My family always watched Ed Sullivan on Sunday night.  Just like Uncle Miltie, Liberace, and the Friday Night Fights, good ole wooden Eddie was a staple of life.  At the beginning of each show, my brother and I would always stand in front of the miniscule screen and adopt Ed’s crossed arm stance, to the delight of my parents. 

When I heard the Beatles were going to be on his show, my interest was borne 

more from curiosity than anything else.  Oh sure, I heard them on the radio, and yes, I liked their music.  But it was no big whoop.  In fact, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be hearing Topo Gigot’s adorable, “Oh Eddieeeeee, I luff you”. 

When Ed introduced “those boys from England”, my brother and I were still clowning around.  I undid my ponytail and shook my head, so my hair all but covered my face, and played air guitar while my brother pummeled pretend drums.  When I heard the screams of the predominantly female audience, all but drowning out the music, something happened, something snapped.

 
As the tiny black and white screen filled with their images, and those deep and meaningful words, “I wanna hold your hand” came forth, seeking my heart, and my heart alone, I had a religious experience…or perhaps my first sexual experience.

 
Unaware of anyone else in the room, I rushed towards the television, gripping it on both sides.  With my pudgy little prepubescent cheek pressed against the warm glass, I began to weep.  Tears of gratitude, pain, long-suffering, joy and elation streamed down my face.  I knew, knew with all my heart and soul that they were singing to me, and to me alone.  Yes, they wanted to hold MY hand.  Those hairy little boys wanted ME.

 
My mother, the woman to whom I was accidentally, genetically linked, spoke words, that to this very day, I can’t remember.

 
But, I do remember my head spinning around on its axis, ala Linda Blair in the “Exorcist”.  And I spoke…hell; I spewed the heretofore unspeakably angry words, “SHUT UP!”  Now normally, such an outburst would have resulted in severe violence perpetrated upon my person.  But not this time. 
Fire must have blazed from my glassy eyes, foam oozing from my clenched teeth, because I remember a stunned silence falling over the living room, as my head righted itself, and my loving gaze returned to them.

The rest of the evening is a blur.  I remained in my trance-like state, the family maintaining a safe distance, speaking in hushed tones; presumably about “the problem”. 

I don’t imagine that many women are aware of the exact moment that their pubescent hormones kicked in, but I, oh yes, I shall never forget mine.

 
Ohmigod, the Beatles…how things changed. No longer was I that quiet, acquiescent little girl. Nope, now I was a teenager.

 
My best friend, Linda, and I would talk on the phone for hours, purposely assuming strange positions on the floor, with our feet planted high against the wall. Hell, we were teenagers. We were supposed to do that, right?  If Sandra Dee did it, you can bet your sweet ass it was proper teenage protocol. 

Linda and I practiced Sandra’s Lolita-like pout, and wide eyed gaze in front of the mirror for hours, wore the same pedal pushers, and perfected tossing our hair with the same insouciance. My life would have been complete had my mother let me bleach my naturally dark brown hair to Sandra’s golden blonde hue. 
One afternoon, Linda appeared at my front door, out of breath and red faced.  All attempts at a Sandra Dee’s innocent detachment, out the window.  Barely able to speak between gasps for breath, Linda told me the unthinkable had happened.

 
THEY, THEM…THE BEATLES…were coming to Miami Beach.

Thus began my period of true fame, in my previously undistinguished junior high social life, aside of course, from my uncanny Sandra Dee-like persona.

 You see, I…yes, I…touched George Harrison.

The Great Beatle Adventure, as it came to be known by those in the know, came about when Linda’s mother gave in to our pleas for a visit to the beach.  Being an intelligent woman, she had no intention of passing the day with two Sandra Dee clones, so she dropped us off on  Collins Avenue , with all the standard admonitions as to our behavior.  We were good kids, and really hated to lie, but what kind of teenagers would we be if we didn’t at least try to see The Beatles?  How often in our short lifetimes, did virtual gods check into the Deauville Hotel? 

 
To give credence to our fib, we dressed the part.  We wore our bathing suits, two piece of course, modestly covered by our little pompom trimmed terrycloth robes.  Our hats were straw, conical affairs edged with the ever present pompoms, secured under our chins by chiffon scarves.  Oh, don’t let me forget our sunglasses.  Of course they matched our ensembles, with pointy sides reaching for the sky.  We were stylish and ready for action.

