Lyrics to Drive My Car by The Beatles (1965)

Ah, life's simple pleasures: Ice cream on a hot day, the stars at night, slowly coming awake next to the woman you love. That last one was Lincoln's favorite, especially on Sundays like today, when neither worked and Ronnie Anne didn't have class. His mind would languidly swim up from the depths of sleep, his nose would twitch, then his eyes would flutter open. Sometimes she would be snuggled against him, her butt touching his crotch and her hair in his face; sometimes she would be facing him, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, her breathing shallow and her cheeks glowing angelically. He could never decide which he liked best, and every Sunday was different, which gave him something to look forward to. Today, she was cuddled up to him, her knees drawn up and her butt pressed to his rigid morning erection. One of his arms was above his head, and the other was wrapped protectively around her stomach. He smiled lazily and kissed the back of her head. She muttered and stirred.

For a long time he skated along the hazy border between sleep and wakefulness, neither one or the other but somehow both. The bright morning sunlight falling through the window warmed his flesh, and at one point he stretched like a cat, a satisfied groan escaping his lips.

"You're poking me," Ronnie Anne murmured.

"It's saying good morning," he replied.

"Can't it find another way to do that?"

Lincoln grinned. "I'm sure it could."

She shifted so that she faced him. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, but from the way she brushed her teeth across her lower lip, he doubted she wanted go back to bed. He touched her face and arched his hips so that it jabbed her between her legs: Two thin layers of underwear separated them. He leaned in, and they kissed slowly, their tongues moving together in leisurely union. They had all day...there was no need to rush.

Kissing led to petting, their hands stroking unhurriedly over the other's body; his fingers massaged her chest, hers traced the outline of his bulge through his underwear. He broke from her lips, and trailed kisses down her chin, along her jawline, to the soft flesh of her throat, the caress of his fingertips on her stomach making her shudder and moan. Her heart crashed, and when his hand dipped into her panties, her passion surged, filling her with heat.

Lincoln's own desire crested, and he pulled down his underwear, his throbbing member popping out and grazing against her palm. She arched her back and pushed her panties down, wiggling her hips and rubbing her legs until they slid over her ankles. When she was free, she spread her legs, and Lincoln shifted onto her, his tip raking across her sensitive lips: She winced and drew a sharp breath. "Be careful with that thing," she said breathlessly.

He rolled his hips, and his tip skipped across her folds, making her shudder and utter a high-pitch nngh. He laughed, and she slapped his arm. "Jerk," she said around a smile.

"Sorry," he panted, and guided himself to her opening. "I'll behave."

The touch of his head against her life-spring sent a shiver racing down her spine. "You better," she said, "or I'll have to kick your ass."

He started to pull away. "Alright, if it's going to be like that..."

She grabbed him by his hips and dragged him back, his penis inadvertently spearing into her; she gasped and threw her head back. "Goddamn," she huffed.

They made love slowly in the warm spring sunshine, their bodies rocking gently together and their sighs mingling as surely as their breaths. She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his, and when her orgasm hit her, she squeezed, a long moan rising from her trembling lips. Lincoln expanded then yanked out, his body shuddering and grunts falling from his mouth as he pumped into the sheets.

When it was over, he rolled off of her and lay on his side, his hand coming to rest over her pounding heart. She remained on her back, her throat tacky and her chest rapidly expanding and contracting.

"Good thing it's laundry day," he said.

And they both laughed.

Afterwards, they showered together, then toweled each other dry. In the kitchen, Lincoln sat at the table and lit a cigarette: Ronnie Anne plucked it out of his mouth and took a drag while he glared playfully. "Here ya go, lame-o," she said and handed it back. "I wasn't gonna keep it."

While she cooked a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, Lincoln turned the tabletop radio on and finished his cigarette. Chubby Checker was on with Let's Twist Again and when he was done, an afternoon news program started, which told Lincoln that it was noon – lazy Sunday mornings sure do pass quickly, don't they?

