Of course the Yokos had their supporters. Wingnuts and cutters and sensationalists would wait at the stage door to thrust albums into their hands. A contingent of would-be groupies stared at them with sharky eyes.
Most nights Yoko would prefer to retire to her room to watch Tom and Jerry and eat spaghetti till she passed out. But sometimes she'd single out a broken-looking boy with a cross bite or a stutter or endearingly bad posture huddled behind the frontline of fans and take him home. She'd usually ask him if he wanted to play ping pong.
The Yokos had a well-loved ping pong table in their middle room, littered with cigarette bits and beer can rings. Touring bands' bags and beds were below it for weeks at a time, and many a musician was lulled to sleep by the tock of the ball across the table, it's soundless snare in the plastic net, the silent beat in a rhythmic phrase.
The game got hypnotic as the night wore on, it's spectators staring, yawning, slipping closer to the floor.
On a couple occasions, if the other Yokos were making out or playing Truth or Dare in their shared bedroom, she'd get a cheap motel room for her and the boy, and press the rubber keychain hard into his palm. The next morning they'd get Bloody Mary's at the adjacent old man bar, laugh and compare rugburns.