The Road

Winter frost had just come to Decatur, and our breath steamed as we walked down the middle of West Benson. Like most weeknights in Oakhurst the residential streets were empty, lined with cars under pools of yellow street light.

"Why don't we duh-do it in the road..." I began to sing under my breath, squeezing her hand.

"What?" She looked up at me, skeptical. The alcohol glazed her eyes with a dull shine like polished brass.

"Why Don't We Do It In The Road?" I repeated, smiling. "It's a Beatles song. White Album I think, or Revolver?"

"That's not a Beatles song! I know the Beatles, probably better than you!" She shivered and crossed her arms against the cold.

"Well," I searched for the right words as we started up the gentle hill towards home. Too many of our fights are small disagreements, amplified by alcohol and the accompanying hyper-sensitivity. "It definitely is. You don't know it?"

I gave her a half-hearted McCartney impersonation, trying to mimic the gritty sound of the recording's last half, hoping to better evoke the song's desperation.

"That's dumb!" She waved her hand dismissively. "The Beatles didn't write that!"

"It's not dumb! It's supposed to be...hot." I felt stupid explaining it, embarrassed by my defensiveness. "'No one will be watching us...'"

"...and what is 'it' supposed to be, anyway?" she interrupted.

I stifled my immediate reaction. "'It' is what you think 'it' is. 'Why don't we do it in the road...'" I began again, gesturing to the empty street.

"Who would want to do that? That's so dumb."

Were we really so different? I am hardly the most passionate person, but I have always seen that as a failure of imagination or confidence. I am not one to do 'it' in the road, but I can at least recognize the libertine romanticism in the sentiment. I want to want that.

"I mean...okay yeah, might hurt a bit," I joked lamely, a concession to her pedantry. I didn't trust myself to counter directly, not with us both drunk. "But the song itself is still hot. And it is very definitely a Beatles song. Got to be White Album."

"I had the White Album on vinyl when I was younger," she protested, "and that song is not on there."

We dropped the subject for the remainder of the walk, but inside I still bristled. I felt sour and rejected. Her misplaced confidence nettled, but it was her condescension towards the song's simple, pleading passion that buried itself in me like a splinter.

In the dim carport light I unlocked our door, ushering the dogs into the backyard. As she stripped from her coat I rummaged through our records. I wanted to prove my point but more than that I wanted to believe that if she heard the rawness, the naked need in the music, it would evoke the emotion that I had intended back there in the empty street; I wanted badly for the failure be in my rendition.

"See?" I pointed in the direction of the record player matter-of-factly, trying to avoid any hint of smugness as the song began. "It's a great song, yeah? And definitely Paul McCartney."

She dropped her coat and blew a raspberry as she headed for the restroom. Her expression told me that it was intended to be cute.

"It's a dumb song," she called from the hallway. "And I still know The Beatles better than you."