I am not generally a superstitious man. I don’t think twice about the number 13, black cats, or the danger to my mother’s spine should I step on the wrong section of sidewalk. But the last couple of years, I have had a private Beatles-related superstition. It started when I bought a set of four pint glasses, each decorated with the image of a different Beatle (circa Let It Be). Every time I stacked the dishwasher, where glassware sometimes goes to die, I worried that if the John Lennon glass was the first one to break, it would be a spooky reprise of his being the first Beatle to die. I wasn’t obsessed with this–if I had been, I could have just put John on a high shelf–but it was a frequent, brief, morbid thought.
Last week, I knocked the John glass off my desk. It landed on a carpet, but broke anyway. I know it’s just glass and there was a 25% chance of this happening, but I am officially a little weirded out. If the next glass to break is George Harrison’s, then I will actually put the final two away, because I don’t want to be responsible for a kitchen mishap designating either Paul or Ringo to be the next Beatle to die.