The Lord's Prayer Issy decided was as good as place as any to start.

Repeating the lines to herself as she stared at the Men's room door. She stood trying to bolster her bravado but never made a move to go inside...

She finished the prayer.

Then, realising what she had just used as an aid in her endeavours, she laughed softly under her breath ....

This was the infamous John Lennon.

She recalled the Jesus quote and the huge American backlash of '66 in her mind. He was, of course, not really saying he was better than or.... what was it? That's right '.....not saying we're better or greater, or comparing us to....'

But still ....

Her, here now, saying the Lord's Prayer, was pretty ironic, she thought with a smirk.

I'm changing tune she then decided.

She hummed All You Need Is Love instead.

It had been a long time since she had had to follow a man into a Men's bathroom. Nothing seemed to change in them though ... same disgusting smells, wads of used hand towel inches from the bin, tap particially on, dripping away litres of water and the heavy smell of tobacco cigarette smoke still filled the enclosed space from the day. Issy waved her hand to waft it away.

He was in the last stall and had been sick, his cheek leaning on the edge of the open toilet bowl, the lid resting on the back of his skull as he dozed.
Red rimmed eyes, a damp face, sweat or tears, she wasn't entirely sure.

Issy's heart pound in fear of the unknown, and poured out for his pain, in equal measure.

And it was him, the great John Lennon but broken; A shell of a man.....

Yes... but it is him.

His nose, his eyebrows, his lips.

God, she had had it so bad as a young girl watching those boys on the Ed Sullivan Show- her insides had lit up like a Christmas tree as she gazed at the grainy black and white picture that streamed into the living room of the family home. In those few glorious minutes her heart had raced in a totally new direction and her skin just wanted them to surround her with hugs and, quite possibly, a lot more.

And now this.

"John" Issy's voice was barely registering in her own ears, she tried again, a little louder "John, umm, it's Issy, Sally's mum"

"Huhhh?" John offered none too lucidly with eyes closed; then a light bulb seemed to flicker and his terse ways made another appearance. A random retort heavily laced with puffing, groans and slurs throughout "Whaat sort of a nnname is Issssy?"

Inching around the confines of the cubicle she leaned over and lifted the lid of the toilet off his head, propping it back into place against the cistern. She wasnt about to move him .... no, if he was going to be ill again he would need the toilet close-by.

She grinned as she exited the tight space, she could answer this question "Isabelle. My name is Isabelle. Issy is just a nickname from when I was little" Issy sat on the floor well away from the puddle of vomit that pooled below the toilet bowl, Johns legs reached out to her position beyond the doorway of the cubicle. He didn't have shoes on, the soles of his feet were dirty from the streets grim. "Issy sort of stuck"

"Well I will be saying-arrrr, calling, you Idabell I mean Isabelle. Bloody 'Is' Issy, is... ISS isss not a bloody name!" He finally opened an eye a sliver and groaned "He still out there?"

"Julian- no. I sent them home" Issy looked back at the stark white Men's room door and pulled her knees to her chest and wondered just why she had. Probably hoping for some winged angel to swoop in and trade places with her she supposed. This was difficult... This was her idol laying in a toilet cubicle, resting his head on the not so squeeky clean bowl with a revolting puddle of vomit surrounding him. The scene was breaking her heart, she tinkered with her shirt then stopped and steadied her thoughts. Waiting him out.

"Annnd why would you do that IdIssabelle?" John cocked a weary eyebrow for an explanation, Issy shrugged and he laughed a little then groaned overly loud.

He laughed though.

"Come on, you look like shit, I said I'd take you home" Issy stood and went to lift him up by putting her hands gingerly under his armpits. John bat her hands away and tried to get up himself.

He failed miserably; Seconds later, he was sprawled across that disgusting floor once again. His feet had slipped out from under him on the vomit.

Issy held out a hand and latched onto the doorframe for support. "Come on, let's get you up and sorted"

Pulling a man up that was taller than you, heavier than you and drunker than you was no easy task and as she watched him fight a wave of nausea after he was stood teetering upright, she chewed her lip; Again wondering where her head was at.

John turned and vomited some more into the toilet bowl. One hand held him somewhat steady against the wall. He wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand as he groaned.

Lengthy silence ensued.

Issy wiped her own hand on her jean clad leg, quietly thanking herself for picking stonewash and not white; she had grasped his elbow pulling him upright before she even though about it being covered in a residue of yuck ... John tottered a bit then finally stood firm, he then held out a hand. "Suppose I should introduce myself property.... Properly, I mean"

He swayed in both speech and movement.

She stared at the pro-offered appendage. John Lennon had his hand outstretched offering to touch her and she turned her nose up a little. Wonders never ceased. Issy dropped the hand she had ready to lift. She had been about to put it in his when clarity, and the smell, washed over her.

"How about you wash your hands first.. and your chin.. and your shirt about your collar, then we do the proper introductions" Issy tactfully eyed his red and black check shirt, it was a nice one, probably cost a bomb and there it was, covered with a good dose of disgusting vomit.

Looking in the mirror his puffy face stared back. He washed his chin and tended his shirt then thumped the basin in protest of the mess he was in.

Gargling, slurping water from his cupped hands he had shoved, with pitiful annoyance (at the world, at himself), under the faucet, John spat the water out letting yet another groan elicit from his body. A big fat look of guilt settled upon his features. He. Was. A. Mess. "Not the best way to meet a Beatle, is it?"

