Hitchhiker Dream With Beatles
Driving 70 miles an hour, I noticed two young men
walking down the side of the highway. One caught my eye —
tall, lean, broad-shouldered, his thick hair flashing
bright in the harsh summer light. Not knowing why, or how,
the two came to be there, I pulled over. The blond
wanted to drive, the other sat next to him:
I, now a passenger, leaned in from the back seat,
asking Beatles questions. How did Paul meet John, anyway?
What was the first date they sat down together
to write a song? What exactly were they wearing
at the time? No answers forthcoming — but I told the men
not to worry, I’d happily fill in the details.
Paul had on a twill safari jacket, I said, and John wore
an ugly plaid blazer. It was late fall; the rusty leaves
twirled on their branches like pinwheels, and Paul was in love.
His girl, Peggy, was tall, full-breasted, and her hair
was black, curly, down to her waist. John was terribly shy
with women, a bit jealous of Paul; soon enough John found fault
with the girl — her face was uninspiring, her nose crooked.
John was right; Paul gave her up. Peggy married
the next man who asked her, divorced him in a year.
She’s on the dole now, lives with her mother,
who’s a real bitch and a half; won’t wear her teeth
or her hearing aid, loves to drive poor, lonely Peggy berserk.