December 31, 2016. Nora James closed the door to her room at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico, looking down at her pink Nikes against the dark, scuffed hardwood floors. She had thought about getting dressed up as it was New Year's Eve. But, she didn't know where she wanted to go. She was alone and had no plans other than to walk down 66 in the light winter rain and stop in at random bars. Still, for a brief moment, she pictured her cherry red pumps against that historic wood floor. This place had once been the stomping grounds of movie stars. Even though she was a mixed martial arts fighter, and had been the UFC's Flightweight Champion before giving it all up to be a pollster, she still liked to look dazzling once in a while. But, she didn't like senseless pain. A fist against the head in the thrill of the fight was one thing, but aching feet just to turn men's heads, well that was just stupid. Still, she looked down at her feet. Those heals would have allowed her to wear that little red dress, which she had brought along, just in case. Instead, she wore Levis, a white v-neck t-shirt that said WTF: Where There's Frybread, and a black leather jacket.
As she was standing there looking at her feet, she heard a nearby door open and looked up. She couldn't believe it. A man who looked just like Paul McCartney was half in the room next door and half out into the hall. He smiled. He was elderly, but then Paul McCartney was elderly too. Sadly, his face seemed like either Spanish moss or a slow-moving glacier decidedly determined to reach lower ground. But his hair was still long and thick, and he had those unmistakable McCartney eyes and eyebrows that were Walmart smiles turned upside-down. He wore a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and jeans. It couldn't be.
She laughed when she realized they matched.
"What," he said with a British accent.
Maybe all Brits just look alike, she thought, realizing he couldn't really be McCartney. She pointed to his jacket. "I guess everyone who comes here dresses the same."
"Hey, we match."
She smiled. "We do."
"Except," he noted, "I could be your granddad."
"A pretty stylish one at that." She said.
"Thanks love."
Oh that sounded so Beatle-ish. But it couldn't be. Should she? Why not? "You look oddly familiar," she continued. "Do I know you from somewhere."
"I get that a lot."
"You do. You look just like--"
"Shhh. Don't let it get out."
"You aren't though, right?"
"You mean one of those four lads from Liverpool?"
She laughed, covering her mouth, and looking down at the floor in mock embarrassment. She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light. "Yes, one of them."
"Now what would Sir Paul McCartney be doing all alone in Gallup, New Mexico on New Year's Eve?"
Now she really was embarrassed. "You're right. It's just that you--" She needed to save herself. She pointed to all the signed pictures of old movie stars on the wall. "This is the home away from home for the stars, you know."
"Or was," he said, smiling. "It's no longer the 50s."
"Yes, I guess you're right," she said, clearly let down.
"But hey," he said, "I would be glad to pretend to be him. It's not like I haven't done it before."
Now she was worried. It was not like her to just hang out with strangers. She might be the former UFC's Flightweight Champion, but she wasn't stupid. Even a girl like her could get herself into a dangerous situation.
The Sir Paul McCartney look-alike seemed to sense her reluctance. "Sorry, love," he said. "No big deal. I just thought, since, as you pointed out, we match, we might hit a pub or two together."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's just that I don't know you."
"What if you do. Or at least know of me."
She gave a nervous glance. "Are you saying that you really are--"
He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet.
"How would that change anything?" She said before he got a chance to flip it open. "I'm not some groupie you can bed for the night."
He put his wallet back. "Of course not. Have a good night." He walked off, clearly hurt by her assumption.
She stood there for a moment, watching his backside as he entered the balcony area surrounding the large two-story great room that was the lobby. The overhead lights caught the hair on the top of his head. It's New Year's Eve and I might be passing up a night out on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Now that's just stupid, isn't it?
She quickly ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He stopped. "Yes."
"I guess I'd be a fool to pass this up, if you really are him."
"I know about them."
"Who?" She was taken back. Who was 'them'?
"About fools. They live on hills. You don't happen to live on a hill do you?"
She laughed. "I do."
"Oh yeah, where at?"
"In a place called Wheatfields. It's not too far from here. I just come here to get away from my family and focus on my work."
Now they were standing on the balcony, holding on to the large log rail, looking down one of the staircases that curved down around the massive stone fireplace in the center of the great room.
"You're married?"
"No, not that family. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. I'm Navajo. There is no end to family. Everywhere I turn, I have a relation."
"Sounds like mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Once Linda, I and the band were performing in Liverpool, and this heckler in the crowd kept insulting her. Finally, I just stopped the show, you know, to deal with the bastard. Sometime later, I'm at a family event and this skinny lad comes up to me. Some relative of mine, and he says, 'You remember the time you stopped the show cause some arse was insulting Linda?' I said yes, and he said, 'Well, that was me!' Then he broke into laughter. 'Got you good, didn't I?'"
"You know, you play this whole McCartney character rather well," Nora said, smiling. "That's a great story. You almost convinced me."
"I do, do I? Sometimes I can almost convince myself. When I step away from it all. That's why I like it here. I still get recognized. But it's not the same. I have a ranch not too far from here."
Nora glanced over the lobby below--the dark red tile floors, the log furniture with deep red cushions, the Navajo print rugs. She often came here with her grandpa as a kid.
"Why do you come here, if you have a ranch?" She thought she'd trapped him. She didn't mind the act. She was sure he enjoyed it. It's just that she was beginning to like this old man, and wanted to find out who he really was.
"I just like New Mexico. I thought I'd go on a bit of a walk-about?"
"And you're not with anybody?"
"Nope. Should I just show you my licence? It would end all this guessing."
Nora thought about it, chewing lightly on her lower lip. "No, I think I'd like it better telling the story of how I might have spent New Year's Eve on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Something is lost in the knowing."
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, still looking down on the lobby. "Alright then. Where should we go first? Your car or mine?"
For a second the arm-around-the-shoulder move irritated her, but as he kept it there, she realized it didn't seem sexual in any way.
"Have I been presumptuous?" he asked, noticing the pause.
She had to think about that one. If he really was Paul McCartney and he really had a ranch in New Mexico, the car really would be his. What better way to find out if he was authentic? But, she could just have him flash his I.D. for that. Why didn't she just do that. Because, she thought, it shouldn't matter. She was only slightly famous, but she was famous enough to know how it felt when people only want to be around you because of your name.
"Let's walk," she said. "I like the rain."
He sang, oh so naturally, in Paul's voice,
You've never felt the rain my friend,
until you've felt it running down your back.
Maybe it was him after all.
"'Mamunia' from Band on the Run."
"Yep, Love. I thought you'd be too young."
My Grandpa is a fan," she said simply.
Maybe he was McCartney after all. Oh the story she would have to tell. She didn't want to tell it though. She didn't want to be like everyone from Lukachukai to Wheatfields who treated her so differently since she'd become somewhat of a celebrity, something she admittedly exploited in her polling business. At least now she understood it. The elderly gentleman clearly was charming, but he was far more charming as Paul McCartney. Like it or not, she thought, fame matters.
Nora James laughed out loud, realizing she'd given up what little fame she had to take polls for a living.
"What?" said the man who might be McCartney.
"Oh nothing. I just realized I am that fool"
"The one on the hill?"
"Yep. That'd be me. A fool on a hill in Wheatfields, Arizona."