Lincoln listened intently as the anchor talked about Vietnam: Over the past year, thousands of American troops had been sent to the front, and many of them came home in boxes. Protests were getting steadily larger and more vehement, and every day Lincoln, like virtually every other man of a certain age, waited with dread for a letter from the government ordering them to report for a physical – the first step in being drafted.

"How about some music?" Ronnie Anne asked over her shoulder; she was at the stove frying bacon.

Lincoln turned the dial, and found a station playing The Beatles. "There you go," he said.

"I will stab you," she said.

Pounding his fist against the table in time, he sang along:

"Baby you can drive my car

Yes I'm gonna be a star

Baby you can drive my car

And maybe I'll love you."

Ronnie Anne watched him with flaring nostrils. "You're cute when you're mad," he teased.

She picked the frying pan up and lifted her eyebrows. "Want a grease bath?"

Lincoln shook his head.

"Then I suggest you change the channel."

"Alright, alright," he said, and turned the dial again, finally settling for Patsy Cline.

"Better, but not great."

"You're picky," he said and got up. He grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and popped the top off with a bottle opener. He took a drink and went over to her, putting one hand on her hip and kissing her neck.

"Am not," she purred, and snatched the Coke from his hand. She took a sip. "It's called having good taste."

He took the bottle back. "It's called being irritating and making me angry."

"Oh?" she chuckled and half-turned. "If you wanna take this outside, Loud, let's go."

Instead, he kissed her neck. "No thanks. I'd rather not start my Sunday afternoon by getting beaten to a quivering pulp."

She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck and looked up at him. "I wouldn't beat you to a pulp; I'd just hit you 'til you got the point."

"You're forgetting something," he said.

"What?"

"I'm hardheaded. I wouldn't get the point until I'm a quivering pulp."

She shrugged. "True."

He kissed her forehead. "Love you."

"Love you too. Now get out of here before I burn the bacon."

It was late Sunday morning in Arizona: The sun shone fiercely in the piercing blue desert sky, and the wind, when it blew, was dry and harsh, like sandpaper. Lynn Loud, wearing a red button down short sleeved shirt with horizontal blue pinstripes tucked into white slacks, hurried across the grassy commons, which was empty at this hour save for a few long-hairs sitting in the shade of a tree. When Lynn first started at the University of Arizona four years ago, none of the boys wore their hair past their shoulders, and very full of them had facial hair; now beards, mustaches, and flowing locks were everywhere. Lynn didn't like it, and he didn't like them: They were the ones who walked out of class last month in protest of the war, and they were the ones who crowded the commons with signs and bongos and other stupid shit. They smoked dope, didn't respect authority, and reveled in being 'different' – in this case 'different' meaning totally and completely abnormal.

He shook his head as he passed the hippies and went into the athletic building. On a Sunday morning, the halls were desolate, and his footfalls echoed, the sound of the stairwell door closing behind him as he pounded down the steps making him jump even though he was expecting it.

Coach Harriman's office was off the basketball court. A few guys in All Stars and training uniforms played, Lynn automatically turning his head to admire their form. Basketball was Lynn's third favorite sport after football and baseball – he knew it fairly well, and he knew the guys on the court now were good.

Better at their sport than he was at his.

All through his college ball career, he had been a middling player at best: He gave it everything he had, but everything he had wasn't good enough – at least to stand out. For the first two years, he focused on improving because it bothered him, then in the third year, he grudgingly accepted it: He wasn't very good and he wasn't going to go pro. Accepting that fact didn't make it any easier a pill to swallow. No, in fact, accepting it cut him so deeply that for a long time he could barely get out of bed.

Then, at the beginning of this season, football fell off his radar almost entirely.

Which is why he was here today.

He poked his head into Coach Harriman's office, a tiny space crammed with metal shelves overflowing with athletic equipment: Coach was sitting at a metal desk, clad in a gray sweat suit, a blue UoA cap on his head. He was writing something on a clipboard, and for a while Lynn waited, then cleared his throat. Coach looked up: He was a bullish man with salt and pepper stubble covering his developing jowls. His eyes were faded blue and hard, and Lynn never failed to squirm when they touched him. "Y-You wanted to see me?"