"No"

"Alright then that pretty much sums that up" Staring bullets at her in the mirror he watched her for minutes with a calculating look, then shook himself out of the stupor. He turned about in a lighter mood " ..... I'm John by the way- Lennon. John Lennon Esquire, at your service" John bowed and swayed and almost toppled over  completely. 

Issy went to grasp his shoulder but he held a hand up. He held the sink for a bit instead then finally offered his hand to her for the second time. Issy accepted the clean palm and didn't get any sparks or feeling of greatness. She wasn't disappointed in the lack of 'WOW',  only saddened that they were meeting in such a way.

Maybe it was better this way, maybe this way she didn't go all goo goo eyeballed and fawn over the Beatle that was. She giggled to herself, lips turning up a little in the corners goo-goo eyeballed.

He waited expectantly, watching her through hooded eyes, taller than her he was, by a inch or two. He noted her tentative but not awed like many that had met him, then again, they were currently swimming in a pool of his own vomit and standing in a depressingly filthy men's bathroom.

"Issy" She introduced herself back to him, John's eyebrow rose "Oh uh ummm Isabelle, Sally's mum, your chauffeur.." She grinned, eyes crinkling. She relaxed a little more as the minutes ticked by.

That's more like it.

Now he could see Sally in her features- her mouth, nose and eyes all presented before him in lovely maturity and knowing. Experienced irises of green watching him intently.

He smiled back.

That Lennon smile, slayer of women since 1962, or was it '61? 57- Yeah man  '57

Then he leaned to the left and almost toppled over again.

Regaining his footing he resumed his chat as she negotiated their way out of the bathroom "...Soooo, the mum that takes John's, I mean strangers, home...haha John's. We're in a john currently, get it. Ugh my 'ead. .Taking strange drunk men home at, at... what time is it? Three a.m in the morning?" John teased, giggling like a naughty school boy at the Johns remark and then groaned as she led him onward through the brightly lit office. After he slammed his shoulder hard on the next doorframe, Issy paused, her eyes shooting up the clock above them and she groaned at the early hour.

John continued on, ignoring his bruised shoulder and clobbered into another door frame at the other end of the hall. They were jumping out at him from left, right and centre he deduced while intently studying a pot plant sat dying in the corner of the reception area. Finally he regained a little traction in his mind and understood why she had groaned at the clock in the other room.

"...I know, I know, been years since I was off out in the city larking about at this hour too" The reception desk and his discarded scotch took his interest then.
John swiped, missed, and swipped again. He made a third grab and finally grasped his bottle of scotch. "Usually good and passed out by now I am" She let him grab the bottle and ignored the comment, he thanked her silently for both.

Issy couldn't tell him what to do, big unsubtle hints were definitely more her style anyway.

Locking the door like she owned the place Issy grabbed Johns shirt and tugged him toward the Jeep, he had been leaning heavily against the side of the building they had just exited as she locked up and as she tugged him along it was well and truly evident he was still heavily tanked.

Swaying badly, stinky and more than half asleep once again, the chill air had hit him hard; he must have been thinking bad things too, because the jovial man she had glimpsed for seconds before was now cross looking, and solemn.

Clutching his head with one hand as the other held the bottle tightly against his chest like a long-lost lover, she pushed- lifted- manouvered him into the front seat of the SUV.

With Johns seat belt stretched over him, done up with fumbling fingers, and her own clicking into place, Issy all of a sudden felt claustrophobic. She shook her head clear then reached behind her seat, feeling about wildly, she grasped the towel she sought and laid it over his lap.

His head was lolled back against the headrest, his eyes pinched shut and the bottle forever held firm. The street light bounced off his features and Issy gulped. A cardboard cut-out of Beatle John Lennon circa '66 sat inches away from her, his profile gloriously on show and Issy still thought like she always did .... he looked of Roman descent, such was the nature of the lines and sharp angles of his still handsome face.

Wiping her eyes and turning away, she forgot... She had turned the key too soon and listened to the Jeep do absolutely nothing at all. Cursing herself for forgetting she switched off and waited a minute or two then clicked the key once to warm the glow plugs then clicked it into the next position to turn the engine over; the Jeep fired to life.

Issy knew where he lived. Didn't everybody. So she didn't need instructions or a map.

She spotted the Shell garage up ahead and swung in, best to fuel up now for the homeward journey than go traipsing around the city looking for another after she dropped her passenger off.

The cool air was welcome from the heavy scotch smelling confines of the Jeep and she settled the nozzle into the tank to fill. A lone skateboarder, a hoodie shielding his face, flew past and she felt alone and fragile. It was so damn early, or was that late?

Her eyes were burning but she didn't want to stay here in New York any longer, she was just itching to lay her fingers on her typewriter again, words rattled around her head, ready to hop onto the page.

Paying cash, the attendant commented that her husband looked 'just like that Beatle fella'. 'No, that's just my Henry' she replied laughing at the absurdity of her husband being that 'Beatle fella'. She got in the car giggling, thinking she had just cleverly named John after the first thing she thought of.

Henry the Horse.

A/N: I'm not American ~any errors please let me know, is Shell (gas stations/ petrol stations in Australia!) in America?