 
It had been a long, hot fruitless day.  We pounded the pavement.  Every now and then, we managed to wait in front of the hotel. Unfortunately, the security guards took their jobs seriously and continually shooed us away, with that “we are not amused” attitude.  On our pilgrimage, we’d pass other teenagers, acknowledging one another’s mission with understanding nods and sympathetic expressions.  We knew, we shared their pain and suffering.  I don’t really remember the genesis of all that teenaged anguish, but it certainly seemed to be running rampant that day.

  
The Beatles were worth any amount of pavement pounding, but enough was enough.  We walked to the end of the block, rounded the corner and found the  Deauville’s private beach entrance.  With heads held high, pompoms bouncing, we confidently sauntered through the gate, onto the private beach, up the stairs to the pool, and finally into the lobby.  Without missing a beat, we headed straight towards the elevator.  As if we were expected, the elevator doors magically opened, and we slipped right in. Somewhere along the line, we learned The Beatles were staying on the fifteenth floor.  With trembling little fingers, we pushed “15” together, and exchanged glances, somehow acknowledging the momentousness of the occasion.  The elevator went straight to our destination, without a single stop.  We felt as if God were helping us. 

 
The doors slid open, our little hearts were pounding.  Not because we were trespassing, but because we were breathing the same air THEY breathed.

   
We were greeted with, “Where are you going?” from an irate security guard.  You could tell he had been busy chasing kids all day, and had just about had it.

  
Linda and I looked at one another; both mouthing “shit” at the same time and did what any clear thinking thirteen year olds would have done…we ran.  We ran like the wind.  I had the advantage over Linda.  She was a little plump and slow.  In a situation like this, it was every man for himself…so, I did the only thing I could, I left her in my dust.  The guard caught Linda which bought precious time for me.
 I loved Linda.  She was great.  She kept screaming, “Run D, run!” all the while kicking and squirming, proving to be a handful for the middle-aged, overweight guard.

  
I spotted a broom closet and quickly hid inside.  I could hear other guards running, Linda’s screams, and my own heart, pounding in my ears.  I looked around my little sanctuary and next to my arm…touching my arm…was a dustpan. 

  
Now at first glance, this may not seem a particularly momentous event.  But in my pubescent little mind it was.  That dustpan had been in THEIR room, and was covered with, yes, THEIR dust.  I reverently slid my fingers over the grimy powder and held my fingers to my lips.  As I reveled in the blessed dust, the door to my safe haven flew open, and there stood the dreaded guard, and a tear-stained Linda.

We were most unceremoniously escorted outside, to warnings of severe punishment, if we ever, ever entered that place again.  Outside, in the bright light of day, we told our tale to the teenaged minions, all oohing and ahhing over my face smudged with, what came to be known locally as, Beatle Dust.  
Worn to a frazzle from our adventure and new found celebrity, we headed to the drug store for a soda.  Just then, God smiled on us once again.  A red convertible sports car went whizzing by.  “And what to our wondering eyes should appear…?”  Bangs!  The occupants had bangs.

  
At that point in time, only girls had bangs.  Boys still wore crew cuts, with that slimy, green stuff in the front to make those short little hairs stick up.  Our “bangs sighting” could only have meant one thing.  THE BEATLES!!!

  
Once again, something snapped.  I began to run.  I ran like no one has ever run in the history of time.  I ran with that teenaged determination, to meet, to see, to touch the object(s) of my affection.  That’s some powerful stuff, let me tell you.

  
I ran like the wind, screaming unintelligible words, like a banshee.  I began to keep pace with the slowing car.  As the car pulled onto the hotel’s ramp, I was just inches behind.  Suddenly, I was airborne.  As if in a dream, I willed my flight to carry me, just a few inches father.  And it did.

  
I landed, with a thud, across the back of their car, right arm outstretched, little fingers grasping.  And then…it happened.  Those grimy, grasping little fingers made their purchase, and grabbed the back of George Harrison’s shirt…and held on, with all their frenzied might.

  
George was driving, and for some reason, completely foreign to me, was startled by this young girl holding onto the back of his shirt…hit the gas pedal, and plowed into the parked car in front of him.  
I remember hearing laughter and being lifted from the car, and that’s it.  Everything went black.  My loss of memory wasn’t based on an injury, but an overload of estrogen.

  
Back on Collins Avenue , reunited with Linda, my estrogen filled teenaged senses partially returned.  She comforted me as I hysterically cried tears of pure joy; surrounded by hordes of my peers, all crying in support.

In a Sandra Dee movie, the bitch would have met The Beatles.

"The Beatles" by D. Gustafson, copyright Mama's Secrets, 2007.  All rights reserved.