Coach gestured to a chair in front of the desk, and Lynn crossed to it, pulling his pantlegs up as he sat. Coach propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Why were you late to practice on Friday?"

Every Friday before a game, practice was held on the athletic field at four 'o'clock sharp. Two days ago, Lynn didn't show up until four-ten.

"I was running late," Lynn said, his eyes darting away.

"Second week in a row," Coach pointed out, his lips twisting in disgust.

Lynn nodded but didn't speak.

Coach sighed. "You've never been one of my best players, Loud."

Lynn bristled – at what he said or because he was right, he didn't know.

"But you've always been at practice when I told you to and you always put in 100 percent. Lately, though, you've become a real slacker. I know you're graduating in a couple weeks, but that's no excuse to treat me and my team like a joke."

Lynn nodded again. In three weeks, he would walk out of here with a master's degree in business administration and his football days would be over. Four years ago that thought would have terrified him. Today, he didn't really care.

"You're obviously not playing tonight, and I don't know if I want you playing next week, either."

"That's fine," Lynn said.

Coach's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yeah, you think? Do you wanna play ball again before you leave?"

For a moment Lynn didn't respond: Whatever answer he gave would not only determine whether he played for the University of Arizona again, it would, even if just symbolically, determine his entire future.

"No," he said.

Coach took a deep breath and sat back. "Alright," he said and lifted his hands. "That's that. You sit out the rest of the games, you collect your diploma, and you go."

"Alright," Lynn nodded. "Is that all?"

Coach shook his head sadly. "Go."

Lynn felt an odd mixture of dread and relief as he walked across the basketball court and up the stairs. Organized sports had been such a vital part of his life for so long that the thought of no playing them scared him, but he had seen his future, he knew what he wanted...and it wasn't football.

Outside, more students were on the commons, some lounging in the sun and others on their way to the dining hall for breakfast. He made his way in that direction, and when he arrived, he waited by the door, his back against the wall and his hands in his pockets. He scanned the faces of his fellow students as they streamed past, looking for –

"Hey, Lynn!"

Lynn started and turned, a grin creeping across his face. Kathy Parker, her blonde hair in a ponytail, stood with her hands clasped in front of her, a giddy smile touching her red lips. She was a tall, thin girl with clear blue eyes and delicate features; she wore a pink pleated skirt and a sleeveless white blouse.

"Hey," he said, and they kissed.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and they began to work, "I kind of slept in." There was a sheepish quality to her voice.

"That's fine," he said, "I just got here myself. I had a meeting with Coach Harriman."

"Oh? How did that go?" she asked. She was a cheerleader – or had been up until the beginning of last month.

Lynn took a deep breath. "I'm pretty much off the team."

They were inside the dining hall now, a wide area dotted with tables and chairs; a line of red vinyl booths ran along one wall. The chattering din of a thousand voices filled the air.

Kathy pouted. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Lynn said. "I don't really wanna play anymore." He squeezed her close and smiled. "I have other things on my mind."

She giggled and he took her hand, kissing his knuckle, his lips lingering on the engagement ring.

Luna Loud poked her head out of the room, looked left and right along the hall, and then drew back, closing the door and locking it. She reached into the pocket of her pink uniform and took out a joint. At the window, she knelt, lifted the sash, and lit it, drawing the smoke deep. She held it until her lungs were bursting, then leaned over the windowsill and blew it out: Below was a busy city street. Horns honked. People rushed. She took another drag, but her lungs were tender, and she coughed.

"Alright, hand it over."

Fighting to breathe, she passed the joint to the blonde girl kneeling next to her. She wore an identical uniform: Pink, white trim, white apron around her waist. She lifted the joint to her lips and sucked, her head tilting back in delight. She exhaled and smiled. "That's better," she said.

Luna waved her hand. "The point is to blow it out the window."

"Oops," Sam said, "sorry."

Luna plucked the joint out of her friend's fingers and took a puff.

