we mimed the falsetto
ooooohs.
I played percussion with two pencils, while the others played air guitar. It soon became evident that Mary was the breakout star. Her resemblance to Paul was uncanny. She must have practiced his mannerisms for hours, perfecting the way he cocked his head and jutted out his chin, casting his angelic eyes heavenward. When my mother caught us practicing in our basement, she nearly fainted. “It’s remarkable,” she said. “It’s Paul. It’s really Paul.”
    Bumpa made me a cardboard drum set, painting
The Beatles
on the front. I was dying to get a pair of Beatle boots, which I hoped would compensate for the psychological damage that would ultimately result from being Ringo.
    â€œBeatle boots—are you crazy?” was my mother’s first reaction. Her second was “Your father is going to have
plenty
to say about that!” Eventually, I wore her down, and we went off to Reinhold’s.
    â€œWhat kind of girl wants Beatle boots?” the salesman asked.
    â€œGirls who impersonate Ringo,” my mother said. “He’s the Ugly One.”
    â€œThey’re all ugly,” he said. “That hair! It’s a disgrace.”
    â€œParticularly Ringo’s,” she said.
    Fed up with the way they were dumping on my alter ego, I blurted out that my mother was in love with Paul. Her face turned bright red. Realizing that I might have jeopardized my Beatle boots, I added, “You know, of Peter, Paul and Mary.” The salesman started singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” encouraging my mother to join in. She only knew that Puff lived by the sea and nothing about Jackie Paper or the land called Hana Lee. For a major Peter, Paul and Mary fan, it was a pretty weak showing, and the salesman looked suspicious.
    I reminded him that we’d come for Beatle boots, and he told me they didn’t make them for ladies but that he’d try to find a men’s pair. “This is getting worse by the minute,” my mother whispered. “Now you’re going to be wearing men’s shoes. Your father is so upset he can hardly speak.”
    â€œHe doesn’t anyway.”
    The salesman had no concept of Beatles footwear, presenting me with several pairs of construction boots. Since we were years away from the Village People, I showed him a picture I’d torn out from a Beatles magazine. The salesman put on his glasses to study it. “These are like flamenco boots,” he said. “You know,
Olé!
”
After he disappeared into the stockroom, I asked my mother for some change so I could get a ring from the vending machine. I already had seven, but Ringo wore four on each hand, so I was short one. You never knew what was going to slide down the chute, and I got a plastic tarantula, a devil, and a Rat Fink before scoring big with a skull ring.
    â€œYou may be in luck,” the salesman said. Opening the first box, he pulled out a black boot with elastic inserts, a side zipper, and a two-inch Cuban heel. After referencing my
Beatles
magazine, I said, “That’s it!” The boots even fit.
    On the day of the performance, we wore white dickeys, navy blazers, and black slacks, tucking our hair inside our collars to