You can retire from your career after having a Beatle portray you

Host: The theater was empty now. Rows of velvet seats stretched into the dark, and a single spotlight lingered over the stage, catching the dust particles that floated like tiny ghosts in the air. The curtains hung still, heavy with the memory of applause that had faded hours ago.

At center stage sat Jack — still in his suit, tie loosened, cigarette burning in hand. His expression was unreadable — part contentment, part loneliness, the kind that follows success like an echo.

Jeeny entered quietly, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor, her long coat brushing her knees. She carried two paper cups of coffee, and when she approached, she set one down beside him with the kind of care that only comes from years of shared conversations.

Host: It was late, and the air smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and that strange melancholy that fills empty stages.

Jeeny: “Russell Mael once said, ‘You can retire from your career after having a Beatle portray you in any sort of way, let alone in a music video that lasts forever.’”
She sat down beside him, legs crossed, her eyes glimmering in the faint stage light. “He was talking about Paul McCartney portraying him — can you imagine? That kind of immortality?”

Jack: (a small smile) “Immortality through imitation. Yeah, I can imagine. Fame by reflection — being remembered not for what you did, but for who pretended to be you.”

Host: The cigarette tip glowed, then dimmed, leaving a trail of smoke that spiraled upward, catching the light like an ephemeral thought.

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to see it.”

Jack: “Realistic. Fame doesn’t last. But the image — that lasts forever. The world doesn’t remember the man; it remembers the myth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the myth is the man. Maybe that’s the point. Mael didn’t mean literal retirement — he meant arrival. To be seen, even once, through someone else’s art — that’s proof that you’ve entered the collective imagination. That’s a kind of eternity no paycheck can buy.”

Host: Her words lingered, wrapping the air like a soft melody, gentle but defiant.

Jack: (chuckling) “You sound like an artist who still believes in art.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like one who forgot why he started.”

Host: The silence that followed was not hostile — it was old, like a well-worn argument between two people who had crossed this ground before. The light hum of the city outside the theater windows filled the space, like a distant chorus.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, I don’t deny the magic of it. A Beatle playing you — that’s insane. But it’s also… luck. Timing. The universe flipping a coin your way. You don’t earn that.”

Jeeny: “You earn being worth it. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice sharpened, but not cruelly — more like truth finding its form.

Jeeny: “You think Lennon or McCartney became legends because they chased fame? No — they chased meaning. The fame came as a side effect. That’s why what they touched turned timeless.”

Jack: “So what? We chase meaning now, and some algorithm decides who gets remembered? There’s no Lennon anymore, Jeeny — just metrics. Streams. Engagement. You could be brilliant, and no one would know. You could be hollow, and they’d crown you.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe the Beatle we need now isn’t a person — it’s whoever still believes in the power of a song to outlive the machine.”

Host: The spotlight above them flickered, throwing the stage into half-shadow, half-light — as if the past and present had collided.

Jack: “You really think anything lasts forever?”

Jeeny: “I think moments do. Especially the ones that become stories. That’s what Mael meant — to live long enough to see yourself turned into a story, even if it’s just for three minutes of music video eternity.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly, though whether from the cold or the truth of her words, it was hard to say.

Jack: “You know, when I was young, I used to think fame was the closest thing to godhood. To be remembered — to leave a mark. But now, the older I get, the more I realize... it’s not the fame that stays. It’s the feeling you gave people. That’s the real immortality.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. It’s not about being remembered — it’s about being felt. A Beatle can portray you, or no one ever can, but if your work makes someone stop, feel, be for a moment — that’s forever enough.”

Host: Her voice quieted, and the lights seemed to dim with it, until the stage felt infinite and intimate all at once.

Jack: “So you think you’d retire after that?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d start over. Because once something you love becomes eternal, you realize the real work is making the next thing matter just as much.”

Host: A long silence fell, broken only by the faint echo of dripping rain outside. Jack looked up, his face half-lit, his expression softened.

Jack: “You know, I used to dream about this — stages, lights, applause. Now I dream of quiet mornings and no one knowing my name. Maybe immortality’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s misunderstood. Immortality isn’t about never being forgotten — it’s about never being finished. Even silence echoes, Jack, if you’ve ever spoken truth in it.”

Host: Her words landed like a final chord, vibrating softly in the dark air. Jack’s shoulders eased, his breathing slower, as if something in him had finally exhaled after years of performance.

Jack: (smiling, almost to himself) “So, what would you do if a Beatle played you?”

Jeeny: “Probably panic. Then laugh. Then take a long walk and wonder if I’ve become real or just well-remembered.”

Jack: “That’s the thing though, isn’t it? You can’t tell where the real ends and the remembered begins.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of art. It blurs the edges between what was and what still is.”

Host: The light above finally faded, until only the glow of the exit sign remained — red, constant, like a heartbeat in the dark. The sound of the city seeped back in, distant yet alive.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the ghost light at center stage — that single lamp theaters leave burning for the spirits of old performers.

Host: And in that dim glow, their faces were touched not by fame, nor fear, but by something quieter — the peace of two souls realizing that being seen, truly seen, even once, might just be enough to live forever.

Host: The ghost light flickered, the dust danced, and somewhere in the rafters of memory, an unseen melody hummed — the sound of a Beatle playing someone else’s story… so that both could remain eternal.