She met Sam three weeks after moving to San Francisco: She was out looking for a place to live (or a job, whichever came first), and found herself walking through Golden Gate State Park and marveling at the natural beauty: Trees, hills, rushing streams, and flowers. At one point, she left the trail and perched on a rock above a narrow brook. Birds chirped, the sun shone, a breeze slipped through the trees, and water gurgled over rocks. It was beautiful...the perfect place to smoke a joint. She was half way through, her knees drawn up to her chest and her mind drifting, when a head popped up. "I knew I smelled weed!"

Luna screamed and almost fell off.

The girl climbed on and drew herself to a sitting position. She had long blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders and wore a billowing purple shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and an assortment of beads, bracelets, and necklaces; her feet were bare and dirty. Luna pulled nervously away, but the girl only smiled. "I'm Sam. Can I have some?"

"Uhhh...yeah, sure," Luna said, and handed her the joint.

"Thanks," Sam said, and took a drag. "It's been hours since I smoked last." She laughed richly, and Luna couldn't help but laugh too.

"I know the feeling," she said, "I went a week without."

Sam winced. "A week? Why?"

"I just moved here and I don't know anyone."

"Now you know me, and I happen to know a lot of other people – real far out people, if you know what I mean." She laughed again.

No, Luna did not know what she meant, but she found out. Sam and her boyfriend Jim (everyone called him Leaf – which struck Luna as funny, because he was at least two hundred pounds and looked more like Grizzly Adams or some shit) lived in a Victorian near the corner of Haight-Ashbury with a half dozen other people. When Luna first came over, she was shocked at the state of the house and its occupants: Beer cans and other debris littered the floor; the walls were covered in drawings and graffiti; there was no power; and the first person she met was a man wearing tight jeans, a headband, and nothing else, his brown hair and beard both long and dirty. They reminded Luna of the people she saw at the bus station the day she arrived, and for a while, she was uncomfortable, but they turned out to be really cool.

Sam worked at the Union Hotel on State Street and her boyfriend didn't seem to do anything, though he always had money and reefer. Sam invited Luna to stay with them and offered to help her find a job. Luna initially turned her down, because cool or not, she did not want to live in a dirty house with no power. After a while, though, she gave in. Why not? Life is about new experiences, right? She moved in, Sam got her a job at the Union, and someone they knew wound up knowing someone else who owned a bar and wanted someone to play on Saturday nights.

Living communally with hippies was an adjustment, but, you know, Luna actually really dug it. They partied, they had fun, they shared, everyone was laidback; it was almost like a family.

Almost.

She called home at least once a week. She talked to Mom and Dad and Leni, and every once in a while she called Lincoln's and talked to him. Lynn was still in Arizona and Luan had gone to Berkeley which, as it happened, wasn't all that far away from Luna: She planned to drive up one day and see her. She just needed a car.

"Come on," Sam said now, "don't bogart it."

Luna took another puff and passed it. "I'm done," she said and got up, swaying and nearly falling.

Sam licked her fingers and pinched it out. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Luna said.

Sam went to get up, and toppled over, landing to the floor with a crash. Luna lost it and laughed so hard tears streamed down her face.

"Guess I'm not," Sam said and got to her feet.

Before leaving, Luna poked her head out the door and looked around: Whew, the coast was clear. "With the way you thudded, I expected everyone to come running."

"That's not the first time I've fallen down on the job," Sam said placidly as they slipped out of the room and locked it behind them. Luna could smell the faint aroma of marijuana.

"I broke a coffee machine at my last job when I was high," she said. They were walking down the hall now. "I was pretending to be an airplane."

Sam laughed. "You must have been gone."

"I was almost gone out of work," Luna said.

The supply cart was ahead, parked against the wall at the head of the stairs to the lobby. Luna kept her head down so that no one would see her eyes in case they happened along, the floral pattern on the green carpet making her dizzy. When they reached the cart, she grabbed a feather duster. She was going to use this before their break, right? She couldn't remember. On a whim, she brushed it across Sam's face: The blonde spazzed out and slapped it away. "Aw, man, come on, that's my face!"

They both laughed uproariously.

"We gotta be quiet," Luna said, "or the man's gonna get us."

Sam pressed her finger to her lips and nodded.

It was too late, though. The man, in the form of Mrs. Benson, the boss lady, called up the stairs, her voice hard and dripping with malice. "I hope everything's okay up there."

Sam and Luna both paled. "E-Everything's fine, Mrs. Benson," Sam called back.

"Good," Mrs. Benson replied curtly, "I'd hate to have to reprimand you again, Samantha."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Luna?"

Luna leaned forward and peered down the stairwell: Mrs. Benson was at the bottom, her hands on her ample hips and her red lips pursed tightly. "Sorry, Mrs. Benson," she said and flashed a nervous smile.

Mrs. Benson nodded and turned. When she was gone, Sam muttered something under her breath. It rhymed with 'witch'.

"Come on," Luna said, "back to work, Samantha. I'd hate to have to reprimand you again." She put her hands on her hips and tried to glare, but couldn't, and smiled again.

"Take that duster and shove it, man," Sam said.

Instead, she took it and dusted.

After breakfast, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne curled up on the couch in front of the TV: It was a brand new 1966 model Zenith with woodgrain, a flat top, and a knob for changing channels. It wasn't just any TV, though; it was a color TV, and Lassie had never looked better.

"Kind of makes me want a dog," Ronnie Anne said as Lassie dashed away from the well little Timmy was currently stuck in. Her legs were drawn up under her and her head was resting on Lincoln's shoulder.

"You do realize Lassie isn't real, right?" he asked. "If we got a dog, it wouldn't save us from a twister, it'd poop all over the floor and eat our shoes."

She shrugged. "It'd look cute as it did it, though."

"If I want to look at something cute, I have you."

She giggled. "I'm not a dog, though."

He looked down at her and smirked. "Well, you can be kind of a..."

She drove her elbow into his stomach and he choked. "Don't even say it..."

For a long time they watched Lassie in silence, simply enjoying each other's company. When Ronnie Anne spoke, Lincoln was surprised to find that he was starting to doze. "Did you get the mail yesterday?"

He thought. Did he? After they left work, they stopped by his parents' house for a little while then came home around ten. He didn't remember getting it. "No," he finally said.

"Can you now?"

She was waiting on her first semester grades, and being impatient about it. Sighing, he got up and stretched. She slapped his butt, and he jumped forward. "Go get the mail and stop messing around."

"Alright, alright."

He grabbed a cigarette from his pack on the table, lit it, and went outside: The day was warm and breezy, the air redolent of flowers. He breathed deeply and exhaled. Ahhh...spring is lovely, isn't it? He pinched his cigarette between his lips and went to the row of mailboxes in the laundry room alcove, which reminded him that they needed to wash their sheets.

Standing at his and Ronnie Anne's box, he fished his keys out of his pocket, selected the correct one, and opened it. There were three envelopes inside; he reached in, grabbed them, and locked the door. Bill, Ronnie Anne's grades (oh, boy, she was going to be excited), and, last, something with his name on it and a return address he didn't recognize.

His step faltered. He tucked the others under his arm and ripped it open. As he read, his heart dropped.

Oh, shit.

The letter was headed: SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM, and just below, in big, ominous bold was: ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAMINATION.

Further down:

You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination by reporting at:

Then the address of the county courthouse and a date: Monday, May 2, 1966, 12pm.

Here it was.

For a moment he didn't move – couldn't move – then, when he did, it was to shove the letter into his pocket: He couldn't let Ronnie Anne see this; she'd worry. Getting a letter to report for a physical didn't mean 100 percent that you were going to be drafted, and if he didn't have to worry her, he wouldn't.

He'd do plenty of worrying for the both of them.

Back inside, he tossed her the envelope containing her grades. When she saw it, her eyes lit up. "Alright," she said, and opened it. He went into the kitchen, slapped the bill onto the table, and got a Coke from the fridge: His hands were trembling so badly that it took his three tries to get it open.

"Heh, straight A's," she said, "I knew it."